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If only she would just quit.
Hearing her thoughts, Elizabeth caught herself up short. Was that wishing harm on someone? Hoping they would relinquish their job?
You can’t think harm to someone, she reminded herself harshly as she slowed for a red light, then cracked the windows to let in some fresh air. It’s not about you. Besides, Barbara had flown back to Buffalo and as far as Elizabeth knew nothing bad had happened to her sister-in-law despite the fact that Elizabeth had certainly spent this very long week annoyed at her.
Still, there’s no need to entertain such negative thoughts toward Pat, she thought, slowing for another red light. Better to err on the side of caution, ignore people’s irritating habits, and generally have a sunnier disposition. Condemning other people’s behaviors certainly didn’t help her. And wasn’t that what positive thinking was all about, anyway?
Pat’s still a pain in the butt.
“So are a lot of people,” she reminded herself.
Her cell rang just as she waited at the light. Quickly, she put in her ear bud, then plugged the cord into her cell and answered before she checked the number.
“Hello?” Then she saw the number. Detective Bette Thronson’s cell phone. Damn.
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ellis,” the cop said, then added, “This is Detective Thronson. I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
Oh, great.
“I’m . . . I’m driving.”
“Not now. I could stop by this evening if that’s convenient?”
“No . . . no. I’m sorry. I’m going out.” Elizabeth’s eyes were on traffic, but her pulse was thundering, adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream, her insides rattled. She stretched her fingers over the wheel just as the light turned green and she stepped on the gas pedal.
“Ahh . . . maybe tomorrow?” the detective asked.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Elizabeth asked impatiently.
“I’d like to discuss a few things. . . .”
“Can’t you just tell me on the phone?” She heard herself and inwardly snorted. So much for t
he pep talk on having a better attitude.
Pretend like you care....
“You said you were driving.”
“I’m using my hands-free device. I can hear you just fine.” It was better to get this over with, right? Move forward?
“Okay,” the detective said, her voice sliding into cool, neutral tones. “I interviewed the hotel clerk at the Tres Brisas and he gave me a description of a woman who’d been seen at the hotel a number of times while your husband and Mrs. Bellhard were there.”
“Oh?”
“Let’s see,” the cop said as if she were searching her notes even though Elizabeth thought they were probably right in front of her. “Yes. A blond woman in her mid- to late twenties who wears her hair pulled up into a messy bun.”
Elizabeth’s gaze traveled to the rearview mirror and she looked at her own reflection. Detective Thronson could have been describing her. Heart pounding, she asked, “Who is it? The blonde?”
“Don’t know yet. She doesn’t appear to have checked into the hotel. The management doesn’t video their guests, so we don’t have an actual picture of her.”
Elizabeth’s throat was dry as dust as she eased into the slower lane. Telling herself to stay calm, she asked, “What does she have to do with my husband?”
“We’re just following leads. It might not have anything to do with him.”
“But you think it does. And you think his death was something more than just an accident, don’t you?”
The detective hesitated briefly before admitting, “The reports that his vehicle was ‘racing’ with another seem to be consistent.”
