Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows by Missy J Cat Page B

horrified at how careless --
    and callous -- we’d been. And yet Tara said she’d never known, never suspected until they were married. Until, in fact, they were separating.
    There’s a reason whenever homicide occurs that spouses and ex-spouses are the hands-down favorite suspects of law enforcement. But there was no way Tara could overpower Rob, stab him to death and lift his body into a dumpster. Besides, she had been in Iowa.

    Fatal Shadows
    55

    Of course Tara could have an accomplice. I could picture the type: a manly, brawny regular guy who knew exactly how to take out the trash. That was the way he’d put it too, taking out the trash. Hell-hath-no-fury? Was that a realistic motive for murder? Divorce hetero style? But that would mean Tara was involved with another man even while she was begging Rob to come back to her.
    Was she that devious?
    Was she that sharp?
    I snapped out the light, scooted down in to the blankets.
    Ex-lovers were another popular choice for homicidal maniacs both in fiction and real life. Robert had broken plenty of hearts, and in particular Claude’s. But despite Claude’s hard feelings, which he hadn’t bothered to hide (and wouldn’t he, if he had a murder to hide?), I didn’t believe Claude had killed Robert. He was heavy and muscular enough, and the news about his violent youth nonplussed me, but I still couldn’t credit the police’s suspicion.
    Because I didn’t want to?
    Or because my gut told me Claude’s gay blade days were far behind him? Despite the bloodcurdling poetry, I didn’t believe Claude could stab Robert to death. His pride had taken a beating, but did people kill over wounded pride? Claude was a gentle man. Sure he could get loud and emotional, but before Riordan had crossed our path I had never heard anyone accuse him of even so much as verbal cruelty. I thought of the many ways he cosseted me and other friends. I thought of his generosity: the ex-lovers he helped out, the free dinners he supplied to organizations like Project Angel Food, the donations he made to The Cause --
    whatever cause someone talked his soft heart into supporting.
    I sure as hell couldn’t imagine him premeditating a murder. Didn’t the presence of the chess piece indicate premeditation?
    All the same, where had Claude been that night? He must have had as lame an alibi as me, or the police wouldn’t still be snooping around. Unlike me, Claude enjoyed a busy social schedule. He should have witnesses to his innocence standing in queue, but apparently not.
    He was jealous. I did remember Robert commenting on that once. But then Robert thought anyone who couldn’t cheerfully accept his revolving door relationships was insanely possessive.
    Anyway, I couldn’t think of any connection between Claude and chess. I doubted if he knew castling from cholesterol.
    I snorted. Sat up and punched my pillow. I was still betting on the mystery man Robert had gone to meet that night. The man who had sent Robert roses. The man Robert had gone to meet when he walked out on me.
    I tried to think back to the days before Robert had died. Had he said anything that might give me a clue? I considered snippets of overheard phone conversations. The sad truth was I’d been so busy bottling my anger at his haphazard work, his obvious indifference to the job, 56
    Josh Lanyon

    I hadn’t paid much attention. I had noticed -- and been irritated -- by his sunny indifference in the face of my glowering disapproval. That in itself indicated his attention had been elsewhere, because when he had first returned to LA he had definitely been interested in picking up where we left off.
    What if Rob’s death hadn’t had anything to do with romance, ill-fated or otherwise? If Rob had been in some kind of trouble, would he have confided in me?
    I wasn’t sure. He confided in me less and less. You’re turning into an old maid, Adrien, he’d said when I lectured him about promiscuity in the age of AIDS.
    Only ten percent