A Bookmarked Death by Judi Culbertson

from The Three Bears . I had never liked the rubbery cloth feeling of the inside and had rarely used mine. They looked nearly new.
    Olson extended his hand and gave me a questioning look.
    I shrugged.
    The agent leaned over and picked up the pair that had been mine, then held them aloft as if he were examining a kitten by the scruff of its neck. The mustard-yellow tread of the soles still shone and the bottoms were clean and dry. A few bands of dirt were held in the ridges, but they looked ancient. One even had a stalk of grass sticking halfway out.
    He turned to me. “Yours?”
    I nodded, though it was possible they were Jane’s last pair. Hannah had her boots at Cornell, explaining that they came in handy for examining barnyard animals.
    Agent Olson reached for the largest pair and held them up in the same way. These treads were different from mine. They were clogged with fresh mud.
    I must have gasped.
    “Mind if we take these?” he asked. I noticed that his round cheeks were slightly flushed, but that could have been from the cooler outside air.
    What could I say? What I should have said was that they weren’t mine and I had no right to give permission, that they should either ask Colin or get a warrant. They might actually be Jason’s last pair from high school, though that hardly mattered. He was in New Mexico and hadn’t worn them lately.
    Yet even if I had been smart enough to refuse, they had seen the boots, seen the new dirt for themselves. It would only be putting off the inevitable. I had a whirlwind image of myself refusing and when they were gone washing and cleaning the boots with a toothbrush, replacing the mud with dirt from around the property. But even as the thought flitted across my mind, I knew I wouldn’t do it. With all their high-tech equipment, they probably would be able to tell and I would fall under suspicion myself.
    Detective Carew produced a plastic square from her tan leather bag. She shook it out until it became magically larger and larger and turned into a sack large enough to hold a pair of green rubber boots.
    “But what about the firebug?” I asked. “The paper said there was another fire in the neighborhood last month.”
    “There was,” Olson said quickly. He had let Carew handle most of the interview, but arson was his area. “We believe it was set for the insurance. The owner is swimming in debt.”
    “Oh.” In my mind, the door to my fire escape route clanged shut. “But wouldn’t it have been easier just to sell the house?”
    Olson shook his head. “The contents were insured for three million. Except that he removed them first.”
    “We have a choice,” Detective Carew interrupted, back in charge again. Her voice was tense. “I can leave Agent Olson here while I try and find your husband, to make certain the interview isn’t tainted. Or we can leave you in peace if you tell us you won’t contact him yourself.”
    “You don’t want me to warn him.”
    “Actually, I have a better idea. Why don’t you call him and see where he is? Then we’ll go talk to him.”
    Wasn’t that entrapment? Once more I had the choice of cooperating with the inevitable or doing something that would create suspicion. “My phone’s inside.”
    The detective reached into her pocket. “Use mine.”
    I started to say that Colin wouldn’t recognize the number and answer, but that was not true. When he was available, Colin always picked up. He was a man used to expecting good news, even with his poetic star in abeyance. I remembered the excitement when Voices We Don’t Want to Hear had been shortlisted for the Pulitzer—that had been how many years ago?
    I took her BlackBerry and punched in the number I knew by heart.
    “Colin Fitzhugh.” He sounded more formal than usual.
    “Where are you?”
    “Home. Delhi? Where are you ? Why did this strange number come up?”
    I was surprised at how relieved I was to hear his voice. Not dead in a car crash, not on the lam, just a little