Death on a Deadline

gone?”
    Carly put her hand to her mouth and bit back a choking cough. I ignored her.
    Amelia was quiet for a few seconds, and I was afraid she was going to tell me to mind my own business, but when she spoke, her voice was soft. “It was like winning the lottery. Or at least it would be, if Marge would allow me back into her life.”
    Carly made a cutting motion across her neck, but I averted my gaze from her and took the big plunge. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
    “My stars, honey. How would I know? Hank had more enemies than a Saks Fifth Avenue has dressing rooms.”
    Carly stood and motioned frantically to me that we needed to go.
    I ignored her. “Byron must have hated Hank, as well.”
    Amelia pulled the towel back from her eyes, and Carly froze in mid-motion. “Hank put Byron through hell. But Byron didn’t kill him.” Every ounce of ditzy blond was gone as Amelia leveled a steely gaze on me. “And, believe me, Jenna Stafford, if you try to pin it on him, you’ll be sorry.”
    Carly latched onto my arm. “Amelia, it’s been nice talking to you. I hope you and Marge work things out. Mama’s got the twins, and we have to go.” She tossed an artificial laugh over her shoulder, as she shoved me out of the room. “Can’t be late for our curfew.”
    As soon as we were back in the locker room, I swung around to glare at Carly. “Why did you do that? She was spilling her guts.”
    “Oh, yeah. I could see that.” Carly met my glare and added a touch of sarcasm to her own. “In between threatening to spill your guts if you don’t butt out.”
    “She didn’t say that.” I snatched up a towel and headed for the showers.
    “Jenna, maybe you need to rethink the whole ‘common sense’ requirement of that newspaper ad. What part of ‘you’ll be sorry’ do you not understand?”
    I spun to face her. “Car, I just want to clear Zac.”
    Carly’s shoulders slumped. “So do I. But you scare me. You have to be more careful.”
    “If you would help me, then you could keep me out of trouble.”
    Carly laughed. “Nice try, sis. It would take an army to keep you out of trouble once you set your head to playing detective.”
    “But you’ll help me?”
    “Was there ever any doubt?” Carly brushed past me and headed for the showers.

    *****

    Déjà vu. Standing outside Marge’s door with food. Again. I nervously clutched the pot of Carly’s cheesy Mexican broccoli soup. Too bad Mama wasn’t with me to make sure I said the right thing. Maybe the food would speak louder than words. Carly and I figured the funeral fare had either been eaten or ruined by now. With only herself to feed, Marge could heat this up one bowlful at a time.
    Footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor and the ornate door creaked open. “Jenna, honey, come in.” Her kiss on my cheek enveloped me in the sweet scent of spearmint. I returned her embrace, shocked by how fragile she felt. As if a hug would crush her.
    “How are you?”
    “Okay, I guess. Hasn’t sunk in yet, I don’t think.” This was a much more subdued, less manic Marge than when we’d brought food before the funeral. Dark circles underlined her bloodshot eyes, and when she brushed her hair back from her face with a trembling hand, a stray tear splashed down her face. “Why would someone do such a thing to Hank?”
    Motive wasn’t a problem. I could think of five reasons right off the top of my head why someone would kill Hank, but those aren’t the things you share with grieving widows. So I shrugged. “It’s a strange world out there.” I patted her arm awkwardly. Carly is so much better at this than I am. I should have let her skip the funeral and come here with me instead. How did I miss out on the sympathetic, knowing-just-what-to-say gene?
    Life’s not fair.
    And that sad fact was even more evident when Marge and I sat down in the darkened living room. The quiet of the house covered us like a blanket. No football playing on the TV or local news blasting from the radio. No Hank calling for a glass of tea. No wonder Marge was going bananas.
    “Are you sleeping well?”
    She twisted a tissue in her hands. “Not really.”
    “Can’t you get Doc Brown to give you something?” I remembered how much perkier she’d been when we’d come over with food before the funeral. I’d thought she’d acted weird then, and maybe under the influence, but now in my humble, nonmedical opinion, a little more of whatever she’d been