Diana works as a seamstress. Down south, she held a string of accounting jobs, the sort that come with interchangeable titles. There isn’t much use for that here, so like many people, she’s fallen back on hobby interests. She’s always had an eye for fashion and used to make some of her own clothes. Up here, being able to repair or resize clothing is a valuable skill.
I find Diana working at home, sitting on her apartment balcony, sewing in the sunshine.
“I need to speak to you,” I say as I climb the stairs.
“Nice to see you, too, Casey. Keeping busy, I see.”
“You know what the great thing is about knowing a person for fifteen years, Di? Getting to skip the small talk when I am keeping busy. Like investigating a murder.”
She nods and folds the jeans she’d been hemming. “You’re right. Sorry. I just keep hoping we’ll reach the point where you come over for something other than work.”
“The way I see it, you’re lucky I don’t send Eric to interview you instead.”
“That would require delegating. Not happening. Pull up a chair.”
“Better if we take this inside.”
She nods, gathers her sewing, and we go in. Diana’s apartment is even smaller than Paul’s. It’s basic accommodation, where people have a choice between sharing a larger space or taking a bachelor apartment, which is the size of a hotel room with a kitchenette.
“Park yourself on the bed or the sofa,” she says. “They’re in the same room anyway.”
“Hey, you always wanted to move to Vancouver. Think of this as practice for microapartments.”
She snorts. “No kidding, huh.”
I could also say it’s far more comfortable lodgings than the jail cell she’d have gotten if she hadn’t ended up in Rockton. But that’d take us places I don’t want to go to with this conversation.
Contrary to her snark, there’s more than a sofa and a bed. I lower myself into an armchair, and she perches on the sofa … which, to be fair, is really more of a love seat.
“Mark Garcia was shot with his own gun,” I say.
“He … shot himself?”
“Eric took his weapon, remember?”
“Please tell me this story ends with our sheriff being the one who shot the marshal, and sadly, Eric will now be forced into exile, and you’ll take over.”
I just look at her.
She sighs and leans back. “Okay, I’m being bitchy. You’re fond of the guy, and you don’t need the extra work of being sheriff. It wasn’t Eric who shot him, was it?”
“No, I was with Eric—and Garcia—at the time.”
“Wait. So you’re the sheriff’s only alibi? This seems highly suspicious. I think we should investigate.”
“I’m glad you find the situation amusing, Diana, but since I know you’re not actually accusing Eric, I’d suggest you might want to take this a whole lot more seriously. Someone used Garcia’s gun to shoot him. Three people knew we had that gun in our house. You, me, and Eric. Since Eric and I alibi ourselves out…”
She straightens. “What? Are you suggesting I shot him?”
“I’m just pointing out—”
“I have a double alibi. Your sister and Kenny. I was in the clinic when we heard the shots.”
“There’s actually been some question about that,” I lie. “You might want to reconsider.”
She sputters. “Question? What question? I was there. April, Kenny, and I discussed the sound. And why the hell would I kill this guy? You know what I did, Casey. I embezzled funds from my employer, and then Graham convinced me the cops were getting close and I had to run. He double-crossed me.”
“Shocking.”