Die Like an Eagle by Donna Andrews

Author:Donna Andrews
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466890879
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Chapter 15

“There’s no way she should be driving,” Kayla exclaimed.

“That’s why I was stalling her until Vern got here,” I said.

And then, just in case Vern wasn’t quite in time to spot the parking violation, I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture, taking care to get in not only the truck’s license plate but also the handicapped parking sign. I also got a nice shot of the driver’s door, which had CALLIE written on it in purple and gold cursive letters festooned with stars and flowers and way too much glitter. Was that actually painted on or was it some kind of vinyl decal?

“I’m sorry,” Kayla was saying. “She just shoved her way past me.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “Turned out okay.”

I went back to the chief’s office. He was on the phone with someone.

“That’s good,” the chief said. “No, I don’t know what she’s driving, but there can’t be that many other vehicles in the lot—”

I held up my phone.

“Yes, the red Ford Lariat,” the chief said. He rattled off the license plate number. “That’s right. Yes, the one in the handicapped zone. Yes, but the DUI is more important. Roger. Vern’s here,” he added to me as he hung up.

“I’m wondering if maybe I should wait a little while before I drive,” I said. “Any chance I have a contact drunk from breathing too close to her?”

“Perhaps she’s been drowning her sorrow over Mr. Henson’s death,” he said.

“More likely her sorrow over the tragic disappearance of the insurance papers.”

Just then we heard a siren go off nearby. The chief nodded with satisfaction.

“Good,” the chief said. “Vern will handle her. No way I want her driving the streets of my county in that condition.”

“I bet she came straight from the Clay Pigeon,” I said.

“The Clay Pigeon,” he muttered. “It would be the Clay Pigeon.”

“‘You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,’” I quoted.

“Which Holmes story is that from?” the chief asked. “I don’t recognize the reference.”

“It’s from Star Wars,” I said. “So does this mean some poor Caerphilly deputy has to brave the squalor of the Clay Pigeon to check her alibi?”

“I suppose.” The chief sighed and shook his head. “Just to be thorough. Although frankly, I don’t see the use. If she really is a regular at the Clay Pigeon, I’m sure the denizens of the place will back up any story she tells. ‘Wretched hive of scum and villainy’—you have no idea how apt that quotation is.”

“Still, she’s a suspect, right?”

“And all the more suspicious thanks to her keen interest in Mr. Henson’s insurance policy,” the chief said. “Which would be ironic.”

“Why?” I asked. “Does he not have life insurance?”

“He does,” the chief said. “Through Brown Construction Company. And it appears that upon divorcing the former Mrs. Henson, he changed his beneficiary to his brother.”

“Biff?” I asked.

“Yes, Biff,” the chief said. “He only has the one brother.”

“A large policy?” I asked.

“Depends on what you call large,” the chief said. “A hundred thousand dollars.

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