Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

pancake makeup, Jackie Harmon’s face went white. “Murder of—” She swallowed, then made a visible effort to pull herself together and tough it out. “Lawrence Kirk,” she murmured, frowning. She tapped a red-painted nail against red lips, as if she were trying to think. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
    Standing a few steps behind Sheila, Bartlett took out his notebook and began to write, not making any effort to conceal what he was doing. Harmon’s eyes went to him, then back to Sheila.
    “Please don’t pay any attention to Detective Bartlett,” Sheila said smoothly. “We’re just trying to pin down a few facts. The Lawrence Kirk we’re asking about was employed here several years ago. I understand that you’re the owner of an insurance policy on his life.”
    “Oh, you mean
Larry
Kirk.” Harmon tried to smile. “Yes, of course. How silly of me. Yes, Mr. Kirk was employed here, but it was quite some time ago. I haven’t seen him for years—since he married, I believe.” She pulled her dark brows together. “You’re saying that he was… murdered?”
    “Yes,” Sheila said, and offered no details.
    Harmon studied her as if she were measuring an adversary. She opted to become dismissive. “I don’t think I can help you. Our employee insurance package is a personnel matter. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid this isn’t a convenient time for this discussion. I’m expecting a client at any—”
    “I don’t think you understand, Ms. Harmon,” Sheila interrupted firmly. “We’re investigating a homicide, and you are a person of interest. We hope you’ll agree to cooperate, so we can get this wrapped up quickly.”
    Harmon’s dismissive facade cracked slightly. “A… person of interest?” she faltered.
    The term, of course, had no legal meaning, but used wisely, it sometimes encouraged subjects to talk without lawyering up. And suspects who talked were often compelled to lie. Their lies could be used to confront them later, when they were formally detained and questioned. Defense attorneys and civil libertarians might condemn the strategy, but Sheila knew how useful it was.
    “That’s right,” Sheila said conversationally. “We would like you to clarify your relationship to Mr. Kirk and tell us about any recent meetings you’ve had with him. We can talk here or at the police station, whichever you prefer.”
    Harmon grasped for control. “But I don’t
have
a relationship with him,” she replied thinly. She lifted her chin. “I haven’t seen Larry—Mr. Kirk—for years.”
    “I see.” Sheila paused, frowning, as if she were slightly puzzled. “Then you haven’t corresponded with him, or visited his home?”
    Harmon stepped right into the trap. “His home? No, of course not! I haven’t written to him, either. So I really can’t be of any help to you.” She frowned doubtfully. “You said he was
murdered
?”
    “Yes,” Sheila said. “The killer tried to make it look as if Mr. Kirk had killed himself, but the attempt was unsuccessful.”
    Harmon was becoming more nervous by the moment. “I still don’t understand what you want with
me
. I don’t know anything at all about Mr. Kirk.” She cleared her throat and looked pointedly at her watch. “As I said, I’m expecting a client any minute now. So if we could—”
    “Since that’s the case,” Sheila interrupted, “it would be better if you came down to the station with us. We’ll give you a lift back when we’re finished. You can leave a note on the door, postponing your appointment.”
    “Go down to the station?” Harmon said, barely managing to controlthe tremor in her voice. She was clearly coming unstrung. “But there’s no point. I don’t have any information that would—”
    “I’m sure we won’t take much of your time.” Sheila said reassuringly. “We only want to obtain your fingerprints. Oh, and we’d like you to tell us why we found your lipstick in Mr. Kirk’s bathroom.”
    Harmon’s eyes widened. “My… lipstick?” she choked.
    “Yes. Yves St. Laurent. Firehouse Red.” Sheila smiled. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same lipstick you’re wearing now.”
    Harmon’s hand, shaking, went to her mouth. She stood there for a moment, obviously trying to decide what to do. Then blind panic set in and she made a very stupid mistake.
    “I’m not going to jail!” she cried,