The Corporal Works of Murder by Carol Anne O'Marie

free meal?”
    Wong shrugged. “It’s worth a try,” he said.
    Olivia and the meal arrived at the table together. Wong watched the woman eat everything, even the parsley, and then mop up the last remnants of the turkey gravy with a piece of Parker House roll. “Was it good?” he asked.
    Mouth still full, Olivia nodded and gave him a half smile. “Delicious,” she said.
    Wong noticed his partner checking his watch. They needed to get back on the streets.
    â€œNow then,” Wong said, “what can you tell us about Sarah Spencer’s murder?”
    â€œSarah Spencer? Was that the girl’s name?” Olivia asked, moving her plate so that Sam could set down the glass dish with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in it. “Comes with the blue plate,” he said.
    â€œSarah Spencer,” Olivia repeated. “That’s a nice name. Kinda old-fashioned, huh?”
    Wong could feel impatience knotting his stomach. “Come on, Olivia,” he said. “Tell us what you know.”
    â€œAll I know is what I hear on the street.”
    Brian Dineen leaned forward in his chair. Olivia blanched. He didn’t need to say anything. His size alone was intimidating.
    â€œHonest, fellows, all I know is what I hear.”
    â€œAnd that is?” Brian’s voice was low.
    â€œSomeone said that Junior Johnson said—”
    â€œNow we’re getting somewhere,” Wong muttered.
    Olivia took a spoonful of ice cream and savored it. “Junior
said that the guy who shot the girl was not from the neighborhood.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Wong asked.
    â€œThat it’s not somebody we know.” Olivia studied the two police officers as though she was deciding just how much more to tell them. “Junior thinks he’s probably long gone back to where he came from. So there’s no use hassling people around here.”
    Dineen brought his face close to hers. “How does Junior know that?” he asked.
    Olivia’s brown eyes blinked nervously. “Junior knows all kinda things,” she said, “you know that. The best thing is to ask Junior, not a working girl like me.”
    â€œWhere do you think we can find Junior tonight?” Dineen asked. Olivia frowned, her spoonful of ice cream in midair. “You know what, fellows? Now that I think of it, I ain’t seen Junior around since about noon.”
    â€œYeah,” she said, scraping her ice-cream dish clean. “Junior real busy with something.”

    When the convent car rolled into the garage, old Donata was there to greet Mary Helen and Anne. “Therese has got herself into a real tizzy,” Donata said without introduction. “Is it true that there was another murder at the Refuge?”
    Mary Helen felt as though someone had punched her. “Why don’t you just come right out and say what’s on your mind,” she asked, hoping it sounded light.
    â€œAt my age who has time for games?” Donata snapped. “Are you two involved in another murder?”
    â€œCertainly not!” Anne sounded indignant.
    â€œThen why did Therese’s niece tell her you were?”
    â€œI have no idea,” Anne said stiffly. “A woman was shot down
the street,” she conceded. “But how can we be held responsible? It’s a rough neighborhood.”
    â€œDown the street?” Donata pondered that news. “You must have had something to do with it to get Therese so upset.”
    â€œAs we both know, it doesn’t take much to upset Therese.” Mary Helen slammed the car door. “Where is she now? I’ll talk to her.”
    â€œAt the television—where else? It’s time for the five o’clock news.”
    By the time Mary Helen and Anne arrived in the community room, every seat was taken. No one seemed to notice them standing just inside the door since every eye was focused on the television set. Anchorman Dave