“Pulling up now. Any idea why my daughter has been crying?” She could hear the stuffiness of her nose in her voice, and she’d learned long ago the difference between allergies and sorrow.
“No. She wouldn’t tell us, but I have my suspicions.”
“And?”
“It’s nothing I can elaborate on at the moment.”
“Talk in a sec.” She hung up and put the cruiser in park.
“Ten minutes, then I’m doing the thing,” Quincy said, referring to their everlasting plan to break away from work when they were hungry. The plan was also ever-evolving, so there was no telling what Quince would come up with.
Sun grabbed her stomach as it gurgled yet again. “Make it five.”
He gave her a thumbs-up. They walked into the station to see the group of women, otherwise known as the Book Babes, in the lobby. Before Anita could let them into the bullpen, they came to the security door en masse and stood at the glass like desperate shoppers waiting for the doors to open on Black Friday.
“I’ll let them in,” Quince said, walking to the door.
Sun headed to her office for a quick pick-me-up in the form of a steaming cup of java. Once there, she scrounged for the energy bar she’d stashed only to realize what Quincy meant earlier. He’d taken the last one. Or, well, borrowed it, though she could say in all honesty she didn’t want it back. She sank into her chair, disappointment and day-old tequila gnawing a hole into her stomach.
After a fierce membership drive, the Book Babes had recently upped their numbers from six to seven, but only four showed up at her office. They spilled inside, thanking Quincy—some more profusely than others—and chittering amongst themselves as they stopped in front of her desk. After they formed a straight line, Darlene Tapia put the basket of muffins on her desk, then greeted her with a solemn, “Sheriff.”
Sun scooted up in the chair and eyed them suspiciously. The women and the muffins. Hunger won out. She scooped one up and started peeling off the plastic wrap. “What’s up?”
Apparently having been appointed their spokeswoman, Darlene, a curvy Latina with more salt than pepper, cleared her throat and said, “We’re here on official business.”
Here we go. Sun rubbed her forehead, then tucked a strand of blond hair that had fallen from her French braid behind her ear. “Did you guys attack Doug and stab him in the neck with a knitting needle?”
They turned and questioned each other for a split second before three of their gazes landed on the spitfire known as Wanda Stephanopoulos.
Wanda stood a head shorter than the others, her frame rail thin but strong, her silver pixie tipped with hot pink. She gaped at her friends who were currently throwing her under a bus. “What? I didn’t stab Doug this time. I swear.”
“This time?” Sun asked before realizing she didn’t want to know. She raised a palm to thwart any explanation coming her way. “Look, Doug is sitting in urgent care with a knitting needle sticking out of his neck. Or at least he was a few hours ago. He said a gang attacked him.”
“A gang of knitters?” Darlene asked.
“Right?” Feeling strangely vindicated for the shade she’d thrown Doug, Sun nodded in agreement at her mother’s oldest and dearest. She rarely shared information about an ongoing case, but if anyone knew who might stab a man with a knitting needle in this town, it was one of the four women standing before her. “Any thoughts on who could’ve done it?”
Three of them glanced at each other again and shrugged, but the fourth dropped her gaze to study the dark blue carpet beneath her feet.
So easy.
Sun didn’t know Karen Oxley as well as she knew the others. She’d grown up surrounded by her mother’s friends, but Karen had moved to Del Sol after Sun had moved away. Karen, the youngest in the group, was the football coach’s wife and seemed to be well-liked. Maybe she had a dark side nobody knew about. Rather like the toast her daughter had tried to pawn off on her the other day. The toast she’d served smothered in butter, beige-side up.
After a quick bite, Sun had gagged and lifted it to look at the solid black underside. “How did you only burn one side?” she had asked the copper-headed fruit of her loins.
Her daughter leaned toward her over the counter and gave her a saucy wink before saying, “Skill, baby. Pure skill.”
“Mrs. Oxley?” Sun nudged, suppressing a grin at the memory.
The other three women turned their heads to stare at their spiky-haired friend. “Karen?” Darlene said. “Did you stab Doug in the neck with your knitting needle?”
“What, no!” Her gaze flew to Sun’s. “No, Sunshine, I didn’t. I would never. But I may have overheard someone the other day say something … oddly specific to what you’ve described.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Sun sank back into her chair. “And who would that someone be?”
“Well, I’m not sure … I mean…” Karen hedged, shifting from one foot to the other like a second-grader in the principal’s office. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”
Sun swallowed the bite she took before asking, “Okay, then how about what you overheard?”
“Oh, of course. I was at Bernadette’s getting my lowlights done and I heard Mrs.… one of Del Sol’s most upstanding citizens, state that if Doug flashes her again, she was going to stab him in the throat with her favorite knitting needle.”
“Wow. That is oddly specific.”
“Yes. Bernadette asked why not his penis, and she said she wouldn’t touch that old thing with a ten-foot pole, much less her favorite knitting needle.”
Sun fought a grin. “If it helps,” she said, trying to coax more out of her, “I’m fairly certain it was self-defense. I doubt the perpetrator will even be arrested.” Unless, of course, it was premeditated. That could wrinkle a few collars.
“In that case…” Karen paused as though considering her options, then barreled ahead with, “Mrs. Fairborn.” She dropped her head in shame as everyone gaped at her. “It was Mrs. Fairborn.”
“Karen,” Wanda said, “you can’t honestly suggest that Mrs. Fairborn—”
“No. Not at all. I mean, she couldn’t, right?” Her gaze darted back to Sun. “She’s too small. Too frail. Too…”
“Too eighty-something?” Darlene asked.
“Yes.”
After getting to know Mrs. Fairborn on a more personal level recently, Sun figured she could do anything she set her mind to, but even Sun doubted the woman capable of sinking a knitting needle with two pointy ends four inches into Doug’s sun-dried neck. “I highly doubt Mrs. Fairborn could manage to stab Doug with a knitting needle, but I’ll check into it, hon.”
Karen pressed her mouth together and nodded, clearly guilt-ridden for ratting out her friend.
“So, what’s this official business?” Sun asked, leaning forward onto her elbows and clasping her fingers together.
Darlene took the lead again. “If you’ll remember, we’ve decided to write a book.”
Sun nodded. “Oh, right.” It was all coming back to her.
“A mystery,” Karen added.