Taking Out the Trash. Tristi Inc. Pinkston

Estelle’s nerves on edge.

      “You’re going to break a tooth doing that.”

      “Already have. But I’ve got good dental insurance. Now, you know what? It sounds to me like Beckham killed Caldwell and is pinning the whole thing on Andrew because he’s mad Andrew changed offices and did that whole ratting-him-out thing.”

      “I’ve wondered that too.”

      The two ladies sat in silence for a moment. “You know what we should do?” Vera asked after a few minutes.

      “Get out the rest of the cheesecake?”

      “Well, yes, but there’s more. You aren’t just going to sit there and take this lying down, are you?”

      “It’s impossible to sit and lie down at the same time.”

      “I’m going to ignore your randomly placed grammar lesson and make my point. We should investigate.”

      Estelle fixed her friend with a look. Vera got the strangest ideas sometimes, and she wasn’t above dragging Estelle along for the ride. But there was quite a difference between going toilet papering in the middle of the night—which she had to admit, was actually kind of fun—and investigating a murder.

      “What are you saying, Vera? You want us to play CSI and solve this thing?”

      “I’m saying that if the police are eager to pin this on Sam and Andrew, maybe we should do what we can to make them a little less eager.”

      Estelle thought about it for a minute. It was only lack of evidence keeping Sam out of jail, and Andrew was already in it. “I don’t know what we could do,” she said. “How could we possibly investigate this?”

      “You have watched every lawyer show and crime drama on TV since the television was invented, and I’ve read every mystery novel written since the formation of the alphabet. There’s something to be said for being as old as we are.”

      Estelle didn’t bother to point out the very glaring fact that television and novels are fiction, and they were dealing with real life. She also didn’t point out that sixty-four hardly qualified her for antique status because she knew Vera would just argue with her, and there was no way to win an argument with Vera.

      “All right,” she said at long last. “What should we do first?”

      “I don’t know, Mom,” Andrew said. His hair was rumpled and he looked ridiculous, wearing a jumpsuit that was two sizes too big. He hadn’t been taken to the large county jail yet, but was still being processed downtown. Estelle was glad for that—she had the chance to talk to him before he was taken even further away, and she could sit across a table from him to talk and didn’t have to use a phone. She feared it was only a matter of time, though, and wondered how tacky it would be to wear rubber gloves to the visiting room. He lowered his voice and leaned forward a little. “I’m not sure you should look into this.”

      “Are they feeding you regularly?” she asked. “Your blood sugar’s fine, isn’t it?”

      He waved her question away. “They have a nurse here. Now, we’re talking about you and Vera. You may think you’re today’s version of Cagney and Lacey, but you’re not, Mom. You’re too old and your hair’s not poofy enough.”

      “Thanks. I think. Listen, we only have a few more minutes. Tell me where to start looking. Who should I talk to first?”

      Andrew pushed his hair out of his face. “You can’t get into the senators’ offices. No way, no how. Civilians prowling around—especially the mothers and next-door-neighbors of a person arrested for murder—no. But you could probably...okay, I think I have it.”

      “What?” Estelle leaned forward, ready to hear his idea.

      “You could go volunteer at campaign headquarters. I know the guy who oversees the volunteers, and he could get you right in.”

      “I don’t think I should use your name when I call him, though,” Estelle said. “We should keep your name out of this.”

      “True,” Andrew said. “But at least you’ll know who to talk to.”

      “How will volunteering at headquarters help you and your father?” Estelle asked.

      “A lot of the people at the headquarters are also over at the office from time to time, or know the same people,” Andrew explained. “Remember how I told you I’d been working in both places?”

      She nodded. “Okay, we’ll go volunteer. And son...there’s one more thing. Let’s not mention this to your father, all right? He’s so protective, and I don’t want him to worry...”

      “You mean you don’t want him to stop you.”

      “Yes, that too.”

      “I don’t understand, Mom. Why not just let the police work this out? I didn’t do it, and Dad didn’t do it. They’ll figure that out eventually and we’ll be off the hook.”

      Estelle had asked herself that very question no less than a hundred times in the two hours since Vera had suggested it. She gave Andrew the answer she had finally distilled for herself. “Because, Andrew, for the first time in my life, I’m afraid I can’t trust the police.”