by Vicki Delany
“Good evening.” I stepped through the shattered glass of the doors. The cop with Jayne practically jumped out of his skin. He reached for his gun, and Jayne yelped.
I lifted my hands into the air. “Only me, Officer Richter. We’re the ones who discovered the body.”
Officer Stella Johnson pushed herself to her feet. “The detectives have been called. Did you do this, Ms. Doyle, Ms. Wilson?” She asked the routine question, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she clearly didn’t expect a positive reply.
“We did not,” I said. “We were paying a friendly house call, and it would appear we arrived only moments too late.”
“You can both wait in the kitchen,” she said. “The detectives will want to talk to you.”
I turned and shone my flashlight app onto the French doors. The lock was not engaged, meaning the door was unlocked. I tucked my hand into the folds of my shirt to avoid leaving fingerprints and tugged at the door.
“Don’t touch that!” Richter shouted.
It didn’t move, and I studied the doorframe.
“What were you doing outside?” Officer Johnson asked me.
“Trying to apprehend the killer.”
I pointed my flashlight outside, searching the shattered glass. “You’ll want to check those glass fragments for cloth and threads. Ah yes, I see a few have been caught, looks like some sort of fleece. I had to knock some of the bigger pieces of glass aside to get out.” Unlike our alleged killer, I was wearing a sleeveless shirt and capris. My arms and legs would have been badly cut on the exposed glass.
“The kitchen,” Johnson repeated. I knew Officer Stella Johnson well. Her grandmother was a good friend and regular card partner of Great-Uncle Arthur. The benefits of living in a small town: I usually met the same police officers at every scene.
“In a moment,” I said. I crouched down beside Elizabeth, keeping my hands to myself. Either Jayne or one of the officers had turned the body over, no doubt to check for signs of life, and Elizabeth Dumont stared up at me, unseeing. She had, as far as I could tell, been felled by a blow to the side of her head. I had no need to search for the weapon. An iron statue, about two feet high, of a thin, graceful woman lay on the floor beside her head. A side table next to the French doors had been overturned. The table was about the size that would hold a small piece of sculpture.
“And did you?” Johnson asked.
“Did I what?”
“Apprehend a killer?”
“Obviously not.”
“You’re going to have to wait in the kitchen, Gemma. You too, Jayne. The detectives won’t be happy to see you poking about the scene.”
“As if I ever poke,” I said. I tucked my hands behind my back to keep from touching anything and examined the carpet, searching for footprints. It hadn’t rained for days, and no one, not even Jayne or I or the police, had tracked mud into the house. Elizabeth herself was barefoot and dressed in her nightwear. Cotton pajamas, gray and pink striped, with loose trousers and a baggy, V-necked gray shirt with a cartoon drawing of a sailboat on it. She smelled strongly of tobacco, and I assumed she’d finished a cigarette shortly before her caller arrived.
More sirens approached, and Johnson’s radio crackled. “Around the front of the house, facing the sea,” she said. “The glass in the door’s broken. Uh, Detective Estrada, Gemma Doyle is here.”
A screech sounded over the static.
“Perhaps we’ll wait in the kitchen.” I pushed myself to my feet. “Come on, Jayne. Let’s get out of these people’s way.”
Elizabeth’s kitchen was large and furnished with all the latest in high-tech gadgets. Dishes were piled in the sink, no doubt waiting for the maid to arrive in the morning. One plate, one set of cutlery, a small frying pan, and a pot with a few grains of rice clinging to the bottom. One wine glass next to an empty bottle of California chardonnay and an overflowing ashtray. All the cigarettes were the same brand.
“She ate dinner alone,” Jayne said.
I gave her a grin. “You’re learning.”
“I’d rather not be.”
Taking care once again to cover my fingers, I opened the fridge and studied the contents. Nothing out of the ordinary: some cheeses, cold meats, fruit and vegetables of varying freshness, cream for coffee, the usual assortment of condiments. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, half full. I stuck my head into the walk-in pantry. One wall was being used as a wine rack. There must have been fifty bottles there, all of which, to my largely untrained eye, looked expensive.
“What do you think happened here, Gemma?” Jayne asked.
“Obviously, Elizabeth was not expecting visitors. She was in her nightwear—ordinary pajamas, not a negligee of some sort—therefore not ready for a romantic assignation. She knew her visitor and invited him or her into the house. She did not expect this person to stay for long, certainly not for the night, and so she left the back door unlocked. Not a totally casual visitor, pizza delivery person or someone similar, as they walked together through the house into the front room, likely to take a seat while they talked. Either the person came intending to kill Elizabeth, or something was said that made him or her do so. It’s possible this person had been in the house before and knew there were small items of statuary that could be used as a weapon, but I can’t dismiss the idea that they might have simply hoped there would be something at hand. Not bringing a weapon doesn’t presume lack of planning.”
Jayne wrapped her arms around herself. “We surprised him in the act.”
“Him or her,” I said. “Sadly, it would seem we were minutes too late. Our killer would have planned to simply walk out the way they came in, but hearing us at the back door meant they had to find another way out.”
Jayne reached for a cupboard.
“Better not touch anything.” I said.
She pulled her hand back as though it had been burned. “Will they fingerprint the kitchen?”
“They’ll probably fingerprint the entire house. This could have been an attempted robbery gone wrong, but none of the signs point that way.”
Jayne stuffed her hands into her jeans. “Why do you suppose this person didn’t simply wait for us to go away? We would have if no one answered the bell. It was only when you heard them breaking the glass in the door that you came in, right?”
“Right. I was prepared to turn around and leave if no one answered, even in the face of the open door. They panicked, most likely. Which indicates this person is not a hired killer.”
Not that I considered that to be a possibility.
“Did you see him?” Jayne asked.
“Only from a distance, and nothing was identifiable about him. About all I can say is that he was not obese and not handicapped, judging by the ease with which he ran across the lawn. He or she. Him or her. I wish we had a gender-neutral singular pronoun.”
As we talked, more police were arriving. Flashlights moved outside the kitchen windows, and officers called to one another in loud voices. “I hope they’re not trampling evidence,” I said.
“I think we can manage not to do that.” Ryan Ashburton came into the kitchen, rubbing at his chin. “We’ve got a K-9 unit trying to find the trail. What are you two doing here?”
“You paid a call on Maureen this afternoon,” I said. “I realized you’re still barking up that wrong tree, so I decided it was time to talk to Elizabeth Dumont myself. Face-to-face, as it were. Jayne came along to keep me company.”
Jayne attempted a friendly smile.
A dark cloud settled over Ryan’s face, and his mouth formed a tight line. I knew that look, and it never meant anything good was coming my way.
“Fancy meeting you two here.” Louise Estrada said. “Officer Richter tells me Jayne Wilson was inside the house when they arrived. She made the nine-one-one call and met the responding officers at the back door, but you, Gemma, had gone outside. Did you kill the woman?”
I ignored the question. “We arrived to find the house in darkness. No cars were parked in
the driveway.”
“So you walked in?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what we did. The door was unlocked, which was surprising. All was quiet, but someone was in the house. Someone who didn’t want to meet us at the door.”
“As much as I hate to ask, I will anyway,” Estrada said. “Why didn’t you assume the woman didn’t want to talk to you? If you come poking around my house late at night, I’m not going to answer either.”
“The unlocked door meant Elizabeth had a visitor she didn’t expect to stay for long. The lack of a car in the driveway meant either the visitor walked or, more likely, hid his or her car on the street if they had one, not wanting it to be seen, which implies a not entirely aboveboard visit. The door was off the latch and swung open when I touched it. I called out loudly that we were here.”
“That’s right,” Jayne said. “We didn’t sneak in or break the lock.”
“The abrupt increase in noise coming from the sea and the sensation of air rushing into the house clearly meant a door or window had suddenly opened. The sound of breaking glass meant someone had not simply opened the door and walked out to enjoy the evening.”
“Right,” Jayne said.
I had been speaking to Estrada, but I took a peek at Ryan out of the corner of my eyes. The darkness had not passed. “Naturally, we tried to help.”
“How do I know you didn’t smash the door yourself?” Estrada said. “To make it look like you had an excuse to come in uninvited.”
“Because I told you what happened,” I said. “And because I came here to speak to Elizabeth Dumont. I had no reason to break in.”
“The French doors aren’t locked,” she said. “I noticed that myself. Unless you unlocked them—and I wouldn’t put it past you—the breaking of the glass was all for show.”
“Partial observation is no better than no observation, Detective Estrada. The lock on the door is not set, as you observed, but you failed to see the security bar in place on the bottom runner. Our killer had just murdered a woman when he heard people at the door. Rather than remain quiet and hope the visitors will simply go away, he—or she—panicked. He tried to get out the door, but it wouldn’t open. Rather than take the time to figure out why it wouldn’t open, he smashed the glass. Almost certainly you’ll find a piece of statuary or something similar on the patio. You’ll also find fragments of green fleece on the broken glass.” I held out my bare arms. “You might notice that I am not wearing any sort of sweater.”
Estrada glared at me. Ryan said nothing.
“I’ll be happy to come down to the station in the morning and make a full statement. As for now, Jayne and I will leave you to it.”
“Not so fast,” Ryan growled. “Detective Estrada, will you leave us, please.”
She looked between Ryan and me. Then she said, “I’ll see what’s happening with the dog,” and walked out.
“I’ll wait in the car.” Jayne fled.
“Gemma,” Ryan said, “this time you’ve gone too far.”
“I haven’t done anything. Surely you don’t think I broke into this house and killed Elizabeth?”
“I value your observations and insights, and that’s no secret. There’s a difference between observing people and actively being involved. You can’t keep popping up at crime scenes and getting in the way.”
“We’re hardly in the way. I can’t make observations from my house. Even Sherlock Holmes had to venture out of 221B Baker Street to see for himself. I’ve pointed out valuable evidence to you. One of your less-experienced officers might have removed the security bar to get out the door and not thought about it. I chased the person in question off the property but lost him on the street.”
“You attempted to apprehend a cold-blooded killer alone, at night, unarmed. This gets worse and worse. Gemma, I can’t have you—” He stopped at a burst of sound from the hallway.
“In here,” a man cried. A dog barked.
A uniformed officer ran into the kitchen, preceded by a large German shepherd wearing an orange vest with the words “Police” stamped on it. The dog lunged toward me, and I leapt back, crashing into the counter. The stone edge caught me in the hip and a shot of pain ran through me.
The dog snarled and showed me every one of his very impressive teeth. The handler cried, “Diablo, down!” as he tugged at the leash. The dog dropped to his haunches and sat there, eyeing me, while every muscle in his body quivered.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ryan Ashburton said.
Chapter Sixteen
The appropriately named Diablo might have identified me as the murderer, but even Louise Estrada didn’t really think I’d killed Elizabeth Dumont. She escorted me to my car and the waiting Jayne. “Get lost, Gemma,” she said. “And please, no more ‘helping.’ ”
Ryan had walked out of the kitchen without another word, leaving Estrada to mumble about ruining evidence and interfering with crime scenes.
In real life, police dogs don’t track individuals the way they do in the movies. No one waves a piece of cloth under their nose and says, “Find Billy.” The dog simply follows the most obvious or most recently laid trail. Diablo had picked up two strong scents at the scene of Elizabeth’s body, followed her killer and me to the street, and when the trails divided, he traced one line of scent back to the house to corner me in the kitchen.
“Are you in trouble?” Jayne asked me.
“No more than usual,” I said.
“That bad, eh?”
“That bad.” I didn’t know if Ryan would be able to forgive me, yet again, for what he calls interfering. The path of true love never runs smoothly, but never less than between an ambitious and very good police detective and a well-meaning but highly perceptive member of the law-abiding public.
* * *
I was woken the following morning by a phone call.
“Good morning, Gemma,” Irene Talbot said. “I hear you found the body of Elizabeth Dumont last night. The police are saying her death was suspicious. Do you have a statement for the press?”
“Is Sherlock Holmes a Mafia enforcer? No.” I hung up.
I flopped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Sunlight peeked around the curtains and drew patterns on the walls. Violet leapt onto the bed and licked my face. “At least you still love me,” I said to her.
Greetings over, she jumped down and trotted into the kitchen.
After we left Elizabeth’s last night, I’d dropped Jayne off at her house and gone straight home. I sat up for a long time, reading and waiting for the police to call me.
No one had.
I didn’t try to go back to sleep after Irene’s call, but took Violet for a long walk. When we got home, I found a police car in front of my house and Detective Louise Estrada sitting on the steps. Ryan was not with her, and I feared that was not a good thing.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I hope you haven’t been waiting for long.”
Violet ran to greet our visitor. Estrada stood up slowly, stretching her long, lean body, ignoring the dog’s attempts to make friends. “I need you to take me through the events of last night.”
“Might as well do it inside rather than provide entertainment for the neighbors.” Across the street Mr. Gibbons was watering his flowerpots, not noticing that he was soaking his feet instead, and next door, Mrs. Ramsbattan had decided that her mailbox needed a good scrubbing at eight o’clock in the morning.
I led the way into the kitchen and put the kettle on. “I’m having tea, but I can do coffee if you’d prefer.”
Estrada sat at the table. “Nothing, thanks.” The dark circles under her eyes indicated she had not been to bed last night. She needed coffee, but she didn’t want to accept my hospitality. I took the French press off the shelf and beans out of the fridge. “I can do some scrambled eggs if you’re hungry.”
“This is not a social call,” she snapped.
“I didn’t think so,” I replied, taking ou
t the eggs and cream. “I find interrogation goes better with a meal.”
“Talk to me,” she said.
“I can talk and make coffee and scrambled eggs at the same time.” And so I did. I told her not only everything that had happened last night, but also about my thought process leading me to decide to visit Elizabeth Dumont at her home. I served the detective a mug of coffee, which she finished in record time. I poured her another, made tea for myself, and then dished up scrambled eggs and whole-wheat toast for us both.
“You thought Elizabeth Dumont killed Kathy Lamb?” Estrada picked up her fork.
“I did,” I said.
“Do you still think so?”
“No. It’s possible two ruthless killers exist in Kathy, Elizabeth, and Dan’s small world, but I consider that possibility to be highly remote.”
“As do we,” she admitted. She scraped her plate clean. “Thanks for this.” She finished her coffee.
“You’re welcome.” Was it possible that Detective Estrada and I might be able to be friends someday?
“We’re looking for one killer,” she said. “I pointed out to the chief this morning that only two people are known to have been present at both deaths: Gemma Doyle and Jayne Wilson.”
Maybe not friends exactly.
“Except, Detective, I was not present when either of those women died. I was simply unfortunate enough to come upon them after the deed was done.”
“So you say.” She stood up.
Violet had been lying on the floor by the mudroom, watching the breakfast preparations and listening to our conversation. She leapt to her feet, butt shaking, tail wagging, tongue lolling, clearly expecting a pat.
Estrada walked straight past her. She opened the back door and then turned to look at me. “Don’t leave town.” The door slammed shut.
“See if I make her eggs and coffee again,” I said to Violet.
My phone hadn’t vibrated as I talked to Estrada, but I checked it anyway. Nothing from Ryan. I hadn’t asked Estrada why her partner hadn’t taken part in the interview. I hadn’t wanted to give her the satisfaction of telling me he was mad at me.
