D Is for Deadbeat

the edges, as if she'd been eating Oreo cookies. Her cold must have been at its worst. Her forehead was lined and her eyes half squinted, like a magazine ad for sinus medication. Her nose was so stopped up she was forced to breathe through her mouth. In spite of all that, she managed to smoke, lighting up a Virginia Slim the minute we sat down.
    "You should be home in bed," I said, and then wondered why I'd suggested such a thing. Billy and Lovella were currently back there groveling around on the floor, probably causing the trailer to thump on its foundations. Who could sleep with that stuff going on?
    Coral put her cigarette down and took out a Kleenex to blow her nose. I've always wondered where people learn their nose-blowing techniques. She favored the double-digit method, placing a tissue over her hands, sticking the knuckles on both index fingers up her nostrils, rotating them vigorously after each honk. I kept my eyes averted until she was done, wondering idly if she was aware of Lovella's current whereabouts.
    "What's the story on Lovella? She seemed distraught at the funeral."
    Coral paused in her endeavors and looked at me. Belatedly, I realized she probably didn't know what the word distraught meant. I could see her put the definition together.
    "She's fine. She had no idea they weren't legally married to each other. That's why she fell apart. Freaked her out." She gave her nose a final Roto-rooting and took up her cigarette again with a sniff.
    "You'd think she'd be relieved," I said. "From what I hear, he beat the shit out of her."
    "Not at first. She was crazy about him when he first got out. Still is, actually."
    "That's probably why she called him the world's biggest asshole at the funeral," I remarked.
    Coral looked at me for a moment and then shrugged noncommittally. She was smarter than Billy, but not by much. I had the same feeling here that I'd had with him. I was tapping into a matter they'd hoped to bury, but I didn't know enough to pursue the point.
    I tried fishing. "I thought Lovella and Billy had a thing at one time."
    "Years ago. When she was seventeen. Doesn't count for shit."
    "She told me Billy set her up with Daggett."
    "Yeah, more or less. He talked to Daggett about her and Daggett wrote and asked if they could be pen pals."
    "Too bad he never mentioned his wife," I said. "I do want to talk to Lovella, so when you see her please tell her to get in touch." I gave her a business card with my office number on it, which she acknowledged with a shrug.
    "I won't see Lovella," she said.
    "That's what you think," said I.
    Coral's attention strayed to the bartender who was holding a finger aloft. "Hang on."
    She crossed to the bar where she picked up a couple of mixed drinks and delivered them to the one other table that was occupied. I tried to picture her flipping Daggett backwards out of a rowboat, but I couldn't quite make it stick. She fit the description, but there was something missing.
    When she got back to the booth, I held up the high heels. "These yours?"
    "I don't wear suede," she said flatly.
    I loved it. Like suede was against her personal dress code. "What about the skirt?"
    She took a final drag of the cigarette and crushed it in the metal ashtray, blowing out a mouthful of smoke. "Nope. Whose is it?"
    "I think the blonde who killed Daggett wore it Friday night. Billy says she picked him up in here."
    Belatedly, she focused on the skirt. "Yeah, that's right. I saw her," she said, as if cued.
    "Does this look like the skirt she wore?"
    "It could be."
    "You know who she is?"
    "Uh-uh."
    "I don't mean to be rude about this, Coral, but I could use a little help. We're talking murder."
    "I've been all tore up about it too," she said, bored.
    "Don't you give a shit about any of this?"
    "Are you kidding? Why should I care about Daggett? He was scum."
    "What about the blonde? Do you remember anything about her?"
    Coral shook another cigarette out of the pack. "Why don't you give it a rest, kid. You don't have the right to ask us any of this shit. You're not a cop."
    "I can ask anything I want," I said, mildly. "I can't force you to answer, but I can always ask."
    She stirred with agitation, shifting in her seat. "Know what? I don't like you," she said. "People like you make me sick."
    "Oh really. People like what?"
    She took her time extracting a paper match from a packet, scratching the tip across the striking area until it flared. She lit her cigarette. The match made a tiny tinkling