Page 36 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“I guess she did. Well, thank you for talking?—”
“Heard a gunshot, too.”
“When? When did you hear a gunshot?”
“Sometime after the woman in the purple coat went into the trailer. It woke me up.”
Okay, this was getting messy. At first, he wasn’t sure if the woman went into the trailer or not. Now he was saying she did and there was a gunshot. And it woke him up, even though he didn’t sleep.
Roberta looked like she’d been strangled. Could she have been shot? I wasn’t sure.
“Might have been two gunshots,” Buford said, unhelpfully.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I found M-22 easily enough this time. I drove past our farm and into Masons Bay. When I got to Main Street Café, I began circling the blocks, expanding my search each time I found myself in front of the café. Roberta’s twenty-some year-old BMW sat behind what used to be Dr. Blinkski’s office.
I parked, got out, and walked around the pale yellow car. I tried to open the doors, but they were locked. Peeking through the frosted windows, I could see that it was a mess inside: take-out bags scrunched up, coffee cups, random totes, a dead plant for some reason.
Checking the outside, I noted a few dents here and there, which was probably not surprising for a woman with alcohol and addiction issues. There was almost an inch of snow collecting on the car. It was still snowing and looked like it might continue for some time.
I got back into the Metro and called Hamlet.
“I have questions,” I said when he answered.
“Shoot.”
“I just found out that Melanie was at Bobbie’s home the night before she was found dead.”
“Do the police know that?”
“They will. I’m going to see Melanie and let her know they’re going to find out.”
“Okay. What’s the question?”
“Well… if our client killed someone, do we have to tell the police?”
“Well, first, don’t ask her directly if she killed Bobbie.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t want to know that.”
“We don’t?”
“No. If we know things it can get dicey.”
That seemed such an odd thing to say. His job was literally to know things. Still, I said, “Okay. But what if she just tells me?”
“If she confesses to the murder then you need to suggest she talk to a lawyer and turn herself in.”
“She won’t want to do that.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s the only ethical advice we can give. We don’t help people get away with murder.”
“So, if we find out she murdered Bobbie, we stop and go to the police?”
“Uh, yeah, well…. We stop, that’s definite. If the police come to us and ask questions we tell the truth. Unless…”
