Book Club Killer by Mary Maxwell Page B

Houston at the time of the incident.”
    I let the news sink in before
another name popped into my mind.
    “Then what about Brock Truscott?” I
offered. “Maybe somebody at his company is upset that he’s selling. Or maybe
his wife is angry that he’s leaving her for a younger woman.”
    “Brock Truscott?”
    I sighed and repeated what I’d just
told Ford. “I know that I mentioned him on Saturday,” I said. “But maybe I told
the other two officers. It was all kind of a jumble to me, but I’m certain that
I explained about my husband’s business dinner that we were having catered that
night.”
    “Tell you what,” the detective
said. “If you can hold for a minute, I’ll push back my meeting so we can talk
now.”
    “That would be great. I know you’re
doing everything you can, but I want to make sure that whoever did this to
Rosemary is brought to justice.”
    After Ford put me on hold, I went
into the bedroom, retrieved my laptop and went back to the kitchen table. As I
was checking the notes that I made on Saturday night, the detective clicked
back onto the line.
    “Thanks for your patience, Mrs. Sullivan.
Now, where were we?”
    “Brock Truscott,” I said. “I think
you should look into his company and talk to his wife and girlfriend.”
    “He has one of each?”
    “Yes, he’s getting divorced. And
from what I’ve heard, things are pretty contentious.”
    “Between Mr. Truscott and his
wife?”
    “Yes, the divorce is even rockier
than the marriage.”
    “And how do you know this?” asked
Ford.
    “My husband’s company is in the
process of acquiring Truscott’s business. And he’s heard things—from Truscott
and a couple of the guys involved with the deal.”
    “Okay, so your husband has heard
things and he’s shared that with you?” Ford clarified. “But you haven’t
actually heard Mr. Truscott or his wife speaking about their marriage or
divorce?”
    The question seemed odd, but then I
remembered that Detective Ford was working a murder investigation and
everything was under the microscope. I confirmed what he’d just said before
telling him that I had more to say about Saturday.
    “What’s that?” he asked.
    “Well, I know who delivered the
poisoned dip,” I said hesitantly.
    Ford was quiet for a few seconds.
Then he said, “How long were you going to wait to share that information?”
    “I tried telling you yesterday,” I
said. “But you didn’t return my calls.”
    “Who was it?” he asked, ignoring my
comment.
    “My friend’s brother,” I said. “His
name is Warren Davis. But he isn’t the killer. He was just hired to deliver the
package that contained the poison dip. I don’t even think he knew what was in
the paper bag.”
    The line was silent again. I felt
like Ford was annoyed at me, like I’d purposefully withheld critical
information.
    “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry if you—”
    “Pardon the interruption,” said
Ford. “But I think we should talk face-to-face. How soon could you come in? Or
would you prefer that I come to your house so we can go over things?”
    I glanced at the clock on the
kitchen wall. It was half past eight. I told Ford that I would see him at the
police station.
    “Perfect,” he said. “Before we
finish, can you tell me your friend’s name?”
    “Sonja Anderson,” I said. “She’s in
my book club. Along with Rosemary.”
    “Do you have her phone number
handy?”
    I felt instantly guilty sharing
Sonja’s name and number, but I also knew it was the right thing to do.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan,” Ford
said crisply. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at ten.”

Chapter 17
     
     
    When a uniformed officer escorted
me to an interview room at the station, Sonja was already seated on the edge of
a chair. She was sipping a cup of coffee and twirling her phone idly on the
table.
    “What did you tell him?” she hissed
as soon as we were alone.
    “Detective Ford?” I asked.
    She gave me a wordless nod.
    “I just