“I see.” He seemed unimpressed.This guy was good- looking, but we had the chemistry of orange juice and mint toothpaste.
“How did Gene die, anyway? I mean, it looked to me like he was shot.”
“That’s correct.” Geez, this one was a real talker.
“Probably not suicide, since the bullet wound was in the back of his head. I did notice that.” I tried to sound casual while fishing for information. “Hard to commit suicide by shooting yourself from behind.”
“Smart observation,” he replied dryly.
“Gene was obviously a very troubled man, and who knows what kind of messy stuff he was involved in. Or what kind of debts he owed.”
“Do you have any knowledge of his debts? Or messy business dealings?”
I shook my head. “There’s a lot of gossip around town. But Gene never struck me as someone who was fiscally responsible. His get-rich plan seemed to hinge on trapping gators and a reality TV show. Hard to say, though, because I always got the sense that he stretched the truth a bit.”
There was a long pause and I pulled out a few paranormal romances, inspected them, then settled them back into the box.
“It’s definitely a homicide.”
I froze, the box cutter in midair. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to giggle. “Oh, dear.”
“I can tell you another piece of information.” Alex’s tone was a touch too ominous for my liking.
I set the cutter on an unopened box and walked over to him, folding my arms across my chest. “What’s that?”
“Your business card was found near the deceased.”
“My business card?”
“Well, your Gator Queen card. The bookstore card.”
“That’s odd.” Had a card somehow slipped out of my pocket when I approached the body? “Maybe someone gave it to Gene. I know my sister has been handing them out like candy to promote the bookstore and my trapping business.”
Alex tilted his head. “It wasn’t on his person. It was underneath his body. Which is one reason I came here. I’d like to take your gun and do some ballistics tests.”
“What? My gun? It’s been in my possession at all times. I haven’t lost it.”
I pulled at my earlobe, feeling a bone-crushing sense of heaviness descend upon me, as if I’d suddenly donned a suit of chain metal. As I absorbed this suspicious development about our business card at a murder scene, the bells on the front door jangled.
The sound made me flinch.
“Excuse me.” I scampered off, gliding to the front of the store with my skirt swooshing around my legs.
It was my sister. She was wearing the cutest macramé wedge sandals, form-fitting white capri pants, and a gauzy long-sleeved pink blouse, probably because she wanted to hide her speckled arms. Oversized black sunglasses completed the outfit. She looked like she was on her way to a garden party in Palm Beach.
“Thank goodness you’re here. Vera—”
She cut me off. “I’ve had the worst morning, I swear. Maggie, the police—”
“Shh,” I hissed.
“What? Listen, I’m still super annoyed by that officer. You know, Jason? He was two years behind us in high school? The one who was in the band and played trombone and who once put glue in my flute? I went over to the police station and he said—”
I reached out to grip her bicep. “Vera, hush,” I warned, staring at her in an attempt to shut her up.
“You’re hurting me,” she protested, giving me flashbacks to when we’d squabbled as kids.
“Don’t be a drama queen. I’m barely squeezing your arm. There’s a—”
