“Mistress,” I hissed. “Mistress, not princess.” You’d think Monica would realize by now the task didn’t come with a tiara.

The sheriff ignored my outburst as if it hadn’t occurred. “What about you, Miz Larsen? Handlin’ the gun part of your job as well?”

Rita looked discomfited-a rare occurrence. Normally it took a lot to rattle her. I compared her to the Queen Mary-big and stable, not likely to sink in a storm. “I, um, like to keep things neat. I may have picked up the gun after the shooting and put it with the rest of the props.”

“May have…?”

Rita gave a curt nod. “That’s right. How was I supposed to know Lance was really dead and not just pretending?”

He gave her a hard, unblinking stare. “Guess that’s a tricky call when someone has a bullet hole in their chest and stops breathin’.”

“For crying out loud,” I protested. “Lance was a professional corpse. He got paid good money to look dead. CSI has the best corpses on TV. You’d know that if you ever watched TV.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, ma’am,” the sheriff replied, his tone droll. “Now let’s get on to the next item up for business: gunshot residue.”

“Keep me out of this.” Bernie held up both hands as though warding off an invisible enemy. “I’ll admit, I looked at the gun, but no way could I have gunshot residue on my hands. I handled the gun before Ledeaux was shot, not after.”

“Settle down, Mason,” the sheriff growled. “Your hands tested negative, but the others…”

His coal black gaze crept around the table, resulting in a lot of squirming, a lot of shifting. Yup, I said to myself, he’d have made a good nun. If a person could make adults twitch, fifth graders wouldn’t stand a prayer.

“What about you, Mr. Lewis? Care to explain?”

“How many times do I have to remind you, Sheriff, the gun was mine? I handed it to Ledeaux personally that very morning right after cleaning it.”

The sheriff’s scowl deepened. “I hear that right? You say you cleaned it?”

Bill nodded. “You heard me.”

Although Sheriff Wiggins didn’t look pleased at Bill’s response, he jotted it all down. “Let’s move on, shall we? Miz Larsen, I suppose you’re goin’ to claim you got residue on your hands in an effort to keep things neat and tidy.”

Rita’s face was stony. “More than likely that’s how it happened.”

The spotlight shifted to me. “And you, Miz McCall, how did you happen to come in contact with gunshot residue?”

“I have no idea,” I said, surprised at finding my name on the list.

“Did you at any time handle the weapon?”

I replayed the events immediately following the shooting. “No,” I said at last. “Not that I recall.”

He drummed his fingers against the metal table. Tap, tap, tap. Slow, incessant, irritating to the max, the sound was like a leaky faucet at two a.m. “Are you telling me GSR-as they say in the trade-flew through the air and, by chance, happened to land on your hands?” Not waiting for a reply, he went on as though ruminating. “Another strange finding. Miz Ledeaux’s hands were negative, almost like she washed them. Or wiped them clean.”

Just like in the Sunday comics, a lightbulb went on inside my brain.

“Judgin’ from your expression, I can see your memory is returnin’.”

Coming back like a bad dream would be more like it. I debated what to say, but since we’d all seen Claudia pull the trigger, I decided there wasn’t any harm in relating how I’d probably come into contact with GSR. Just hearing the acronym-GSR-gave my confidence a boost and reminded me I wasn’t a rank amateur when it came to crime solving.

“Once we realized Lance was really dead and not faking it, I went to comfort Claudia.” I envisioned myself on the witness stand, calm, poised, relating my account before a packed courtroom in an intelligent, precise fashion while the jurors listened with rapt attention. I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. “Claudia appeared to be in shock. When I took hold of her hands, they were cold as ice. We sat her in a chair. Then I went to get her some water. She was shaking so badly, the water spilled, and she wiped her hands on her slacks to dry them.”

“Mmm.”

That it? Mmm?

The sheriff made a production out of writing everything I’d said in that darn book of his. I’d love to get a peek at his notes. Then again, they might prove boring. Miz McCall twiddled her thumbs. Mr. Lewis shrugged his shoulders. Miz Pulaski failed to make eye contact. Etc., etc. You get my drift.

Rita stared pointedly at her Bulova. “Are we done yet, Sheriff?”

“You have somethin’ more important waitin’?”

Mama always said you catch more flies with sugar than you do with vinegar. This seemed a good time to take the old adage out for a stroll. I smiled sweetly. “You’re a busy man, Sheriff Wiggins. My friends and I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time. We’ve answered your questions. Unless we’re under arrest…?”

“Temptin’ as that may be…”

Bad Jack snapped his portfolio shut. “Since my client’s already been charged with manslaughter, isn’t this meeting a little superfluous, Sheriff?”

The sheriff remained unruffled. “I’m well aware, sir, we’re not at a loss for witnesses who’ll testify they saw Miz Ledeaux fire the fatal shot. That said, I don’t want some slick city lawyer tellin’ the jury my department failed to do its job properly. I’m a man who likes to dot my i’s and cross my t’s.”

Claudia rose to her feet, her voice shrill. “How many times do I have to tell you I never intended to kill Lance? Why can’t you believe it was all a terrible accident? That somehow a bullet left in the chamber went unnoticed?”

“Miz Claudia, please,” BJ remonstrated.

Claudia jerked free of his attempt to catch her sleeve. “I planned to divorce the bastard. Not kill him.”

The sheriff didn’t blink, didn’t miss a beat. “So you admit to havin’ marital problems with the deceased?”

I heard a collective intake of breath.

Claudia, my friend, what have you done?

BJ sprang to his feet. “My client admits no such thing. Even a blind man could see the dear woman’s overwrought as a result of your constant badgerin’.”

Claudia flung her head back and laughed. “I’m done mourning the son of a bitch. Should have known better than to marry a man as phony as his dyed hair and fake tan.”

BJ turned to his client. “Unless you plan to find another attorney, Miz Ledeaux, I advise you not to say another word.”

Claudia seemed about to object, but one look at her attorney and she wisely kept silent. Right before our very eyes, Badgeley Jack Davenport IV changed from affable to formidable. For the first time in our brief acquaintance, I could see how the man had earned the sobriquet Bad Jack. If I ever accidentally shot and killed a sleazy con man, he’d be first on my list of lawyers.

Bad Jack tucked his gold ballpoint into the inner pocket of his suit. “Finished, Sheriff?”

“For now.” Sheriff Wiggins flipped his notebook shut but made no move to rise. He pinned us in our places with a hard, penetrating stare. “Accordin’ to the evidence from the state crime lab, I could consider y’all suspects along with Miz Ledeaux. Y’all had means and opportunity. Only thing lackin’ is motive. Once I find that, the case is pretty well sewed up.”

Motive? Oh, boy! Claudia was up the proverbial river without a paddle. Up the river, in this case, being the state pen.