officer.
Frida sat down in one of the chairs and looked at Timble. He held his pose of alleged notebook inspection. Captain Tony probably assigned Timble to show Frida the ropes. That wouldnât happen today or anytime between now and his retirement.
â Detective Timble has a few questions for you.â Frida turned toward Timble and waited.
â Trevor,â she urged him on.
He cleared his throat and his head jerked up. âAll yours.â He uncrossed his legs, recrossed them and shifted in his chair. His head slowly bent to its former position. I looked over at Frida and felt sorry that she was saddled with Timble for a partner. I shouldnât have wasted my sympathy.
I liked Frida. She, Madeleine, a woman from a nearby apartment complex named Frances Ogilvey, and I met once a month for dinner. Four gals, without men, chatting and enjoying a night out. Nothing much, but over the months, weâd shared our stories. Frida was a single mom with two kids to raise, I had my philandering husband and Madeleine, well, she probably had the best track record with men. They were drawn to her like bears to honeycomb. Frances was thrice divorced and desperate to try matrimony again. We drank a little, laughed a lot, and went home reasonably sober. We had to behave, Frida being a cop and all.
Last month Frida told us that sheâd passed the detectiveâs exam and was first on the list for promotion. Apparently, with Timbleâs impending retirementâGod, was that a snore?âCaptain Tony had decided that her time had come. I was happy for her and certain sheâd do her jobânot play favorites, of course, but take under consideration important factors such as friendships.
She sighed and laid her notebook on the table. I looked at the open page and read her writing upside down. I was in trouble.
She bent forward and leveled her gaze at me, tapping her pen on the edge of the table. Tap, tap.
â Iâm disappointed in you, Eve.â Tap, tap. She paused as if to give me the opportunity to confess how disappointed I was in myself. I tried to appear both innocent and naive. Thatâs not a look I wear well. I can do confused, nonchalant, sarcastic, andâif you let me use my mouthâignorant and cool. The gentler expressions are not in my repertoire.
â You had the opportunity this morning to come clean. You didnât.â Tap, tap and another pause.
Enough of our playing cop and suspect. I slammed the palm of my hand down on the desk. âFine, then. You win.â
The sound woke Timble. âYou got a confession?â He stuck his pencil in his mouth, wet the tip, and prepared to write.
â Valerie Sanders and I didnât like each other much.â
Frida nodded. âGo on.â
â We had a bit of a disagreement.â
â This was when?â She grabbed her notebook off the desk and jotted something in it.
â Last week.â
â It was a disagreement, you said?â
â Right.â
Timble continued to look awake, but I could tell he wasnât excited about the direction I was taking the conversation. His eyelids again drooped over his eyes. I didnât feel guilty for putting him back to sleep.
â Want to tell us about it?â Frida locked eyes with me.
â Not really. It was private business.â
â A woman is dead, murdered. I donât think you need to be concerned about keeping your business arrangement a secret anymore.â
Iâd never seen this side of Frida before. She was like a snapping turtleâshe wasnât going to let go, not with my finger in her jaws.
â Okay. Fine. It was more than a disagreement. I punched her in the chops.â
Chapter 5
I read what Frida wrote in her notebook, the one she so cleverly placed on the desk in front of me, so I would know I had to âfess up. Fridaâs pupils didnât even dilate with surprise when I announced that I had I hit