His Only Defense. Carolyn McSparren

carried his paunch in front of him like a baby bump. Why were they not the ones reopening the investigation? Did they think he’d respond better to a woman?

      In her case, they might be right. He’d liked her forthright hazel eyes, and the brown locks she pulled back in what his daughter called a scrunchie. Made him want to ease if off and find out what she looked like with her hair down. He’d also be willing to give his business partner, Trip Weichert, good odds that there wasn’t a single drop of silicone in what Trip would call her “rack.” Nice rack, too. Just about the right size to fit into the palms of his hands.

      Altogether a very beddable specimen. If he were in the market, and if bedding a detective wasn’t about the most dangerous notion he’d ever had.

      She must have felt his eyes on her because she looked up, saw him, folded the paper and set it beside her cup. No welcoming smile, however. Very serious lady.

      They greeted each other, but she didn’t offer to shake hands. He sat opposite her, and before he spoke, Bella, his regular waitress, put a cup of coffee in front of him. “Morning, Jud. Your usual?” she said.

      “Did you order?” he asked Liz.

      “Yeah, she did,” Bella answered, and turned back toward the kitchen.

      “I don’t think she approves of me,” Liz murmured.

      “She doesn’t approve of anybody that hasn’t been eating here for at least ten years.”

      Liz took a business card out of her pocket and shoved it across the table. “This is my extension and my cell phone. If you need to speak to me, don’t hesitate to call.”

      “You mean if I want to confess?”

      “I didn’t say that. You might think of something you didn’t tell the other detectives. So, shall we get down to it while we wait?”

      Jud shrugged. “You’ve undoubtedly read the files. I don’t have anything to tell you that wasn’t in them.”

      “Humor me. For example, why was your wife driving home by herself at eight o’clock at night?”

      “Sylvia was branch vice president of the Marquette National Bank. She usually worked late on Friday nights. The bank stays open until seven on Fridays, then she made certain whatever bankers do after hours got done.”

      “You don’t know?”

      “Not precisely, no. She liked working alone after everyone left. She wasn’t a morning person, so she didn’t go in to work early. She blamed it on her internal clock.”

      “Your daughter wasn’t home?”

      “She was spending the night with my in-laws. She frequently does that on Friday and Saturday nights. They live in Germantown.” He grinned. “That means closer to malls and movies.”

      “She was only seven?”

      “At that age she conned her grandmother into shopping and the latest Disney.”

      “I’m speaking to Mrs. Richardson later this morning.”

      That sounded vaguely like a threat. “Irene will tell you the same thing, Miz Gibson.” But Herb wouldn’t. She’d get a real earful if he was home.

      Bella plopped a big glass of iced tea down in front of the detective and filled Jud’s coffee mug. They waited until she was out of earshot again.

      “Listen, do you mind if we switch to first names? Seems more informal,” Liz said.

      Jud was a bit surprised. “Sure. I’m Jud.”

      “And they call me Liz that do speak of me.”

      “Certainly not Liz the cursed?”

      She laughed—the first time he’d heard her laugh. He loved it. A Shakespeare-quoting detective with a laugh like warm honey, and a smile that would melt icebergs in the Bering Strait. It definitely melted him, and warmed parts of his body that he’d rather keep dormant, thank you very much. He’d known she was dangerous, but not this dangerous.

      “Certainly not the prettiest Liz in Christendom,” she said.

      “Who says?”

      The silence was deafening, the look lasted too long and the connection was too sudden. She broke eye contact first, stirred two packets of artificial sweetener into her tea, squeezed the lemon and drank greedily. He did the same with his coffee and burned the roof of his mouth.

      “Uh, what’d you fix?”

      “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

      “The file says you cooked dinner that night. What’d you fix?”

      No one in all those hours of interrogation and interview had asked him that. “It was seven years ago.”

      “Come on, Jud, you might not remember what you had for dinner last night, but I’ll bet you remember the menu that night.”

      As a matter of fact he did. The other detectives had asked him why he was the one doing the cooking, but not the menu. He took a breath as though trying to remember, then said, “I picked up a roast chicken at the grocery on the way home from the job I was working. And some fresh asparagus.”

      “Expensive in November.”

      He shrugged. “Sylvia liked it. I poached it in chicken stock until it was just crunchy, and thawed some brown rice in the microwave. I make it in big batches and freeze it in portions. Takes forty-five minutes to an hour to steam from scratch and only ten minutes to heat up in the microwave. That’s it.”

      “What about rolls?”

      He shook his head. “Two starches at one meal.”

      “Dessert?”

      Again he shook his head. “Watching our weight. Sylvia never has a problem, but I have to be careful.”

      “To drink?”

      “We’d opened a bottle of pinot grigio the night before and stashed the rest in the refrigerator. There was enough left for a couple of glasses each. I poured myself one when Sylvia called to tell me she was on her way.”

      “Then?”

      “There was boxing on Showtime. I sat down to watch it. I’d been out on the site most of the day in the cold rain, so that one glass of wine put me right to sleep. The boxing must have been boring. I really don’t remember who was fighting, but it wasn’t a championship match or anything. When I finally woke up, I realized Sylvia wasn’t home yet. It was nearly midnight.”

      “What did you do?”

      “Tried her cell phone. No answer. There are a couple of places along that road where you can’t get decent reception, particularly during bad weather. I figured she’d had a flat or something and couldn’t reach me. I dashed some cold water on my face to wake up, grabbed my coat and headed out to find her.”

      Bella slapped down two plates in front of them. Jud’s held at least three eggs, bacon and wheat toast. Liz’s held a toasted English muffin.

      Jud might worry about his waistline, although Liz couldn’t see that he had any problems in that department. Obviously he wasn’t bothered about cholesterol. She wished she’d indulged in at least an omelet or an order of bacon.

      His answers had been interesting. He’d said Sylvia has, not had. Did he really believe she was still alive, or had he coached himself to use the present tense?

      Liz would be willing to bet nobody had ever asked him what he’d cooked for dinner. The original detectives, Sherman and Lee, whose names had no doubt given rise to a million jokes during their partnership, were both middle-aged, had probably been horrified to find that Jud did the cooking for his family and had abandoned the subject.

      He could have fixed the entire meal in ten minutes, leaving more than enough time to commit the killing and