Past Imperfect by Margaret Maron

Author:Margaret Maron [Maron, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: detective, mystery, women sleuths
Amazon: B007IE09ES
Publisher: Maron and Company
Published: 2012-03-06T00:00:00+00:00

“She only said that you resented it when Cluett asked you to repay the money he’d loaned you,” I said.

“Yeah?” O’Shea looked relieved. “The way Marie heard it, she was practically accusing me of killing Mickey myself.” He giggled. “Me a killer!”

“So there weren’t any hard feelings?”

“Not like you’re talking about. I mean, no man likes to have somebody dunning him every week, right? Mickey knew I was good for it. But I got laid off at the warehouse at Thanksgiving and we got behind in the bills. And there was Christmas, then Shawn got sick—nothing serious, just earaches, thank God—but you know what doctors and antibiotics cost, right? Always something with kids.

“So when Mickey started dunning me as soon as I started the new job, I might’ve said a few things out of turn, but everybody in the family knows I loved Mickey and he loved me like a brother. Look at how he lent me the money. I know it wasn’t enough to bloat a goat but you don’t do that with people you think are going to shoot you, right?”

“Bloat a goat” seemed to be the Cluett family’s favorite term for a lot of money. I remembered how Cluett used it to describe any thick wad of bills.

“Anyhow,” said O’Shea, “soon as I heard, I scraped together a hundred and brought it right over to Irene and I told her she’d have every penny before the summer.”

He reached for the door handle. “Guess I better get back inside before Marie thinks you’ve arrested me,” he giggled.

“Just a minute, Mr. O’Shea,” I said. “Cluett expected to meet someone at the Shamrock Tuesday night. Was it you?”

“Not me.” The nervous titter went up another notch. “Shawn was still getting over his earache. Marie’d been up with him two nights in a row, so I took over for her Tuesday night.”

My ex and I never had kids so I couldn’t speak from experience, but I thought I’d heard Terry talk about how quick Adam’s winter ailments always reacted to antibiotics. If that bratty kid had been on medication for three days, maybe he’d actually slept through Tuesday night as soundly as I was willing to bet Marie O’Shea had.

Nearly five when I got back to the station and went up to my office to jot down notes on the interviews while they were still fresh. Several messages waited on my desk: Hy Davidowitz had made it home safely. Fabrizio had skidded into a bus as he came off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and expected to be a little late getting to work. Then Kirkwood came in with a funny expression on his face.

“Did you hear?”

It’d been a long day. “Hear what?”

“The gun that killed Mick. Some P.A.A. over in New York ran a check on it a couple of years ago.”

“And?”

“And they don’t know why.”

Kirkwood has a warped sense of humor. Normally I’d let him spin it out, but reports were piled on my desk and snow was piling up outside. “Cut to the chase,” I snapped.

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