Mom Zone Mysteries 02 Staying Home Is a Killer by Sara Rosett

picked up from your husband for Frost Fest, I called Hetty Sullivan and she’s picking them up tonight.”
    Clarissa gripped the doorknob of one of the doors lining the hall. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Her eyes were frigid and her posture stiff. She threw the door open and crossed the room to the open closet. “This closet and these boxes,” she said sharply, pointing to several boxes stacked on a queen-size bed.
    I pulled out my legal pad and jotted some notes. I opened the boxes with Clarissa at my elbow. I realized I was moving slowly and watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was tense. She reminded me of Livvy’s jack-in-the-box, about to explode.
    “Okay, what are your goals? Do you want to weed out old items and reduce the amount of things you have stored? Sort and throw away what you don’t need? Or do you want to keep everything, but make it neater and easier to get to?”
    She relaxed a little. “A little of both, I guess.”
    I stifled a sigh. So far, of the people I’d organized for, no one could answer this question. The usual answer was “I don’t want it to be such a mess.”
    “Most of it belongs to Jackson,” Clarissa continued. “He never wants to get rid of anything, so keep his stuff. But my things, I could get rid of some of them, I guess.” She sat down on a corner of the bed that wasn’t covered with cardboard boxes while I looked through the closet.
    “So where are you from?” I asked. It was one of my standard conversational gap fillers that I’d developed since becoming a military spouse. Everyone had a story, and the question was a way to get them started.
    “Savannah, but I’ve lived in the Northwest for years.”
    “I thought I heard a slight accent on your message. What brought you up here?” I scrawled a few figures as I talked, then tore the page from the pad.
    “Medical sales. I have the Northwest region.”
    “Well, here’s what I’ve got,” I said and she stopped examining her red polish to look over the page I handed her. “I figure it will take me about six hours to sort everything and organize it. I’ll need to buy some sort of containers, plastic bins or shelving, depending on what you want. This includes my time, but not any materials. I can get you an estimate on that after you decide what you want.”
    “Fine.” She barely glanced at it. “I don’t have time to get in here and go through things. I’ve got so much going on, work, the gym, base activities.” She tried to hide a slight cringe when she said, “base activities,” and I felt an affinity with her because she obviously didn’t relish those any more than I did. “And now I’ve added that art class, too.”
    The doorbell rang. A tiny frown marred the perfection of her face. “Now, who is that? I’m leaving for the gym after we finish.”
    “I’m done in here. I’ll go down with you.” As we walked downstairs we discussed container types and I set up a return time.
    I intended to slip discreetly out the front door. Two men in business causal dress stood on Clarissa’s porch when she opened the door. One man said, “Mrs. Bedford, I’m with the OSI. Is there a Mrs. Avery here?”
    I stopped trying to sidestep around them. “Right here.”
    “We need you to come with us,” said Man Number Two.
    “Why?”
    “We have a few questions for you.”
    “About what?”
    The men exchanged a glance; then Number One said, “Oliver Thistlewait would like to talk to you.”
    I didn’t move. “What about?” I repeated.
    Guy Number One said, “Lieutenant Georgia Lamar’s been hospitalized.”

Chapter Seven
    B eing practically taken into police custody is not how I want to end the first meeting with a client, but I went with them. I drove myself to the OSI building. It felt less like they were arresting me that way.
    I waited in a small room long enough to memorize the flecked pattern on the tabletop, the worn spots on the carpet, and the six nail holes in the