Face Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page A

But a grandmother in her sixties is not the likeliest murderer, no matter how unhappy her daughter might be. Of all the suspects, I sadly realize, the most predictable murderer is Dorinda herself.
    Myra looks away. I see she’s checking the green numerals of the clock on the stainless steel microwave. Our time is up.
    “Mrs. Matzenbrenner, you know them both. Knew,” I say. “Do you think Dorie Sweeney killed her husband?”
    Myra Matzenbrenner slides off the padded chintz cushion of the stool, one foot hitting the floor, then the other, not looking at me or Franklin. She picks up her coffee, then wipes the counter with her napkin, back and forth, back and forth.
    “Why do you think Dorie worked the overnight shift, all these years?” she asks, still focused on her shredding pink napkin. “To stay as far from Ray Sweeney as she could. That’s what I think. He had money, she wouldn’t have to work. She was getting out of that house. A man like that, catting after teenagers. Colleen should have realized Dorie wasn’t Ray’s first and wouldn’t be his last. She died years ago, in some nursing home. Dorie never forgave her. She told me once she swore she’d never allow her own daughter to end up like she did. Trapped. Ignored. Like I tell Linda Sue, money can’t buy you a loving family.”
    Crumpling up the last of the napkin, Myra looks at Franklin and me. “Did Dorinda kill Ray Sweeney? Who knows. If I were Dorie? I certainly would have.”
    This is not what I was hoping to hear. We’re on the trail for evidence to exonerate Dorie. Myra isn’t even skeptical of her guilt. We’re getting nowhere. My brain races through possibilities while Myra shows us out. I hand her my card. What did I forget to ask her?
    “CC Hardesty,” I say, turning back to Myra as we reach the front door. “Where can we find him?”
    Myra has one hand on the doorknob. She pushes it open, letting in the still bright afternoon. “Arlington National Cemetery, I would think,” she says.
     
     
    “A ND SO MUCH FOR the boyfriend theory,” I say, as we dump our newly collected files on our desks. At least, I’m dumping. Franklin is using a sharp-pointed black marker to make labels to put on a set of manila folders.
    I stare at my phone, willing the red message light to go on. I wish Will Easterly would call to tell me the story-saving news that Dorinda has agreed to talk to me, that she’ll go on camera and spill the real saga of Ray Sweeney’s death. If she even knows it. “Should we, maybe, call Will? See whether he’s gotten anywhere? And aren’t Rankin’s people supposed to be coming up with evidence, too? Or do they just think the tape is enough to get Dorie exonerated?”
    Franklin adjusts something in his file array. “Maybe we should—”
    “Yes, absolutely,” I interrupt. “We need to hit that nursing home, the one where Dorinda worked. See how the surveillance tape system operates. See why no one checked it out.”
    “Go to the bar,” Franklin continues as if I hadn’t interrupted him. “Is what I was attempting to say.” He turns away from his files to look at me. “We need to track down the customers and the bartender, don’t you think?”
    “Good idea,” I agree. “Try to get some sense of that night, perhaps someone overheard what Ray was saying. Better yet, find someone who can positively identify who Ray was with, and not just from seeing a photograph. If Dorinda was at the bar, arguing with Ray, it’s likely she wasn’t at work. Which makes that surveillance tape incredibly suspect. And the murder—”
    Poison. I’d know it anywhere. My nose wrinkles, testing, as a plume of fashion’s equivalent of toxic waste announces a visitor to our office. I know it’s oh-so au courant, and most people adore it, but to me, the perfume smells like bug spray. I sneeze once in involuntary olfactory protest, then again, as the clack of stilettos comes to a stop in our doorway.
    “This is no time to get a