Killing Custer by Margaret Coel

law practice that he couldn’t get done during the day with the phone ringing and people dropping by.
    She called the office. “You’ve reached the law offices of Skip Burrows, attorney at law.” It was her own voice. She tapped the off button again and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
    How many times had the general stopped by? Two? Three? Never an appointment. “My buddy Skip in?” he’d say, and Skip would appear in the doorway and beckon the man into his private office. Everybody in town knew they could stop in and chat with Skip whenever the notion struck them. Coffee always hot. But the general wasn’t a townie. She had no idea where he came from, only that he would show up from time to time.
    Angela drove through the residential street, swung right, and worked her way down the block toward the white-painted brick building that faced Main Street. They had argued, Skip and the general, the last time Garrett had dropped by. Tuesday? Wednesday? She used to jot the names of drop-ins in the appointment book, until Skip told her not to bother.
    She turned into the parking lot behind the building and pulled into the vacant spot with Burrows Law Firm painted on the curb. Skip’s slot next to her was empty. Odd, she thought. He was always in the office before she arrived.
    She got out into the warm breeze that swept across the pavement. Sunlight bounced off the chrome on the other parked cars. A new thought hit her, rose out of nowhere, and she knew it was part of the uneasiness she had been trying to ignore: Where had Skip gone last night after he’d left her? The ex-girlfriend’s place in Riverton, Deborah something? A little pain sliced through her. She wanted to trust him. Why didn’t she trust him? She fixed the strap of her bag across her shoulder and tried to steady her footsteps on the pavement, images of Skip floating ahead. Dark blond hair tousled on her pillow, sleep-logged eyes blinking at her, the slow smile when he said “Good morning, beautiful.” Oh God, she loved the man.
    The back door swung open as she reached for the knob. She had to swerve sideways as Bob Peters, the accountant across the hall, plunged outside. “Sorry, Angela,” he said, holding the door for her. “Heard about Custer?”
    â€œGeneral Garrett? Yeah, I heard.”
    â€œWho could have done it?”
    â€œI have no idea.”
    â€œThey’re your people,” heading toward the car parked at the curb.
    â€œYou have some inside information?” She called over her shoulder. She felt a mixture of anger and puzzlement as she headed down the hallway. Something was missing: the familiar smell of hot, brewed coffee that usually floated toward her.
    She grabbed the doorknob beneath the pebbly glass window with two rows of painted black letters: Skip Burrows, JD, Attorney at Law. The knob jammed in her hand.
    There was the swish of the back door opening and closing, the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway. “Didn’t see him come in this morning.” Peters was holding a brown envelope. He leaned into his own door, pushed it open, and disappeared.
    Angela knocked on the glass and waited for the sound of Skip pushing himself away from his desk, crossing the office, muttering out loud, “Use your key!” She wanted to talk about Garrett getting shot, go over what they knew, try to digest the information. She wouldn’t mention the argument between Garrett and Skip. She didn’t want to watch the confident expression dissolve at the edges as he digested the implications. He’d argued with a murder victim!
    She swung her bag around and dug into an inside pocket past the comb, lipstick, package of gum, and assorted receipts. Squeezing the key between her thumb and index finger, she dragged it out of the bag and stuck it into the lock. She stepped into the office and stopped, feeling as if she had hit an invisible wall. Drawers