She was outside the store, talking on a cell phone, which snapped shut when she caught sight of me. Her angry frown and hostile glare told me she’d talked to Velma. “You keep away from my daughter,” she said by way of greeting. A soft blue blouse cast an unflattering light on her complexion, making her look sallow. Another short skirt showed off legs encased in brown tights and knee-high boots. “I only asked her a couple of questions about Porter,” I said. “I thought she might remember something that would point us toward his murderer.” “I know what you’re really doing,” Monica said. That put her ahead of me. “You’re looking for a scapegoat. You think that just because Velma slept with Jackson that she killed him. Well, she didn’t. She loved him and he loved her. He was going to divorce Elena and marry my daughter.” She blinked rapidly, depositing mascara flakes under her eyes. I had no answer to her astonishing declaration. Velma Maldonado hadn’t struck me as being a woman madly in love—quite the opposite in fact.
