Liquid Lies by Lois Lavrisa Page B

breath.
    “Do I have a choice here guys?” I asked.
    “You’re going to tell us what happened?” Paul asked.
    I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath. “All you need to know is that the police are taking care of everything.”
    “Let’s back up. Tell us the details of the discovery. Like where were you, what time was it, how did you find the head? Oh, and what did the head look like? Do you think it’s foul play? Did you see the body floating around? Do you know who did it? Could it be a serial killing?” Paul peppered me with questions.
    This little town was so clean-scrubbed homogenized America. I’m sure this was a once in a lifetime story for some dinky local news anchor like Paul. Maybe I should humor the poor guy. I decided to give him something, yet nothing.
    My bachelor’s degree was in business with a minor in public relations. So I pulled out some sound bites I learned from PR. “Well Paul, first, it would have to be more than one death to be a serial killing. Second, this is a catastrophic event for Mayor Pike, and this whole community. Francesca Pike’s death is tragic and heartbreaking. It has touched us all. And for the sake of her family we should all be giving her respect and not sensationalizing her death. I would suggest that you talk to Detective Wurkowski, the lead detective on this case. He’s at the Pike mansion right now, and I’m sure he can give you better insight into this painful event.”
    Paul stood there for a moment, jaw dropped open. “Is that all you’re going to give us?”
    I nodded.
    “Here, take my business card. Call me anytime.” With that, Paul turned away from me.
    I took the card and shoved it into my pocket.
    The cameraman took his equipment down from his shoulder.
    “Let’s go and find that detective,” Paul said. He and the cameraman wandered up the driveway to Pike Mansion.
    “Wurkowski, Detective Wurkowski,” I called after them. Maybe the news exposure would get the public involved, and that might bring to light some clues or information that can put the murderer behind bars for life. For the first time, I realized that if Francesca’s murderer was indeed the blackmailer, and he connected me to the trucker’s murder, then I could very well be the next victim.

Chapter Twelve
     
     
     
    “They canceled all lake activity until they finish dragging it. This whole area is a crime scene,” Mark said as I approached him by the pavilion ticket booth. “What a shock about Francesca, huh?”
    I shook my head and opened my arms in a sweeping gesture. “She was here yesterday and now…” the words caught in my throat and sputtered out.
    “I know.” Mark ambled over and slung his arm over my shoulder.
    “How could this happen? Who would do something like that?” The words caught in my throat, as my heart sunk.
    “I don’t know.” Mark held me.
    For a few moments I sunk my head into his chest. “I know the best thing to do is to go on with our lives. Let the police solve this. But how do we go on? It’s abysmal.”
    Mark lifted my chin. “I guess I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the medical examiner is doing an autopsy.”
    “On a head?” I yelped.
    “Of course. They use whatever evidence they have. And that’s all they have right now,” Mark added.
    His words seemed to drift above me as he continued to talk. My thoughts got lost in a montage of Francesca and our last day together; us talking, the way she smelled of suntan lotion and perfume. If I closed my eyes I could almost hear her voice that was sultry and childlike all at once. As though coming out of a cloud, I heard Mark talking once again.
    “And her dad is planning a memorial at Saint Thomas Cathedral,” Mark continued.
    “Of course. Okay then, that’s what has to happen next,” I whispered as I began to walk away.
    “CiCi, you’re acting like you’re sleepwalking or something. Why don’t you go home?”
    “Sure,” I mumbled. I had to get it together and start to