Murder Boogies With Elvis by Anne George

Author:Anne George [George, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary, Suspense, Amateur Sleuth, en
ISBN: 9781574903805
Google: 7gT6jwEACAAJ
Goodreads: 85280
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2000-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Twelve

It took Debbie more than an hour to get me out of the police station. I think she talked to everyone there before she came back to Margaret’s office and told me I was free to leave. By that time, Margaret and I had gotten to be good friends.

“Your aunt’s innocent as a baby,” Margaret told Debbie when she finally showed up.

“Of course she is.” Debbie eyed Margaret’s girth. “Speaking of babies, are you going to make it through the day?”

Margaret sighed and reached for the Maalox. “Lord knows. I hear you had a boy this time. Me, too. Are they very different?”

“You have to be a lot more careful changing their diapers.”

Margaret smiled, swigged the antacid, and tapped her chest with her fist. “I just want him out. We’re running out of room here.”

We all knew the feeling. During the last month of pregnancy you get scared that nature has played a trick on you, that you will always be pregnant.

“Hang in there,” Debbie said.

Margaret stuck out a white-coated tongue at her.

“Am I really free?” I asked Debbie as we went down the hall.

“They agreed that suspicion of murder was pretty far-fetched since half of Birmingham saw you were sitting in the front row when the Mooncloth guy was killed.”

“Good.”

“They still have some questions about the knife, though, Aunt Pat. About how it could have gotten in your purse. Tim Hawkins said he would be over this afternoon to talk to you. He said he knew you didn’t feel like staying around here.”

“They arrested me, Debbie. Read me my rights, handcuffed me.”

“That’s what I heard, Aunt Pat. I’m sorry.”

We exited into a beautiful spring day. Debbie asked if I wanted to stop and get lunch somewhere, but I didn’t feel like it. Not only did I have the sinus, but I was depressed. There’s tacky, there’s common, and there’s common as pig tracks. Being arrested for suspicion of murder and handcuffed would have to rank in the latter category. Grandmama Alice was probably flipping over in her grave right this moment in spite of the fact that I was innocent. On her list of common as pig tracks were such things as chewing on a toothpick and, God forbid, smoking in public. Compared with those, being arrested would warrant the creation of a whole new category.

“What do you think could be more common than pig tracks?” I asked Debbie.

“Nothing.”

That cheered me up some.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said as we went up the entrance ramp to the Red Mountain Expressway. “This Griffin Mooncloth is Russian, he’s defected, and he’s been murdered. How come the state department isn’t involved? Or the FBI or something?”

Debbie checked the oncoming traffic and pulled onto the expressway. “I guess they figure it’s not a political thing. You take all of those illegal aliens who work in the poultry plants up in north Alabama. One of them gets stabbed to death, and it’s up to the local police to find out who did it.”

“That’s true. But this Mooncloth guy was outstanding enough to be involved in a cultural exchange.

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