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With an eye toward the first requirement, the next stop on his list was Gretchen Gibson’s dressmaking shop, Elegant Stitches, which was in a small, fairly exclusive shopping area, built in a U shape around a center fountain, with parking on all three sides. The shop was situated on the left leg of the U. Because of the relatively early hour—before nine—there were no cars in the parking lot, but he checked the rear of the building and a Honda Civic was parked just outside the back door of Elegant Stitches.
He went to the front and firmly rapped on the glass. After about ten seconds a short, plump, middle-aged blonde appeared and pointed at the “Closed” sign. Eric pulled his wallet out and flipped it open to show his badge. The woman’s mouth made an O of surprise, then she held up one finger and disappeared toward the back of the shop. She reappeared almost instantly, a key ring in her hand. He waited while she unlocked the deadbolt and threw the chain, then opened the door.
“Gretchen Gibson?”
“Yes,” she said warily. “May I help you?”
“I’m Detective Eric Wilder. May I come in?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. He stepped through, and she firmly closed the door and locked it again. “This is about Carrie Edwards, isn’t it?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ms. Edwards, if you don’t mind,” he said, keeping his tone easy and low-key. A big part of being a detective was getting people to talk, and they were more likely to talk if they felt comfortable with him. He was about a foot taller than Gretchen Gibson, so she might already feel intimidated. He couldn’t do anything about his size, but he could make a conscious effort to come across as a nice guy.
“I read in the paper that she was killed yesterday afternoon,” she said. “Well, and a couple of friends called me last night to tell me, too.” She heaved a sigh, then squared her plump shoulders. “I guess you know about the argument we had.”
“I gather she was a difficult client.”
Her face turned red. “Difficult? That’s like saying Charles Manson is a little disturbed. She was a mean, vicious bitch, and I don’t mind saying it.”
“Tell me what happened,” Eric invited.
Gretchen Gibson pressed her lips together. “I have a pot of fresh coffee in the back. Would you like some? Let’s go to my office and sit down, and I’ll tell you what it was like dealing with Carrie Edwards.”
Eric left the shop half an hour later with a few pages of notes, and another person of interest crossed off his list. Carrie Edwards had still been very much alive when the dressmaker had left the reception hall, and she’d been here taking measurements and discussing a wedding gown with a new client when Carrie had been killed.
Gretchen Gibson had filled his ears. If he went by what she said, the list of people who would have liked to kill Carrie Edwards far outnumbered the people who wouldn’t. The maid of honor had even quit the wedding party, after a screaming argument with Carrie.
With most victims, he’d find one or two people who wanted to do them harm. With Carrie Edwards, he could practically fill a football stadium.
Chapter Sixteen
ON THE WAY IN TO HEADQUARTERS, ERIC HIT THE McDonald’s drive-through window for another cup of coffee. The coffee Mrs. Gibson had offe
red him had been regular coffee, not one of those flavored ones, but so weak he could see the bottom of the cup through the liquid. He needed caffeine. Mickey D made good coffee, and he didn’t want to risk another convenience store. A drive-through had to be as uneventful as possible, right?
The cashier, a gangly teenage girl who looked about six feet tall, slid the window open. “Cream or sugar?” she asked, then widened her already slightly protruding eyes and rolled them twice toward the direction of the counter before mouthing Call the cops.
“No, just black,” he replied as he gave the interior of the restaurant a quick survey. Everyone behind the counter was standing stiffly, instead of dodging around filling orders as they usually did. He couldn’t see many of the customers, but the ones he could see were doing the same thing: standing still.
No fucking way. Not again. What were the odds?
“Shit on a fucking stick,” he muttered, fighting the urge to beat his head on the steering wheel. All he wanted was a cup of coffee, but some dickhead was in the process of robbing the place. What was wrong with the universe that he couldn’t just get some coffee and drink it in peace?
He couldn’t see the robber, but had a real good guess at the dickhead’s location; he was actually standing close to the side door that would open almost in front of Eric’s car. What he also couldn’t see was whether or not the robber was maybe holding a weapon to a little kid’s head, or something.
Swiftly he looked around. Yeah, there it was, parked to his right: a beater with the engine still running, exhaust pouring from the tailpipe. No driver, so that meant this stupid shit was on his own.
The google-eyed girl handed the coffee out to him. He gave her a brief nod, pretended to take a sip of the coffee, then said loudly, “This coffee is old. Could you make a fresh pot, please?”
She gave him an agonized look. He said, “Look, if you think it’s too much trouble to make some fresh coffee, then let me speak to the manager.” As he was talking he flipped open his wallet, let her get a quick flash of his badge. She took a deep breath, gave a nod as brief as his, then said, “Yes, sir. It’ll take a minute, though.”
“I don’t mind.”
Shit. Now what? His car was too close to the building for him to squeeze out through the driver’s-side door. Moving as fast as possible, he put the transmission in park, put the cup in the cup holder, released his seat belt, and jacked himself over the passenger seat and out the door, grabbing the coffee cup from the holder as he went out. He didn’t have a second to waste. Shit could go down fast, and people could get hurt. The last thing he wanted was to start a shooting spree in a crowded fast-food restaurant.
He jerked the plastic top off the coffee cup, rounded the front of the car, and was pulling his weapon from his holster when he all but collided with a thick-necked bozo who came barreling out of the door with a money bag in one hand and a pistol in the other. The bozo roared, “Move, fucker!” and jabbed the pistol in Eric’s direction.
With his left hand Eric threw the hot coffee in the bozo’s face, cup and all. Bozo bellowed, automatically raising both hands to his face; he was so close, less than half a step away, that his pistol almost hit Eric in the nose as he swung it up. Eric shot out his left hand and caught the guy’s wrist, giving it a savage twist. The bozo squealed like a little schoolgirl, his voice rising high with panic, and dropped the pistol, which went skidding across the pavement with a speed and sound that made Eric stop and stare at the weapon in disbelief. A heavy pistol wouldn’t skid like that, wouldn’t make that sound. Only something lightweight, and made of plastic—
