Full Frontal Murder by Barbara Paul Page B

night.”
    Rita sighed. “That’s true.” Bobby had crawled under an end table that looked like an exhibit from the Museum of Modern Art, playing hide-and-seek with himself.
    â€œBut accomplices … that’s another matter. We have a line on one of them, the Palmero woman. And we have the face of the other, the man you described for the computer portrait. And you seem well protected here.” Marian glanced over at Bobby’s guard. “What agency are you with?”
    â€œVinni Security,” he said.
    Marian nodded. A reliable rent-a-cop outfit; no elderly retirees armed with guns they could barely lift. “Mrs. Galloway, I’d like you to consider seriously the possibility that your husband isn’t behind this.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Of course he’s behind it! How can you—”
    â€œPlease, hear me out. Your husband’s feeling as beleagured as you are, and you’re both accusing the other of being responsible for what’s happening.”
    Rita Galloway made a sound of disgust. “Hugh wasn’t the one who was firebombed last night!” Then she suddenly remembered Bobby was there and jerked her head around to see if he was listening.
    The boy was paying no attention to them; he was too busy trying to pull open a shallow drawer in the art museum end table. “It’s stuck,” he complained.
    â€œNo, Bobby,” his mother said. “It’s locked.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œUncle Alex always keeps it locked.”
    â€œOh. Okay.” Back to being a choo-choo.
    Rita returned her attention to what Marian had been saying. “Look, I know how convincing he can be. I fell for his line once myself. But I’m telling you—”
    â€œMrs. Galloway, please listen. We have to investigate the possibility that an outsider is responsible.” Marian’s eyes traveled back to the locked end table drawer. “It might even be someone you know.” The other woman frowned. “He’s made two attempts. I’d like you to think over all the people you know—not just your friends but casual acquaintances and enemies too, if you have any. Try to isolate those who need money, those who might want to hurt you.” The end table drawer was shallow, not more than four inches deep.
    â€œExcuse me, Lieutenant, but that would be a waste of time. I know who’s responsible.”
    What could be kept in a drawer that shallow? A few papers. A gun . Marian raised her voice and said, “Bobby?”
    He peeked out at her from behind a sofa.
    â€œBobby, that drawing of the cow you made? I really would like to see that. Will you show it to me?”
    His face lit up. “Sure!” He ran out of the room, followed by his guard.
    Marian stood up and walked over to the end table. “Quickly, Mrs. Galloway. What’s in the drawer?”
    â€œOh, well, ah, this is Alex’s place—”
    â€œAnswer the question. Is there a gun in there?”
    Rita Galloway slumped. “Alex got it for me. I refused to take it—I didn’t want a gun in the house with Bobby. But after what happened last night, I’ve changed my mind. Oh, it’s legal—Alex has a permit.”
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œAh … in the drawer with the gun, I believe.”
    â€œLet me see it.”
    Rita got up and moved over to something hanging on the wall that looked like a comet with a long tail; only then did Marian realize it was a clock. Rita reached behind the clock and took out a key.
    In the drawer was a .38 revolver and a box of shells, resting on top of a piece of paper. Marian slid the permit out and read it; it was in order, licensing Alex Fairchild to keep a weapon at his place of habitation. “This permit was issued only two weeks ago.”
    â€œYes. Alex had no reason to think I was in danger before that.”
    â€œWhat if Bobby finds the key?”
    â€œLieutenant, we just