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floor, Detective?”
    Buster clasped a large hand on my shoulder, sending tiny waves of energy through my body. The warmth from his hand soothed my jangled nerves.
    I settled against the back of the chair and modulated my tone. “Quilters use these cutters all the time, that’s all I’m saying.”
    “But you don’t use one?”
    “I’m not much of a quilter.”
    Sanchez dismissed me, turning his attention to Buster. “What’s your plan for interviewing witnesses?”
    “We can question people on-site,” Buster said. “According to hotel staff, most of the guests are associated with the quilt show and knew Mrs. Armstrong.”
    “She was famous,” I put in. I suddenly felt too confined and jumped up, knocking over my chair. Buster caught the back of the chair before it hit the ground.
    “A famous quilter,” Sanchez qualified with a sneer. “Take your seat, Miss Pelican.”
    I did not want to sit down. “It’s Ms. Pellicano,” I corrected, biting off each syllable. “Why can’t you get it straight?”
    Sanchez gave Buster a look as though to say I was his problem now. “I’m going back to the scene,” he said.
    As he left, I sat heavily back in the chair. I felt the kinetic energy drain out of me.
    “You okay? Sanchez can be a little rough.”
    “I’d hate to see him around someone who was guilty of something.” I rubbed my eyes. I hadn’t seen much of Buster since going away to college, just a few times a year at family events. That’s why I’d been taken aback when Buster’s voice floated out of my answering machine several days after the funeral.
    At first he’d offered a shoulder to cry on. I’d been tempted, but had been unable to summon the energy to dial. When I didn’t return his initial call, he left several more messages. It became clear he wanted to see me on a more personal level. I hadn’t been sure how to deal with the idea of dating Buster, so I’d ignored his phone calls. I thought not responding had been a pretty good tactic—until now. Now, it just seemed rude.
    Buster said, “I’m going to tape your statement, all right? Don’t be nervous, it’s standard procedure.”
    He was wearing glasses. I didn’t remember ever seeing him in glasses before. They made him look smart, and the look contrasted with his wide shoulders and small waist, imbuing him with an intellectual sex appeal. This didn’t seem like the right place to be noticing that Buster was hot, so I looked away.
    His ministrations with his handheld tape player were taking longer than I thought necessary. I fidgeted in my seat. My legs twitched uncomfortably.
    Finally, he spoke into the recorder, establishing the time and place of the meeting, inserting my name and his. The official tone of his voice made my stomach clench in fear. I was finally getting the idea that, despite the size of his tiny recorder, this was a real police investigation.
    Buster indicated I should begin. I started haltingly to tell what happened.
    “I came up here to meet with Claire Armstrong. She was going to buy Quilter Paradiso.”
    Buster’s eyebrows shot up in question. I reached across the table and put my hand on his, restraining him.
    “You can’t tell anyone, Buster. Especially not Kevin or Kym. I just decided today to sell the shop,” I said.
    He nodded. “I won’t say anything. Start with what happened this afternoon,” he said.
    “Kym …” I didn’t want to finish that sentence. What happened at the booth would stay at the booth. The police didn’t need to know every detail of my miserable morning. Only the worst part.
    I started over. “I needed to speak to Claire. When I came up to her room, she didn’t answer. After I knocked on the door a few times, her assistant showed up with her lunch. She didn’t want to let me in, but I convinced her.” I glanced at Buster to see if he could tell I’d omitted grabbing the key from Myra. I didn’t want to admit I’d bullied my way in.
    I lied a little more. “We