Death on a Deadline

secrets, though. Then it hit me. This wasn’t the motive. This was their alibi. And I knew John well enough to know he’d checked their story out thoroughly. If I could verify I was right, I could mark them off the suspect list and narrow the field considerably.
    I glanced at the clock. Almost nine on a Friday night. John and Denise might have already put the kids to bed, but they’d still be up. I could call. Or I could just drop by and show them my new car. A lame excuse maybe, but at least it was an excuse.
    Before I could change my mind, I sped down Liberty Road, past the ruins of Brendan’s house, and peered through the darkness at the hulking shell. This case seemed to have more questions than answers.
    At John and Denise’s, I pulled into the driveway and ran up to the door before I changed my mind.
    Denise answered the door. “Jenna, it’s good to see you.” She hugged me. “ Come in.”
    “I wanted to show y’all my new car.”
    She clapped her hands together. “Oh, goody! We were finishing up the dishes, but that sounds like loads more fun. John!” she called over her shoulder. “Come see Jenna’s new car!”
    John actually had a dishcloth in his hand when he came to the kitchen door. Seeing him at home, out of uniform, made me realize how much I’d hated being on the outs with him. “Hey, John, how’s it going?”
    “Fine. What’s this about a new car?”
    I shrugged. “Well, it’s new to me. Y’all want to come out and see it?”
    We walked together out to the car, where I’d conveniently parked under a streetlight. They ohhed and ahhed over it and patted me on the back. When we got back to the house, Denise turned to me. “Wanna come in for a while?”
    “Sure.” They were bound to be wondering why I was here. As soon as we got in the foyer, I said, “John, I just wanted to talk to you about Byron and Amelia’s alibi.”
    “Jenna?” John rubbed his hand down his face. “You know I can’t answer any questions about that. I’ve told you a thousand times to butt out. Mind. Your. Own. Business.” All of John’s words seemed to start with capital letters these days.
    “John,” Denise gasped. “You can’t talk to Jenna that way. You’ll hurt her feelings.”
    “I don’t have any questions. I have an answer.” I shoved the Luxury Suites brochure into his unwilling hand.
    One look at his face was enough to know I'd guessed right. Amelia and Byron had been living in the lap of Luxury the day Hank died.

Twenty-one

    If Carly had known I’d even considered that Marge might be the murderer, she’d never have agreed to keep Lois occupied while I went to see the widow. But during my sleepless night after I left John and Denise’s, my mind had run the gamut of theories. Maybe Hank was killed because of a land deal gone bad or so Marge could collect the insurance. Then I’d thought about Brendan. The only thing I could see that tied the two murder victims together was the pills. It just made sense to see what Marge could tell me about whatever story Hank was doing.
    We split up with a plan. Carly would go visit Lois and keep her from showing up at Marge’s. My smart-thinking sister even called ahead to make sure Lois stayed home. I, on the other hand, wanted the element of surprise on my side when I confronted Marge.
    So I pulled into Marge’s driveway, killed my motor, and slipped quietly up to the door. And rang the doorbell. I wasn’t going to break in. But as I stood on the porch, I had that feeling of déjà vu all over again. Hopefully the old saying about the third time being a charm was true.
    “Jenna, honey, come in!” She looked genuinely happy to see me. Would she still be glad after she figured out why I was there?
    “Hi, Marge. I just wanted to stop by and check on you.” See if maybe you killed your husband? My throat was so dry I could hardly get my words out.
    “I’m glad you did. I’m doing so much better. Come on in and have a seat.”
    I followed her into the living room and sat down again on the chintz sofa. “You look like you are feeling better.”
    “I really am.”
    “I have a question.”
    “About Dear Pru?”
    Her words jarred loose another wild theory I’d had in the night. “Well, I do have a question about Dear Pru, actually. Is it possible that whoever was Dear Pru before me might have been angry enough about getting fired to kill Hank?”
    “Oh, my, no.” Marge shook her head. “Why would you ask?”
    “Well, it just