Four Blind Mice

than he’d expected. Not movie-star beautiful, but there was something about her that drew his attention and held it. She was wearing baggy khaki shorts with a black T-shirt and was barefoot.
    “Well, you certainly picked a nice day for a visit,” she said, and smiled. Nice smile too. She was tiny, though — probably only five feet tall — and he doubted that she weighed much more than a hundred pounds.
    “Oh, it isn’t like this every day?” Sampson asked, and managed a smile himself. He was still recovering from being surprised by Mrs. Houston as he mounted her creaking, wooden porch steps.
    “Actually,” she said, “there are a lot of days like this one here. I’m Billie Houston. But, of course, you knew that.” She put out her hand. It was warm and soft in his, and small.
    He held her hand a little longer than he’d meant to. Now why had he done that? He supposed it was partly because of what she’d been through. Mrs. Houston’s husband had been executed nearly two years earlier, and she’d proclaimed his innocence loudly and clearly until the end, and then some. The story felt familiar. Or maybe it was because there was something about the woman’s ready smile that made him feel comfortable. She impressed him about as much as the town and the fine weather had. He liked her immediately. Nothing not to like. Not so far, anyway.
    “Why don’t we walk and talk on the beach,” she suggested. “You might want to take off your shoes and socks first. You’re a city boy, right?”

Chapter 50
    SAMPSON DID AS he was told. No reason the murder investigation, this interview anyway, couldn’t have a few nice perks. The sand felt warm and good against his bare feet as he followed her down the length of the big house, then up and over a tall, broad dune covered with white sand and waving beach grass.
    “Your house sure is something else,” he said. “Beautiful doesn’t begin to do it justice.”
    “I think so,” she said, and turned to look back at him with a smile. “Of course, this isn’t my house. My place is a couple of blocks inland. One of the small beach bungalows you passed driving in. I house-sit for the O’Briens while Robert and Kathy are in Fort Lauderdale for the winter.”
    “That’s not such bad duty,” he said. Actually, it sounded like a great deal to him.
    “No, it’s not bad at all.” She quickly changed the subject. “You wanted to talk to me about my late husband, Detective. Do you want to tell me why you’re here? I’ve been on pins and needles since you called. Why did you want to see me? What do you know about my husband’s case?”
    “Pins and needles?” Sampson asked. “Who says ‘pins and needles’ anymore?”
    She laughed. “I guess
I
do. It just came out. Dates and locates me, right? I grew up on a sharecropper’s farm in Alabama, outside Montgomery. Not giving you the date. So
why
are you here, Detective?”
    They had started down a sandy hill sloping toward the ocean, which was all rich blues and greens and creamy foam. It was unbelievable — hardly a soul up or down the shoreline. All of these gorgeous houses, practically mansions, and nobody around but the seagulls.
    As they walked north he told Mrs. Houston about his friend Ellis Cooper and what had happened at Fort Bragg. He decided not to tell her about the other murders of military men.
    “He must have been a very good friend,” she said when Sampson had finished talking. “You’re obviously not giving up easily.”
    “I
can’t
give up. He was one of the best friends I ever had. We spent three years in Vietnam together. He was the first older male in my life who wasn’t just out for himself. You know, the father I never had.”
    She nodded, but didn’t pry. Sampson liked that. He still couldn’t get over how petite she was. He had the thought that he could have carried her around under his arm.
    “The other thing is, Mrs. Houston, I am totally convinced that Ellis Cooper was innocent of those murders. Call it a sixth sense, or whatever, but I’m sure of it. He told me so just before they executed him. I can’t get past that. I just can’t.”
    She sighed, and he could see the pain on her face. He could tell she hadn’t gotten over her husband’s death and how it had happened, but she still hadn’t intruded on his story. That was interesting. She was obviously very considerate.
    He stopped walking, and so did she.
    “What’s the matter?” she finally asked.
    “You don’t