Murder Crops Up by Lora Roberts Page B

at any given moment.
    The house was too empty and quiet. I put on a CD, Ry Cooder’s Bop Til You Drop. It was sufficiently raucous to fill the silence. While I was at it I straightened the couch, carrying the newspapers out to the recycling bin on the front porch.
    I wouldn’t even have noticed the car across the street if the streetlight hadn’t glinted on a fluffy white head in the driver’s seat, bent at an angle over the steering wheel.
    Enough weird stuff had been happening to send me into panic mode. I ran across the street. When I got close enough, I saw that the person in the car was not unconscious or hurt, just reading, with the streetlight’s help. It was Carlotta.
    I thought about turning around and going back inside. But the anger that had pushed me into confronting her in the garden was still alive inside me. I was tired of being a doormat for her Hush Puppy-shod feet.
    I tapped on the car window next to her, and she jerked around to peer out.
    “What are you doing here?” I didn’t waste time on the preliminaries.
    She rolled the window part of the way down, treating me to a bland smile. “Why, Liz. What do you mean? This is my old neighborhood, after all. Surely I can come back and park on the street for a little while.”
    “Considering the big deal you made about leaving because you felt unsafe, I’m surprised to see you sitting out here at night.”
    She tossed her head. “I’m just keeping an eye on your house in case anything should happen.”
    “Like what?” I noticed again how small her eyes really were beneath her makeup. And how cold.
    “Like someone else dying,” she said. “It would help to have a witness, don’t you agree? I could help you out by giving you an alibi.”
    “I won’t need an alibi. What I need is for you to leave me alone.”
    Triumph glinted in those little eyes. “I have only your best interests at heart. Now that everyone’s talking about how you’re always around when people die—”
    “You know, Carlotta, you are so brave.” I stooped to be closer to her face. She shrank back. “After all, if I’m a cold-blooded murderer, a person might think twice before annoying me.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.” Her hand rested uneasily on the ignition key.
    “Well, if I’m so dangerous, you’re an idiot to be dogging me like this. And if you know I’m not dangerous, making it safe to go around whispering rumors, then you prove you don’t really think I have anything to do with the deaths.”
    She puzzled that through for a moment. “You must have something to do with them. There never used to be so many murders in Palo Alto before you came around.”
    “That’s a lie, too.” I had had my own fears on that score, settled by cruising through the archives at the main library. “I’ve checked the newspapers. There are homicides every few months, and every time, the paper says how unusual it is for people to be killed in Palo Alto.”
    “There you have it,” she said, triumphant again. “Even the newspapers, who always look for the worst things, say it’s not usual.”
    “Well, have it your way. I’m a bad person. Now, who should be my next victim?” I held a finger up to my chin, thinking visibly. “Someone who’s always bothering me. Who shoves herself in where she’s not wanted. Who can’t seem to mind her own business.” I looked down at her face, pale in the streetlight. “Do you know anyone who fits that description?”
    She gave a little scream. “Don’t you dare threaten me!” But there was excitement in her voice, too. Her gaze slid sideways to the big handbag lying on the seat beside her.
    As clearly as if she’d articulated it, I knew there was a tape recorder in that handbag. I, too, have carried a tape recorder around, and knowledge of its hidden mission has weighed heavily on me.
    “And don’t bother showing that tape around anywhere. I imagine my lawyer will have a lot to say about you trying to trap me into an