The Trouble With Murder by Catherine Nelson

amounts?”
    “What? No. The books will show you,
I didn’t steal any money.”
    “If there are any inconsistencies,
we’ll find them. But I have a feeling we’re going to find the money leads back
to you, one way or the other.”
    If I was seriously being considered
a suspect, that changed everything. For one, I needed to stop talking. If
Hensley wanted to ask more questions, he was going to need a warrant to hand to
my lawyer.
    “I’ve said all I’m going to,” I
said. “Please leave.”
    “Formal charges of fraud and
embezzlement will be filed against you. The paperwork the company has proving
your guilt is pretty thorough and convincing.”
    I reached into my pocket and
withdrew the card White had given me a few hours before. I slid it across the
bar to Hensley. “Contact my lawyer if you have more questions.”
    I carried my glass into the kitchen
and stood staring at Hensley across the counter, my arms over my chest and a
dark look on my face. In no rush to comply, he stared back at me for a beat or
two, then slowly closed his notepad and returned it to his pocket. He picked up
the card, studied it carefully, and slipped it into his pocket with the
notebook. Then he eased himself off the stool and strolled to the front door.
    When he was gone, I threw the
deadbolt and spun on my heel for the stairs.

5
     
    A smarter person might have been scared of being convicted
of a felony and sentenced to prison. Maybe I’m not that smart. Mostly I was
pissed. But prison was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to know who
had really stolen that money. Then I wanted to have a talk with them about
pointing the finger at me. I didn’t appreciate the finger-pointing.
    When I hit the front door, I saw some
thunderclouds had rolled in and it was beginning to drizzle. I grabbed a jacket
and the Cushman then buzzed away from the house.
    As I rode, I reflected on my day.
It hadn’t started well and had only gotten worse. I called Amy to commiserate
because this always makes me feel better. I used a hands-free earbud and hoped
she could hear me over the wind and the engine.
    Amy Wells and I grew up together.
We’d known each other since before either of us could walk, and at that age it
doesn’t take much to form a friendship. But whatever bond existed between us,
it had sufficiently held us together for the last twenty-four years. Her life
had been just as hard in its own way. This hardship was one of our binding
threads. Amy is the only person who knows my life story, knows everything about
me, my every sin, and loves me anyway.
    The line rang then dropped to
voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message. It was Friday night, and
chances were good she had plans with her fiancé, Brandon. Overall, I think Brandon’s
an all right guy, and he’s probably perfect for Amy, so it doesn’t bother me
too much that she spends so much time with him.
    Wal-Mart isn’t my favorite place to
shop, but I needed a couple things, and I didn’t want to go to more than one
store. That is one thing Wal-Mart has going for it: one-stop shopping. I took
Lemay Avenue north past Mulberry and pulled into the parking lot, which is huge
and poorly designed. I buzzed the Cushman into a motorcycle spot, killed the
engine, and pushed down the kickstand. A thin man with leathery, weathered skin,
frizzy, gray hair tied in a long ponytail, and full riding leathers eyed the
Trailster as he strolled over to his Harley.
    “Great bike,” he said. Prepared for
sarcasm, I glanced up only to find sincere reverence in his eyes. Perhaps he
also had a history with Cushman scooters.
    “Thanks.”
    We nodded to one another, then I
hurried into the store. A particularly rough gust of wind whipped around me as
I hit the sidewalk and ducked inside.
    The enormous warehouse-like
building that is Wal-Mart is a fluorescent nightmare with a horrible
soundtrack. There are directional signs hanging everywhere, but none of them
actually point to anything. It’s