“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…”
“Yes?”
“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.
Hope y'all are enjoying these little bits of story.
If you want to play along, feel free to find any page of your manuscript that ends in 7, post it to your own blog, or put it in the comments, and come back here to tell me so I can read your stuff. Plus, that way, I'll know to give you a little link-love back. =o)
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