Page 73 of Death on Gallows Path

She was medium height, medium build, and in the vicinity of forty. Her features were even, her hair nicely styled, though its uniform dark color defied nature.

All that faded to the background when I focused in on her shirt. Its pattern consisted of stylized cat faces wearing big sunglasses. They covered the entire shirt. Despite the sunglasses, each cat appeared to be staring straight at me. Not in approval.

I don’t dislike cats, but this shirt unnerved me.

Clara, having not spotted the shirt, continued, “Can always use more treats . . . Though, you’re right. We should buy them at Zepke’s. Maybe those sprats.”

“Ew. As bad as they smelled in the bag, I can’t imagine them up close and personal. Not to mention post-sprat dog breath.”

A harried-looking young woman wearing the black vest that identified employees went to the register next to where we stood and unlocked it. The light over the register went on.

The cat-shirt-wearing woman behind us backed up her cart in preparation to swing it over to take the first spot in the new line.

In a nifty bit of maneuvering, Clara shot her cart in ahead of her and stopped.

Cat woman’s cart turned to the side, possibly in a maneuver to go around Clara, but I was still standing there.

A fact the woman didn’t notice or didn’t regard. She hit my hip with the cart.

My oof was covered as Clara looked back at the original line and said to the middle-aged woman who’d been ahead of us, “You were here first, would you like to come over to this line?”

“Thank you, dear. I do appreciate your being fair and polite, but it’ll be my turn in a moment and you have so few things, while others—” A dagger look at the cat-shirt woman’s cart. “—have a lot. You go right ahead.”

“Thank you. That’s so thoughtful of you.” Clara smiled back at her and rolled to the register, ostentatiously not looking at the line jumper.

* * * *

Clara had a few things to say about the rude cat-shirt woman, but her mood lifted as she parked near the door into the car wash.

The dogs stirred, looked around, decided this wasn’t food or fun and went back to sleep.

I followed Clara into an area with seats back-to-back like at an airport gate. One side faced large windows that showed a car advancing through the wash, the other side looked at the parking lot. Hard to know who had the worse view. An employee in a jumpsuit was behind a tall desk straight ahead.

“Hi. Where’s William?”

Clara’s assurance and easy manner had the young guy immediately pointing over his left shoulder. “Down the hall. If he’s not in his office, might be outside. You’ll see the door.”

We did.

We also saw a man whose size matched the shadow we’d seen outside Zepke’s Thursday night.

Presumably William Alsup, since the door from outside was closing and he was entering a small office with that name on its door.

“William Alsup,” Clara said with no question to it. “I’m Clara Woodrow, this is Sheila Mackey. We’re here about Damon Swindell.”

His jawline was the same width as his neck, reminding me of the Muppets character Beaker, though this guy’s nose and hair weren’t orange.

He had an unusual resting expression. It was like he wanted to pout, but he’d disciplined his lower lip not to protrude, while his chin didn’t get the message. It pulled up and back, making him look like he was going to cry or whine any second.

“What about him?” His voice had a touch of whine to it, too. He sat behind his desk. “Heard he’s dead.”

Not waiting for an invitation, Clara and I took the two chairs on its opposite side.

Clara started, “As a fellow local businessperson—”

“He was no businessperson. He was a crook, a con, a felon who hadn’t been caught yet. Don’t tell me you fell for his spiel, too?”

“Us? No, we—”