Blood Ties by Lori G. Armstrong

part of her life ripped away. I rose, giving an impromptu hug, but she stiff ened and stepped back, like I’d given her static shock.

    “Shelley, I’m sorry about Samantha.”
    “Th
    anks.” She moved to the head of the table and tossed a pack of Marlboros down before dropping into the padded chair.

    “We weren’t sure you’d meet with us.”

    “Well, I almost didn’t. Don’t understand why you’re here.” Shelley slapped the unopened pack on her palm, 59
    unwrapped the plastic, tore out the foil and extracted one cigarette.

    Kevin had his lighter out before she’d put it between her lips.
    “Th
    anks.” She blew a stream of smoke and studied me.
    “Don’t know how I can help you. Th
    e cops have already
    been here a couple of times.”

    “I’d like to ask a few questions; they might’ve missed something.”
    “Like
    what?”

    “I don’t know. Th
    at’s why we’re here.”

    “You a reporter now, Julie?”
    “No.”

    Her glance slid to Kevin and back. “A private dick?”

    I wondered how many times he’d heard that witty moniker. “Part-time. Most days I work in the Bear Butte County Sheriff ’s Offi
    ce.”

    “So, you’re a cop.”

    “No,” I repeated the tiresome word. “I’m a secretary.”

    “You getting paid for this?”

    I didn’t answer.

    She said, “Th
    en, why do you care?”

    “Because my brother died in Bear Butte Creek three years ago.”
    “So?”

    “He was a homicide victim. Same as Samantha. I do know the frustration of what it’s like not to have answers.”

    60

    “Answers?” Her sharp, cynical laugh danced on the edge of maniacal. “What answers? She’s dead. End of story.” Hand shaking, she plucked at the pocket of the faded fl annel shirt, hanging on her frame like a discarded fl our sack. “Th
    ere ain’t an answer in the world that’ll bring her back.” She glanced up and scoff ed, “Or your brother.”

    Apparently Shelley responded better to anger than tea and sympathy. Good. Th
    at I could handle. If I got past her mistrust, maybe I’d get through her defenses, and this ugly business would just go away. “Sucks, doesn’t it? Won’t get any better either. So, why don’t you tell me about her?”

    A resigned sigh gusted from her chapped lips. “Like what? Her favorite color? Her friends?”

    “No, tell me about the Samantha you knew.”

    She reached for the ashtray, dumping in the discarded wrappers. Th
    e plastic melted, the foil caught fi re. She watched it burn before looking at me again. Melancholy fi lled her eyes, her voice tinged with pride. “Sam was great.
    A good kid. Responsible, sweet, never caused me a minute’s worry. We got along all right, had a few normal mother and daughter fi ghts, but nothing major.”

    “What about your other children?”

    “She got along with them most of the time, better with Meredith. She didn’t have much chance to be a kid, though. I counted on her.” Shelley spoke directly to the tip of her smoke, and little bits of ash swirled down like dirty snowfl akes with her every expelled breath. “Most nights 61
    I’d pass out and she’d have to cook, do laundry, and take care of Meredith and RJ.”

    “Did she resent that?”

    “Sometimes. Didn’t complain much, and if she did it wasn’t to me.”

    “Would she complain to Dick?”

    “Maybe, if he was home, which wasn’t often.”

    “Didn’t he help out when you were . . .” I fumbled for the right word. “Incapacitated?”

    Shelley coughed up a nasty bit of phlegm disguised as a laugh. I took it as a sign to quit smoking before I started hacking up chunks of lung in public.

    “Don’t sugarcoat it,” she said. “I’m a drunk. Been a drunk most of my life. Dick got tired of it early on in our marriage. Besides, his idea of helping out was bringing home a regular paycheck.”

    “He never took care of the kids?”

    “Never. Not his job.” She leaned over and ground out her half smoked cigarette. “You