Confession Is Murder by Peg Cochran

and Union Avenue. Been there more than ten years.”
    “You work every day? I know some of them mechanics keep different hours.”
    He picked up a card from the stack and added it to his creation. “Thursdays I’m off, and Mondays and Wednesdays I go in late and work late.” He shook his head. “That’s what made it so easy for them, see. They had the whole evening with me out of the house.” He shook his head again. “Here I am busting my ass to put food on the table, and all the time . . .”
    Lucille wrote this down carefully on her pad so she would remember. She and Flo were going to have to go over to that gas station and check things out. She could bring in the Olds—it was slow starting some mornings and would give them an excuse. She was going to hand this whole thing to Richie Sambuco on a silver platter.
    Lucille started to get up. “I’m going to be sure to tell Frankie—I mean, the boss—all about this here problem you been having.”
    He was poking around in his ear again but with his little finger this time. “The wife says it’s all a load of bullshit and that I’m nuts.” He pulled the finger out and examined the end of it. “But I still think that guy was doing my wife instead of doing his job. Why else would we keep getting all them ants?”
    Yeah, why, Lucille thought. Especially seeing as how his missus was such a spotless housekeeper. She kicked at a pile of dust bunnies nesting under her chair.
    “I guess I’ll be going, then.” Lucille put her pen in her purse and started to get up. She could feel a sneeze forming in the back of her throat. She shouldn’t have poked around at that dust—there was no telling what she might catch on account of it.
    The sneeze began to subside, and she got to her feet. All of a sudden the tickle hit the back of her throat again. She made a quick prayer to St. Bernadine, patron saint against respiratory problems, but it was too late. She sneezed real hard—her head flew forward and then back again.
    And she blew the house of cards off the table along with a whole bunch of what looked like cake crumbs.
    “Shit!”
    “Listen, I’m really sorry. But I couldn’t help it. I got this here tickle in the back of my throat.” Lucille paused with her hand on her neck. Flanagan looked like he was going to choke her. He’d gone all red in the face—right up to the top of his head.
    “Get out of here,” he bellowed and pointed toward the door. “Just get out of here before you do any more damage.”
    “I’m going, I’m going.” Lucille tripped over an empty water bottle that had been thrown on the floor. It rolled under the table and ricocheted off the wall.
    Lucille was halfway through the living room when she heard a door squeak somewhere down the hall. She hesitated for a moment. She was dying to get a look at the missus.
    “What is it, Danny?” A woman came around the corner, tying the belt on her bathrobe.
    Lucille’s mouth dropped open. “Jeanette!”
    “Lucille. What are you doing here?”
    Before Lucille could answer, Flanagan took her arm, marched her out to the front stoop, and slammed the door in back of her.
    “Well!” Lucille shook herself and smoothed her sleeve where Flanagan had grabbed it. Funny, Flanagan being Jeanette’s husband. She hadn’t made the connection between the names. Besides, hadn’t Jeanette said she lived in Berkeley Heights somewhere? Or was that the lady who came in to clean, and she was getting the two of them confused?
    Lucille paused with one hand on the door of the Olds. It didn’t make no sense. Why would Joseph be having an affair with Jeanette—even taking into account the saying that there was no accounting for taste? Here was Connie so perfect all the time and Jeanette . . . Lucille shuddered.
    She was going to check Flanagan’s alibi anyway. The way the man came at her . . . She put a hand to her throat again. She could picture Flanagan murdering Joseph a lot more easily than she could