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  And, I thought, maybe he could. If he didn’t end up in jail.

  ‘He’ll meet us at his office at nine in the morning,’ Willis said, coming back in the room.

  ‘How’d he sound?’ I asked.

  ‘Like a lawyer! What do you mean, how’d he sound?’ My husband was getting testy.

  ‘Did he sound old? Young? Eager? Bored? You know! How did he sound?’ I persisted.

  ‘Medium,’ was Willis’s response.

  ‘Willis, don’t make me take you in the bathroom!’ I said.

  ‘You and what army?’ he said.

  Our son sighed. ‘Is that what you two do for foreplay?’

  ‘That’s enough of that, son!’ Willis said.

  ‘No, that’s enough of you two acting like this is any other day! Not the day I wake up to the bloody corpse of somebody I wanted to kill! Not the day I think I might have actually done—’

  ‘Graham, stop!’ I demanded.

  Willis looked at me. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  Graham jumped off his bed and began pacing the room. I averted my eyes as he’d gone to bed in only his boxer briefs. I’d stopped thinking I had any claim to his penis when he was about four.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said to my husband.

  ‘Mom! Can it! It’s not nothing! It’s something!’ He turned to his dad and said, ‘I might have killed him.’

  Willis looked at Graham, then looked at me, then looked back at Graham. ‘And why, pray tell, do you think you might have killed him?’ he asked, with just the right amount of skepticism that made me take his hand in mine. We were obviously united in the fact that our son did not kill his roommate.

  ‘Because I wished him dead!’ Graham said, dropping heavily on his bed. ‘I even thought about killing him. Tried to work out a plan—’

  ‘Hum,’ said Willis. ‘Did you?’

  I let go of his hand.

  ‘Kill him?’ Graham asked.

  ‘No. Work out a plan,’ Willis said.

  I took back his hand.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Then how did you go about killing him?’ Willis asked.

  ‘In my sleep, I think.’

  Willis looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Not a drop of blood on him this morning, or on his bedding, or anywhere but by Bishop,’ I said.

  ‘But that detective said that someone told him that Bishop told someone that—’

  ‘Hearsay,’ Willis said. ‘Not admissible.’

  ‘Maybe not in a court of law,’ Graham said, ‘but that detective seemed to find it significant.’

  Willis sighed. ‘Find what?’ he finally asked.

  ‘That someone told him that Bishop said he’d wake up in the middle of the night and find me sitting up in bed, staring at him. And he said that if looks could kill—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Do you remember doing that?’ Willis asked.

  ‘No. That’s why I think maybe I’ve been walking in my sleep or something,’ Graham said.

  ‘You’ve never done that in your life!’ I said. ‘Believe me, I would have noticed.’

  ‘Yeah, but maybe I started because of the stress.’

  ‘What stress?’ Willis demanded.

  ‘Jeez, Dad! I’m in college! Didn’t you find that stressful?’

  Willis didn’t answer. Neither did I. I happened to know that Willis spent a great deal of his time in college smoking some really good weed so his stress levels had been mostly non-existent. I thought about recommending that to my son but decided it probably wasn’t a good idea.

  Since neither of us answered, Graham went on: ‘And having Bishop Alexander as a roommate was more than a little stressful! Like a lot! He’d talk non-stop about nothing then demand you repeat what he said so you could prove you were listening! I gave up that shit the second week! But he sure didn’t stop talking. And when I did tune in, he was usually talking about some chick he was gonna bang – sorry, Mom, but that’s what he said – when he wasn’t saying, well, something cruder. Or he was bad-mouthing somebody. Like his supposed best friend, Bobby Dunston. He talked like he hated him, even bad-mouthed him to his face. God, that guy was a jerk.’

  ‘So there’s our first suspect,’ I said.

  ‘Huh?’ my son and husband said, almost in unison.

  ‘Bobby—’

  ‘Dunston,’ Graham filled in.

  ‘Bobby Dunston. Bishop’s bestie that he abused. Maybe Bobby got tired of it or maybe Bishop went a little too far.’

  Graham was shaking his head. ‘Nah. Bobby always just laughed, no matter what Bishop said. I think Bobby thought Bishop was joking.’

  ‘Is he stupid?’ Willis asked.

  Graham shook his head. ‘No. Not stupid. Naive, maybe. Actually, he’s real smart. On a full ride for scholastic achievement or something.’

  ‘Anyone else you can think of?’ I asked.

  ‘Hum, yeah. Maybe. Gaylord Fuchs was Bishop’s student adviser. Bishop called him “Gay Fucks” constantly. They were always fighting over his schedule. Bishop always wanted ridiculous classes he couldn’t and shouldn’t take. I heard through the grapevine he came on to Fuchs’ wife once. The story was that Gaylord caught Bishop feeling his wife up without her permission at a student party at their house. Took a punch at him.’

  Willis and I looked at each other. ‘Now that’s interesting,’ Willis said.

  Graham shrugged. ‘According to my source, Fuchs’ punch went wide and he ended up hitting the wall.’ He shrugged again. ‘Not that it would have done much damage. Fuchs is about as big as a very skinny ten-year-old.’

  ‘Who would need a weapon to do any real harm,’ I said, looking at my husband with a smile on my face.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Willis agreed.

  ‘Let’s keep going: tell me about Bishop,’ I said. ‘His personal life.’

  Graham shrugged. ‘I tried to ignore him and anything to do with him.’

  ‘Surely something got through, if only by osmosis,’ Willis said.

  ‘Parents?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, he had a mom. She came here once to see him. Stayed about fifteen minutes, checking her watch the entire time. She’s some big wig at an oil company in Houston. She had a meeting at the Capitol and just stopped by for a minute.’

  ‘That’s the only time you ever saw her?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. She might have come by some other time, but if she did Bishop never mentioned it, and, believe me, Bishop mentioned everything!’

  ‘But if you weren’t listening?’ Willis said.

  ‘Yeah, well, there is that,’ Graham conceded.

  ‘What about phone calls to or from his mom?’ I asked.

  ‘I heard him call her a couple of times and leave messages on her machine. If she ever called back, I never heard it.’

  ‘What about his father?’ Willis asked.

  ‘He never mentioned having one, and I never asked. Far as I know, he was hatched,’ Graham said.

  ‘Siblings?’ I tried.

  Graham shook his head. ‘Only child. And, boy, did he act like it! His mom sent him a check every month that was supposed to last him the whole month and he’d blow through it in a couple of days. That’s usually what his phone messages to her were about. Send more money.’

  ‘Did she?’ I asked.

  Graham shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He tried to borrow money from me a couple of times but I think he finally got the message that I wasn’t giving him squat.’ He added, ‘I saw the check one time – it was for eight hundred dollars! Can you imagine? Eight hundred bucks? I mean, y’all send me a hundred a month and—’ He stopped cold. Looked at his shoes, then up at us. ‘Never mind,’ he said.

  ‘Never mind what?’ Willis asked.

  ‘What were we talking about?’ Graham asked, his face a mask of innocence.

  ‘We send you a hundred dollars a month. Is that not enough?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah, well, I could always use more—’

  Willis was grinning. ‘I know
what he was going to say,’ my husband said, looking at me. ‘Hand me your wallet,’ he said to our son.

  ‘Ah, I’m not sure I have it—’ Graham started.

  ‘It’s on the nightstand,’ I said, pointing.

  Willis stood and picked up the wallet.

  ‘Hey! I’m over eighteen, you know! You have no right—’

  Willis pulled two twenties out of the bill section of Graham’s wallet. ‘When are you sending him his next check?’

  ‘I mailed it yesterday. He wouldn’t have gotten it yet,’ I answered, looking at my son.

  ‘So the end to that sentence is we send you a hundred a month and you usually have some left over,’ Willis said, staring level at Graham.

  ‘So I’m frugal. Sue me.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll just lower the amount—’

  ‘Willis, now is not the time. Besides, I’m proud of him. He’s saving money. I find that quite responsible. Certainly not the act of someone who’d kill his roommate.’

  Boy, did that bring us all back to reality with a bang.

  I sighed. ‘We have to be at the lawyer’s office by nine a.m.,’ I said, looking at the travel clock on the nightstand that showed it was getting close to eleven o’clock. ‘We all need to get some sleep.’

  Stuart Freeman, the lawyer recommended by our neighbor, had his office in a converted Victorian near downtown. It was a beautiful old place, with original hardwood floors, crown moldings and tin ceilings. I came down with a bad case of house envy the minute we stepped in. A young, very pregnant woman stood up from a desk in the entry hall and came toward us, all smiles, both hands holding her belly. I was familiar with the gesture.

  ‘When are you due?’ I asked.

  ‘Last week,’ she said and grinned. ‘You’re the Pughs?’ she asked.

  Willis nodded.

  ‘I’m Maggie. Stuart will be with you in a minute. He’s on a call. Won’t y’all have a seat?’

  The entry hall was furnished with four mismatched comfy chairs that made the house even more desirable. We only had to wait a few minutes before a large pocket door opened and a man walked out, his hand held out to Willis. Like Champion, he was in his fifties, with a full head of wavy white hair but tanned skin and blue eyes and a cleft in his chin. I started wondering if maybe Willis and I weren’t having sex often enough. I was certainly finding other men attractive all of a sudden.

  ‘Mr Pugh, I just got off the phone with Tom Kenney,’ he said, mentioning our neighbor, the lawyer whose wife had referred us to Stuart Freeman. ‘He said to send you his regards and to tell you that if he can do anything to help, just call him.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Mr Freeman,’ Willis said, shaking his hand.

  ‘Stuart, please,’ he said, turning to me to shake my hand.

  ‘E.J.,’ I said. ‘And he’s Willis.’

  Turning to our son, he said, ‘You must be Graham.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, shaking the proffered hand.

  ‘Why don’t we go in my office and talk about this mess,’ Freeman said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Graham said and followed the lawyer into his private office.

  My house envy would have been through the roof if I hadn’t been so worried about Graham. The same hardwood floors, the same crown molding, the same tin ceiling, but part of the hardwoods were covered with an antique oriental rug – I could tell it was antique by the fact that it was well-worn – and leather visitors’ chairs that also looked well-worn and well-loved. There was the biggest slab of mahogany I’d ever seen, with a patina to die for topping off a beautiful, mostly bare desk. There was a fireplace with a marble surround and a thick oak mantle. The walls were a muted green and covered with degrees, citations and pictures of Stuart Freeman with a lot of people I recognized from high local, state and even federal government positions. I could only hope this meant we’d come to the right place.

  ‘Please, have a seat,’ Freeman said as he sank into a much larger, antique leather chair. ‘Can I have Maggie get you anything? Coffee, tea?’

  ‘No, we’re fine,’ I said before Willis could suggest a cup of coffee from the overly pregnant young woman. I didn’t want her going into labor because Willis thought he needed caffeine.

  ‘OK, then, let’s get down to business,’ Freeman said, leaning his elbows on his desktop and clasping his hands together. ‘All I know at this moment is that there was a death. Want to fill me in?’

  So we did, each taking a turn, with me emphasizing the fact that Graham had not been covered with blood when he awoke the day before.

  ‘That’s a good point, E.J.,’ Freeman said. ‘We need to make that fact abundantly clear to the detective. Do we have proof of that?’

  We three Pughs looked at each other. I had no idea. What would prove that Graham had no blood on him?

  ‘What were you wearing to bed?’ I asked my son.

  ‘Boxer briefs,’ he said.

  ‘The same ones you wore last night?’ I asked.

  ‘Jeez, Mom! I do know to change underwear occasionally!’

  ‘So where are the briefs you were wearing?’ I asked.

  ‘In the hamper in the bathroom,’ he answered.

  ‘Unfortunately, the police can assume you got rid of any bloody clothing,’ Freeman said.

  ‘Luminol!’ I shouted. Sort of like ‘Eureka!’

  Freeman looked at me and sat back in his chair. ‘Good thinking, E.J. We’ll insist that the police luminol the entire dorm room.’ He looked at Graham. ‘Will they find anything if they do that?’

  ‘That’s the stuff that shows blood even after it’s been cleaned up, right?’ Graham asked.

  ‘Right,’ Freeman answered.

  Graham shrugged. ‘I don’t see why they would. I haven’t cut myself or anything. And, Mr Freeman, I didn’t—’

  ‘Don’t tell me, son. I’m not asking if you did it and I don’t want you to tell me if you did or didn’t. We’re just going to prove that you couldn’t have. That OK with y’all?’ he asked.

  I wanted to shout, ‘Of course he didn’t do it, you asshole!’ but I kept my mouth shut. He was going to prove that Graham hadn’t done it. That was enough for me.

  FOUR

  We left Freeman’s office and headed back to the motel, where the girls were waiting for us in the restaurant adjacent to the motel, having partaken of a particularly expensive breakfast, the remnants of which lay spread out before them.

  ‘Full enough?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Megan burped in response then giggled. Bess said, ‘I was very hungry,’ while Alicia piped in with, ‘I only had toast. And coffee. And some fruit.’ She looked at both her sisters, who were looking back at her with evil eyes. ‘Well, I did! Y’all are the ones who ate everything in sight!’

  ‘Did not!’ Bess said, while Megan just burped again.

  ‘Y’all are going to have to go home,’ I said. Everyone turned to stare at me. ‘Not because of breakfast, for crying out loud. Because you can’t miss any more school and your dad can’t miss any more work. Your dad doesn’t work, we don’t get money. No money, no lawyer for your brother. And you three, no school, no graduation. You want to repeat your senior year?’

  Megan fell back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and said, ‘Whatever!’

  Bess said, ‘You have a point, Mom,’ while Alicia merely looked anywhere but at Graham.

  ‘She’s right,’ Willis said, sitting down at the table. Graham and I followed suit. I noticed he grabbed the chair furthest from Alicia, meaning I was sitting next to my foster daughter. I patted her on the leg and she gave me a weak smile. I knew this wasn’t easy for her. I thought she might still be in love with my son. He’d been the one to call it off, having decided to get back with his ex-girlfriend. That reconciliation hadn’t lasted long and I had to wonder if it hadn’t been an excuse to stop his relationship with Alicia. It had been an uncomfortable situation, our foster daughter and our birth son falling in love, and, sensing that, Graham m
ight have actually acted like an adult – sort of – and figured out a way to stop it. Maybe not the best way but it had worked. I decided I needed to find something to take Alicia’s mind off Graham, and what could be better than another boy? Sexist, you say? Absolutely not. You fall off a horse, you get back on a horse. A boy breaks your heart, you find one who won’t. And still get your Ph.D. And become CEO.

  We’d left Stuart Freeman’s office with the knowledge that he’d call Detective Champion and let him know he was representing Graham, and suggest – strongly, I hoped – that they luminol the entire dorm room. It was Tuesday already and the girls had lost one and a half days of school, while Willis had two projects he was supposed to be winding up and a couple of would-be clients he needed to schmooze. On their way home, they dropped Graham and me off in his dorm building parking lot so we could get his car – a rather beat-up late-nineties Toyota Celica that had no air conditioning, heater, radio or much of a paint job. I couldn’t help thinking nostalgically about my two-seater Audi sitting at home in the garage. That would have been perfect for taking on the hills of Austin.

  I called Stuart Freeman’s very pregnant assistant, told her Willis was leaving town and gave her my cell number for Stuart to call if and when something came up. She assured me she would. She was breathing rather heavily and I figured the baby was probably dancing on her lungs (Megan was big on that in vitro). I had a feeling Stuart was going to be fielding his own calls in a matter of days, if not hours.

  Graham and I went back to the motel. I didn’t bother canceling the room the girls had been in. Graham could move in there – we both probably needed a little space. I knew I did, and I could only imagine how much my son needed it. Once alone in my motel room, I called Elena Luna, my next-door neighbor and the head homicide detective for the Codderville police department. Although we both lived in another jurisdiction – Black Cat Ridge, which has its own police force – she and I had worked several cases together. OK, maybe half a dozen or more. She grudgingly, but since I had a tendency to trip over dead bodies (as my family put it; my take is that I just happened to often be in the wrong place at the right – or wrong – time), we have worked side by side, often to her horror. But, still, we were friends. She was probably my best friend now, after the death of Bess’s birth mother when Bess was only four. It had taken a while to think that role of BFF could ever be filled, but in a lot of ways it has been – by Luna. Just, please, don’t tell her.