Fatal Brushstroke (An Aurora Anderson Mystery Book 1) by Sybil Johnson

Under her breath, but still loud enough everyone in the small group could hear, she said, “Hester attached hers to a key chain. She wouldn’t be caught dead with that pinned to her breast.”
    Nora’s face turned red as she fingered the wooden rose keeping her scarf in place.
    “Trudy, how do you keep that fabulous figure?” Liz said, trying to keep the woman’s focus off Nora who now looked as if she was about to collapse.
    “Exercise and staying away from fatty food. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it.” Trudy stared pointedly at Nora. “Some people simply don’t have the discipline.”
    Nora’s face turned a deep shade of purple and strange sounds emanated from her throat. Rory hastily reviewed CPR procedures in her mind just in case they were needed.
    “Still working on those insipid designs of yours, Nora?” Trudy continued, oblivious to the woman’s suffering. “Hester was always saying how juvenile they were.”
    Rory was getting more and more worried about the situation when she heard the sound of a slap against skin. A shocked silence fell over the group as well as everyone standing nearby. Nora stared in horror at her hand as if it had acquired a mind of its own. Trudy fingered the injured spot on her face and, seemingly incapable of uttering a word, drifted off without comment, a flowery scent that reminded Rory of the gardenia plant in her mother’s garden trailing in her wake.
    Shortly after, Nora mumbled an apology and ran from the terrace.
    “Should we...?” Rory said to Liz.
    “Let her be. She’s embarrassed enough. And I don’t think we have to worry about T & A. She’s already found someone to comfort her.” Liz nodded at the other side of the terrace where Trudy seemed to have forgotten about the slap and was flirting with Detective Green.
    Rory wondered if flirting was one of the methods of interrogation taught at the police academy or if the detective had learned it on his own. He could use some pointers on technique, though. Even with a beautiful woman paying attention to him, the man didn’t crack a smile. Maybe he’d been married so long he was out of practice, though she’d never noticed a wedding ring on his finger.
    “Did you see those shoes?” Liz said in an excited voice, breaking into Rory’s thoughts.
    “Shoes?” Rory said a little vaguely, still wondering about the detective’s marital status.
    “Never mind. I’m going to find out where she bought them.” Liz threaded her way through the crowd in search of the owner of the footwear that had caught her attention.
    Once she was alone, Rory grabbed a plate and walked over to one of the serving stations. She was dishing out pasta salad when a man, half a foot shorter than Rory and almost as wide as he was tall, stepped in front of her.
    “You shouldn’t be here,” Chief Marshall said in a gruff voice. Out of uniform and in a rumpled suit, the man appeared less intimidating than usual until she looked into his eyes, as devoid of warmth as ever. His collar didn’t quite hide the scar on his neck.
    Behind the man’s brusque manner and expressionless eyes lay a pain Rory could only imagine. Sadness enveloped her as she pictured a younger version of the policeman trying, but failing, to rescue his wife and two-year-old daughter from the burning building.
    Rory averted her gaze. “Chief, I didn’t think you were coming. I mean, I didn’t see you earlier at the service,” she managed to squeak out.
    “Hester was a friend. I belong here.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his inside jacket pocket and wiped the sweat off his bald head. He took his time returning the white cloth to its place, carefully folding it into a perfect square. Rory’s heart beat faster at the long pause in the conversation. When she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, the chief looked her squarely in the eyes and said, “We’ve got quite a bit of evidence already. It’s only a matter of time before we have enough to