“One more question,” I said looking pointedly at my hairdresser and avoiding the gleam in Chic’s eye. “Where were you when Ignatio was killed?” Coming at it from out of nowhere like that, I hoped to shock Gerry into blurting something—anything—that would help me.
“I was… Well… I was…”
“I was at the salon.”
“At ten o’clock at night?” Good thing to know if I ever had a hair emergency, but I didn’t think his usual business hours ran that late.
I know I shouldn’t have been surprised when he blushed, but I never can get past the image of a grown man blushing, especially not one of Gerry size. Every time he did he reminded me of Oliver Hardy—if Laurel and Hardy had been in color, that is. I kept expecting him to twiddle with his tie.
“Don’t I get any privacy?” he wailed.
“Not any more, Ger. Or haven’t you noticed the fact that until we catch the real killer, even your bodily functions are out in the open for everyone to see.” He looked like he was going to cry again, but I had to keep at him. He was hiding things from me, and as long as that was happening, I wasn’t going to be able to help him. “Cough it up, Gerald,” I snapped.
“I was giving myself a…” I cringed and toned him out. From the look on Chic’s face, I was lucky to have learned how to drop out of a conversation at any given moment. I think it had to do with listening to my maternal grandparents complain about my profession, or my education going to waste, or their lack of grandchildren.
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