An Equal Opportunity Death by Susan Dunlap Page B

important. I had to go back to the city for a couple of weekends straight to settle business. And then Frank was seeing someone else. And we were just friends. Which is all we ever were.”
    “Perhaps you were jealous to come back and find Goulet dating another woman?”
    I forced myself to take a breath before answering. All my fury that he had so skillfully dissipated by his facade of interest was back. It was an effort to keep from shouting. Yet as angry as I was, I was scared too. Scared for the first time. He was not ruling me out as a suspect. I could hardly believe it. Until this very moment I had always believed that the police, and the sheriff, were there to protect me. I was a white, middle-class, thirtyish woman: exactly the type of person the police look after. With the exception of speeding it had never occurred to me to break a law. But Wescott was not dismissing me. He had realized my vulnerability and made use of it, like he’d do with any murder suspect.
    I said, “I was not jealous over Frank. I’m not seventeen. I’ve been married and divorced. I’ve been dating for nearly twenty years. I don’t view a couple of movies and a dinner as a pledge of lifetime devotion. And had it been, I don’t know that I would have wanted it.”
    “What about the woman you assumed Goulet was talking to on the phone? You were mad enough about that to stalk out of the bar.”
    “I was …” I took another breath and started again, calmer. It was one of those things they taught me in “executive school”: never let the client get you rattled, or at least never let him know he’s got you. “I think I explained that yesterday. Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”
    “Not now.” He stood up.
    But I remained seated. I didn’t want to leave him with nothing but my life to ponder. “You said I was the last person at Frank’s. The Chinese Laundry truck was there when I left. Have you checked with them?”
    He sat back down. “We have only your word for that.”
    “Ask the old people across the street. They’re famous for spotting any unusual activity on South Bank Road.”
    “We did. They didn’t see a laundry truck.”
    “What?”
    He waited.
    “Did you check with the laundry? The laundry must have records.” Panic was beginning to be evident in my voice.
    “We’re checking.”
    “What about drugs?”
    He picked up the pen and leaned toward me. “How do you mean?”
    “Suppose Frank was a middleman or someone wanted him to be.”
    “Do you have information you want to give me on that?”
    I wished I did. “Well, no. I just wanted to raise the speculation. There are plenty of drugs around here. It’s not unreasonable to think Frank might have been involved in trafficking drugs. I mean, even the authorities admit they can’t keep up with the marijuana growers to the north, that they just burn their fields for show.”
    “Your point, Miss Haskell.”
    “There are a lot of drugs going through Henderson, and as a bartender and owner, Frank was in a good position to distribute them.”
    “Do you have anything to indicate that he was?”
    “No.”
    “Any reason for suspicion?”
    “Only that he was killed.”
    He sighed. “You can rest assured that we at the sheriff’s department are aware of the drug traffic, perhaps even more aware than you. You may assume that we give it serious consideration in any crime of this nature.”
    I stood up.
    “For the record, Miss Haskell, is there anything more you can tell me?”
    “No.”
    “I assume you will keep yourself available,” he said.
    “I’ll have a lot of free time, at least for the next three days.”
    I walked out quickly, looking at neither the man at the desk nor the wanted posters. Once outside I felt relieved, as if I’d escaped. But my stomach still churned with the midnight terrors. Less than twenty-four hours ago I was a normal, middle-class woman. Since then I had been suspended from my job—a matter that now seemed almost