Nigel was the color of an electric burner set on medium. Bright red and on the verge of boiling hottest blue.
“I resent being asked about my…my…sessions with Maureen.” He sniffed dipped his tea bag in the cup of hot water three times.
“Surely, you can understand why we are questioning you?” I asked with an easy voice that suggested shots at the bar and not a police interrogation.
Nigel tapped his teaspoon on the table. “Possibly.”
“Are you missing any knives?” Marty, the constable, asked.
“I am most definitely not.” Nigel sniffed.
“Have you ever had a knife that looked like this?” I showed him a photo of the pearly knife.
“Never.” He poured milk into his tea. “And I don’t know anyone who does.”
Maureen, the local veterinarian, was found floating dead in the community pool with a pearly knife stuck in her chest only a day ago. I was made an honorary constable because of my former career with Scotland Yard. Maureen, as I discovered, was also the local dominatrix. My instincts taught me sex and crime often blend. It was useless interviewing Nigel. He was a solicitor with a solid alibi.
Nigel glanced at his watch with the brown leather band. “I have an appointment soon. But if you are looking for enemies of Maureen and people who might have had the time or been at the community pool I would question the wives. All the wives.”
“Sure thing, Nigel.” I followed Marty out of the office.
“So what do you think?” asked Marty.
“The knife was unique. I say we track the knife. Any sellers or dealers nearby?”
“Town over.”
“Great. Let’s talk to them.”
I got into the car and sighed. Life was not letting me retire from murder and mayhem any time soon.
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