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would rather avoid. If Detective Curry let me make one telephone call, I’d call Beau. No. Wrong. Beau was out of town. I’d call Nikko. A retired cop would know about a situation like this one. “Do I need a lawyer?”
    “You’re not under arrest, Miss Moreno. My gut feeling is that you happened to show up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Right now, I’m asking informal questions to help me figure out what happened here last night. You don’t have to answer on the spot, of course. If you’d feel more at ease, I’ll take you to police headquarters for formal questioning.”
    At ease! Hah! I didn’t have to answer his informal questions. Double Hah! But I knew if I refused to answer here and now I’d look guilty. Of murder? Of helping Margaux commit suicide? Some choice he offered me. Some fat choice I had. I tried to imagine what Nikko or Beau would tell me to do, but I sensed the detective’s growing impatience. And I began to talk.

Three
    “I TOLD YOU that Margaux Ashford is—was my patient, my reflexology patient. We have—had a standing appointment for her foot reflexology treatment every Sunday morning at seven. I arrived a bit late this morning due to some delays at my office, but my watch said only a few minutes past seven when I arrived and knocked on her front door.”
    “Foot reflexology treatment?” Detective Curry lifted his ballpoint and waited. “She had a problem with her feet? Explain, please.”
    Did he write in shorthand? Did he plan to record every word I said? I began to talk faster, hoping to confuse him and hoping he’d have trouble keeping up.
    “I’m a certified foot reflexologist with an office on Duval Street.” I began my information dump, the explanation I gave to new patients or potential patients who showed interest in alternative approaches to healing. Only for prospective patients, I talked much more slowly and punctuated my words with frequent smiles. Now I kept a solemn face and used my memorized speech to stall for time, to give myself more moments to think. Could I speed-talk and think about something else at the same time? I hoped so, but as long as I talked about reflexology I wasn’t talking about Margaux’s death.
    “Reflexology’s an ancient form of pressure therapy. The Egyptians knew about it thousands of years ago. It involves applying focused pressure to certain known reflex points located in the foot. These points correspond to certain areas in the body. The therapy results in increased blood circulation to the affected body areas, relaxation in those areas, and a release of tensions. Reflexology has stopped pain for many people.”
    I half expected Detective Curry to laugh or to question my explanation that obviously covered territory brand new to him. Since he did neither, he rose a bit in my estimation.
    “So you came here on legitimate business,” he said.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Are you aware that the person finding a dead body is of special interest to the police?”
    “Yes.” I could think of nothing else to say. Did he intend to accuse me of murder? Of assisting a suicide? I began to feel trapped, suffocated by my own breath and voice. And my feeling of aloneness penetrated more deeply into my being. I added fear of the police and their questions to my fear of Jude Cardell.
    “How long had Mrs. Ashford been calling on your services?” Pen poised once more, Detective Curry gazed into my eyes.
    “For a couple of years—more or less. I have an accurate record of each of her visits on tape as well as on my office computer.” I didn’t tell him I had the tape recorder in my pocket. In his case, I considered it a don’t-ask-don’t-tell situation, but all my patients know I record our conversations during a work session. “If you’d like to see my records concerning Margaux Ashford, I’ll print them out for you.”
    “That may be necessary for the courtroom later, but not right now. I’ll take your word that you have her