The Good Neighbor
The Good Neighbor
Sharon Mignerey
Detective Wade Prescott knows he has his prime suspect: Megan Burke. He found her in the yard beside the body of her neighbor's grandson. With a victim and a motive, it should be simple to connect the dots. Yet Megan's sweet demeanor has Wade believing in her innocence.And if she is innocent, a murderer is still at large. Wade vows to protect Megan, but can he shield her from a killer's crosshairs?
“Do you know Mrs. Russell well?” Wade asked.
Megan met his gaze head-on, his dark brown eyes drawing her in. She imagined telling him all her secrets. She shook her head. Though it would be a relief to tell someone, sharing with a cop, especially now, would come under the heading of stupid.
“She’s one of my best friends,” Megan said. She wished she knew what he was thinking. “I didn’t know her grandson very well at all, though. He’s been back in town only a couple of weeks.”
“But that isn’t what you want to tell me.”
Megan bowed her head, searching for the right words, knowing there wasn’t anything except the bald truth. Finally she shook her head.
“You’re going to think I killed him.”
“Did you?” Such a calm question, those dark eyes still drawing her in.
“No.” She swallowed. “But I told him that his grandmother would be better off if he was dead.”
SHARON MIGNEREY
After living most of her life in Colorado, Sharon recently moved to the Texas Gulf coast where she found that southern hospitality lived up to its reputation for being warm and welcoming. She’s always known that she wanted to be a storyteller from the time she learned that spelling words could be turned into stories. Sharon’s first book was published in 1997 after winning RWA’s Golden Heart award in 1995. That same book went on to win the National Readers’ Choice Award. In addition to writing novels, Sharon has had several articles published by The Writer magazine. She says the accolades are wonderful, but the only lasting satisfaction comes from serving the work. When she’s not writing, you can find her happily involved with her critique group, learning how to garden in the Texas heat, or playing with her two dogs.
Sharon loves hearing from readers. She can be reached either through her Web site (www.sharonmignerey.com) or in care of Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
The Good Neighbor
Sharon Mignerey
Seest thou how faith wrought with his works,
and by works was faith made perfect?
—James 2:22
For Daniele Seidner; critique partner, proofreader
and most of all, friend—I would have never made it
through this book without you.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ONE
This was the sort of morning that scrubbed the shadows from Megan Burke’s heart. The sun peeked over Grand Mesa’s ramparts east of town, golden rays spearing between houses and trees, leaves fluttering in the crisp breeze.
Definitely a TGIF kind of day.
Two of the patients on her schedule for today lived out of town, so she was looking forward to a long, beautiful drive through the autumn day under a brilliant turquoise sky.
Automatically giving thanks for the day the Lord had made, Megan locked her front door behind her and skipped down the steps, heading for the driveway, which hugged the boundary line of her small yard.
She set her bag of patient charts in the back seat of her car then went to the gate next to her garage. After she rolled her trash can out to the curb, she went back for the recyclables.
Her neighbor Helen Russell waved to her from her kitchen window where she kept an eye on the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Megan waved back, hoping Helen wasn’t as stressed as she’d been yesterday. As usual, Helen’s cat sat on the windowsill, its gaze fixed unblinkingly on something in one of the trees whose large branches draped over the garage and driveway. Probably the regularly visiting raccoons that Megan had heard pulling over the garbage cans earlier. If they had, there would be a mess to clean up.
Helen disappeared, then opened the back door a second later. “Good morning, sweetie,” she said. Deep smile lines creased the corners of her eyes. “It’s sure a gorgeous morning.” The cat rubbed against her legs, purring loudly.
“It is,” Megan replied, thinking Helen sounded better today. She was glad for that. Her neighbor was the closest thing to family that Megan had, something she hadn’t anticipated finding when she had moved here three years ago.
Helen’s only living relative, her grandson, Robby, had returned to Natchez from Denver three weeks ago after losing his job. He had moved into Helen’s basement bedroom and was trading heavily on his old reputation. He hadn’t lived in Natchez in ten years, but was still regarded as one of the town’s own, a status Megan doubted she’d achieve even if she lived here twenty years. Megan’s concern was that Robby worried Helen with his late-night comings and goings, his loud music and his apparent lack of job prospects.
“How are the heads for our apple dolls looking this morning?” Along with several other people, Megan and Helen had peeled and carved over a hundred apples last night in Helen’s inviting kitchen. To raise funds for the seniors’ center, the dolls were going to be sold at the Apple Festival coming up at the end of the month.
“You should come see,” Helen said with a smile. “Personality is beginning to pop out all over the place.”
“Tonight,” Megan promised, with a glance at her watch.
“Glenna Adams told me you were coming to see her today. She lived across the street, you know, until her husband retired. Poor thing. He died less than a year later,” Helen said. “Does she still live with her daughter out in Granger Gulch?”
“She does.” Megan responded as though this was the first time they’d had this identical conversation. Helen’s lapses of memory had seemed worse over the past month, which had coincided with Robby’s unexpected arrival. “And I’ll be late if I get sidetracked.”
“You don’t need to worry about taking my trash out,” Helen said. “Robby told me he’d do it when he left a little while ago.”
Though Megan knew the trash barrel wasn’t out by the curb, she looked back toward it anyway. “It’s not there. It will just take me a minute to grab yours.”
“That boy.” Helen shook her head as though he really was a boy instead of a grown man in his midthirties.
“His car is still here,” Megan added, “so he’s probably still around somewhere.”
Personally, she hoped he’d find someplace else to stay soon, since she was nearly positive he had been stealing from Helen. She had vast collections that included expensive jewelry, Italian ceramic figurines, hundreds of colorful, hand-painted pitchers from all over the world and a plastic washtub filled with old coins, some predating the Civil War. Every time she had been in Helen’s house since Robby’s arrival, he was asking his grandmother about her things and how much they were worth. Megan suspected his interest wasn’t just a simple matter of curiosity.
“He came through the kitchen like a whirlwind about a half hour ago,” Helen said. “He told me he had errands to run and that he’d be gone all day because he was checking out some prospects.” She shook her head, her short, white curls bouncing a little. “I wish I understood what that meant. If he was applying for a job somewhere, why couldn’t he say so?”
Helen had talked about that, too—Robby’s job hunting or lack of it—every day.
Megan wished she knew how to tell her neighbor that Robby was stealing from her. Not an easy thing to do, since she couldn’t prove it. Besides that, Helen saw him as needing sympathy because of his recent bad luck after losing his job in Denver.
“Is there anything you need today?” Megan asked. “I’ve got to stop at the grocery store on the way home.”
“You’re such a dear to ask, but no.” Smiling, Helen gave a little wave, scooped up her cat and went back inside.
Megan headed for Helen’s trash cans, her thoughts on her busy day as she pulled open the gate.
And there was Robby, sprawled on the ground next to an overturned trash barrel, a bloody gash at his temple, his sightless eyes fixed on the brilliant autumn sky.
His old stomach ulcer burning, Detective Wade Prescott arrived a half hour later at the address on Red Robin Lane in response to a personal call from the chief. Natchez, Colorado, had its first murder in more than thirty years.
Wade had moved here from Chicago six months ago to be closer to the vast expanse of wide-open spaces that had captured his imagination when he’d come to the area on vacation last year. He also wanted to live in a community where the crime rate was so low that he was the only detective in the county. The position had been described to him as more of a community outreach than an investigative job, and that had sounded perfect for a burned-out cop who had prayed to never investigate another murder. The one that haunted him daily had occurred twenty-two months ago, and involved two little girls who had been executed by their father and whose mother was now serving a life sentence for taking his life. The case had shaken Wade to the core, making him question whether he was fit to be a cop. Worse, he wanted to rage at God for the injustice of it all.
The houses in this older neighborhood were modest, with neat yards and big shade trees. The place was the quintessential small town. When he’d first moved here, he kept expecting to see Andy and Opie emerge from one of Natchez’s tidy houses with their fishing poles over their shoulders.
He knew he was at the right place because of the people standing in clusters on the neighboring lawns. A police cruiser, a fire truck and an ambulance were parked in the middle of the street, effectively blocking traffic and adding to the chaos.
The first thing he noticed was a body bag and an old woman who couldn’t take her eyes away from it.
A body bag. Surely some fool hadn’t moved the body.
His gaze went back to the old woman who was being comforted by a much younger woman whose shirt and slacks were stained with blood. Both looked familiar to him, something that still surprised him even after six months. Natchez was a community of three thousand in such a remote part of the state the nearest city of any size was a three-hour drive away. That was undoubtedly why everyone had begun to look familiar—because he was seeing them all the time at places like the grocery store, the local diner and the Independence Day picnic. Firemen from the volunteer station were standing around, and the officer talking to them was Aaron Moran, a rookie who had been on the squad a whole four weeks.
Moran came toward Wade as he got out of the car.
“I’m sure glad to see you,” he said as another police cruiser drove up and a hearse from the funeral home parked behind Wade’s vehicle.
“Where was the body found?” Wade asked.
“Over there by the trash cans,” Moran answered, waving in the direction of a partially open gate with a rose-covered arbor. “The neighbor found the body when she went to take out Mrs. Russell’s trash.”
“Take Mrs. Russell inside,” he told Moran, saving the talk about securing the crime scene and getting witness statements for a moment when he wasn’t irritated. “Get her statement, and stay with her until I come get you.”
He called to Officer Jim Udell, who was getting out of his cruiser. “Cordon off the crime scene,” Wade told him, “starting there.” He pointed to the curb about sixty feet in front of the gate. Then he headed down the driveway toward the young woman who was following Moran and Mrs. Russell into the house.
“Miss,” Wade called to her.
She stopped, her vivid blue eyes filled with the dazed expression of someone unexpectedly exposed to violence. He felt an unexpected tug of sympathy for her. “You’re the one who called this in?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her gaze left his and drifted to the body bag.
“I need to talk to you.” Noticing a picnic table under an umbrella in the backyard, he waved toward it. “Do you mind waiting for me over there? I shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”
He’d had years of experience securing people’s cooperation—just the right amount of authority in his voice without making people afraid. Yet, she reacted to him as though he had shouted at her. She was pretty, something he noticed as a man more than as a cop, a notion that didn’t please him a bit, as he studied her face. There was a time and a place, and this was neither.
Her shocky expression faded a bit. With a nod, she walked away from him, leaving him with the feeling there was more to her than a neighbor simply finding a body. Tucking away that thought to reexamine later, he turned back toward the chaos, determined to get control of the crime scene.
Firemen, EMTs, a couple of guys from the funeral home, and the county coroner were the only other people left inside the perimeter that Officer Udell had blocked off with crime-scene tape. “Talk to the folks standing around,” Wade told him, “and see what they saw or heard. Find out who belongs on this street and who doesn’t.”
“I’m on it,” Udell said.
Doc Wagner, a family practitioner who had first been elected as the county coroner close to forty years ago, came toward him. Since there wasn’t much crime in Natchez, there was no medical examiner to help investigate and make sure evidence was preserved—just this family doctor who was a fixture in the community.
“Just need your okay to hand the body over to the mortuary and I’ll get out of your hair,” Doc Wagner said, smiling as if it was already a done deal.
“Can you hang around for another minute?” Wade asked, doing his level best to hide his irritation. How could the man not know to leave the body alone?
Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the firemen. “Are you guys finished up here?” he said, instead of demanding that they get out of his crime scene.
“Who are you?” one of them asked.
“Detective Wade Prescott,” he answered, flashing his badge. “Clearing the crime scene so I can start my work.”
“I know this guy,” the fireman said, pointing at the body bag. “We went to school together.”
“Yeah?” Wade reached for the notebook in the pocket of his jacket. “What’s your name?”
“Brian Davis.” The firefighter stuck out his hand. “You’re the new guy on the force.”
“I am.” That came up daily. “What can you tell me about Mr. Russell?”
“Robby?”
Wade looked at the name he’d written down when the chief had called him. “That’s right.”
“Haven’t seen much of him lately, but he grew up right here in that house. His grandmother raised him.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
Davis stared at the ground a moment before answering. “Couldn’t tell you for sure. Probably a couple of years. I’d heard he was back in town, but our paths hadn’t crossed, you know?”
Which meant this witness couldn’t help nail down the events leading up to the murder. Wade took down the phone number and other contact information, aware that Doc Wagner was calling to him.
Turning back to the coroner, Wade led him toward the body bag. “You couldn’t wait until I got here before you moved the body?” Wade knew his tone was too sharp, but didn’t care. Bodies didn’t go anywhere, and you got only one chance at the physical evidence. This crime scene was so contaminated, he didn’t know how he was going to figure out what had happened, much less make a case.
“I couldn’t leave him out here in plain sight of his grandmother,” the doctor responded, clearly irritated. “Dead or not—”
“This is your first murder?”
Doc Wagner was long past seventy and was exactly what you’d expect a family doctor of his generation to look like. “No,” he said. “The last one was five years ago. Hasn’t been one inside the Natchez city limits, though, in a long time.”
“The crime scene is mine,” Wade said. “Nothing gets moved until I clear it.”
“And the body is mine,” the doctor said. “I’d be happy to show you the state statute that says it is.”
“Maybe. But where I come from, we don’t move anything until we’re sure the evidence is preserved.”
Wagner’s eyes glinted and he straightened to his full height. “I determined the cause of death.”
Wade knew he wouldn’t have that for sure until after the autopsy, but there was no point in arguing right now, especially when he looked toward the backyard and saw his witness watching them. “Which was?”
“Blunt-force trauma to the head.” The doctor waved in the direction of the half-open gate and the overturned trash cans. “Looks like a garden spade back there was the murder weapon.” He took a breath then continued, “I might not be some young, big-city detective who’s up on all the latest. But I know you can’t leave a dead man around for all the gawkers. And, I couldn’t stand that Helen was so upset.”
“Next time, move the gawkers, not the body,” Wade said, figuring this would be only the beginning of the criticism. He was bound to step on a lot of toes before the day was over. “I don’t suppose you thought to take any pictures.”
Looking baffled, Doc Wagner shook his head, making Wade wonder if he had ever attended any continuing-education classes in forensic science since being elected. Murder 101. Do not move the body. Even one of the bad police dramas on television ought to have clued him in.
At the moment, Wade wished this really was one of those dramas. Give him an hour, and he would have corralled all the witnesses, uncovered all the evidence, foiled the killer before he made his escape or killed again, and kissed his pretty witness, all before heading home for a good night’s sleep. Yeah. And pigs could fly.
From her seat at the patio table, Megan watched the detective take charge and thin out the throng of people that had shown up after she had called 9-1-1.
Megan’s regret was that Helen had seen, and she kept wishing that she had thought to cover the body. Megan knew from personal experience how devastating losing a family member in a violent death was. There was no erasing that image, no matter how much time passed. She knew because she’d been carrying one for nearly twenty years. Sometimes it was so vivid that it might have been yesterday.
Don’t go there, she warned herself, focusing on the detective as he talked to Doc Wagner. She vaguely remembered reading an article about him in the Gazette when he had been hired last spring. He wasn’t as old as she had imagined someone with his experience would be, though he certainly had a hard-edged look. His piercing gaze roved constantly over the yard as though he was memorizing the scene in addition to listening to Doc. She couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but from the set of the detective’s jaw and shoulders, she suspected that he was irritated.
Megan knew from her own training that Robby’s body shouldn’t have been moved, though at the time, helping Doc had seemed the sensible thing to do. She wasn’t sure how she was going to explain that to the detective. Actually, there were a lot of things she wasn’t sure how to explain to the detective.
“God help me,” she whispered under her breath as he came toward her, unsure whether it was prayer or lament. As for the prayers, she knew she’d have a lot of those later.
He smiled when he reached her. “I’m Detective Wade Prescott,” he said. “You’re Mrs. Russell’s neighbor?”
“Yes. Megan Burke.”
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
She shook her head, and he settled into the chair next to her, taking in Helen’s colorful backyard. Megan looked, too, wondering if he saw the yard the way she did—a well-cared-for sanctuary where murder should never be thought of, much less committed.
“Somebody is quite the gardener,” he said. “I’ve never seen more beautiful roses.”
“They are Helen’s pride and joy,” Megan said, wishing he’d skip the small talk and get to the point.
“You know her well?” he asked.
“She brought me a loaf of freshly baked bread the day I moved in three years ago and I’ve talked to her almost every single day since.”
Megan met his gaze head-on. His dark brown eyes drew her in, the expression there so interested, so focused, she imagined telling him all her secrets. Though it would be a relief to tell someone, sharing with a cop, especially now, would fall under the heading of “stupid.” He cocked his head to the side as though waiting to hear what she’d say next, his dark hair falling across his forehead.
“She’s one of my favorite people,” Megan said. She met his gaze, wished she knew what he was thinking. “Aren’t you going to ask about Robby?”
“Okay,” he agreed. “What about him?”
“I don’t—didn’t—know him very well at all. He’s been back in town only a couple of weeks.”
“But that isn’t what you want to tell me.”
It wasn’t.
Megan bowed her head, searching for the right words, knowing there wasn’t anything except the bald truth. Finally she shook her head.
“You’re going to think I killed him.”
“Did you?” Such a calm question, those dark eyes still drawing her in.
“No.” She swallowed. “But I told him that his grandmother would be better off if he were dead.”
TWO
Megan’s statement echoed in Wade’s head as he looked at her. She had a girl-next-door wholesomeness about her that he knew from experience was usually only skin-deep. For some reason, he wanted Megan to be what she seemed. Of course, he had hoped to spend the next fifteen years of his career without investigating another murder.
Clearly that wasn’t going to happen.
Her dark blond hair was sun-streaked as though she spent a lot of time outside. At the moment, though, she was pale, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks clearly visible. Her hands were clasped, probably to keep them from trembling. All the classic and expected things of a witness in this circumstance. But, her own words took her from witness to suspect.
She held his gaze steadily without saying anything further, which intrigued him. Most people couldn’t stand the silence and were eager to fill it up. Not this woman, though. She didn’t look away, but there was nothing defiant in her gaze. All Wade heard was the murmur of voices beyond them and the chirp of a bird in a nearby tree.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that it was one of those things you say in jest when you’re mildly annoyed.” He never spoke first. It was a cardinal rule of his, one he was acutely aware of breaking.
Then, she did look away, her gaze moving toward the backyard, a shimmer appearing in her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “I’ve never—I don’t say things like that.”
She never what? He wondered even as he acknowledged that she was telling him she’d been serious about the threat. He’d given her a way out, and she hadn’t taken it.
“Maybe you should just tell me how it happened. Give me some context to work with.”
Those vivid eyes fastened on him once more, and he realized her lashes were the longest he had ever seen. She really did have beautiful eyes. If he were to trust the old saying that eyes are a window to the soul, then this woman was innocent. Tempting, but he knew better.
He looked away from her face, studying the blood on her clothes. Though it would take a forensic examination to know for sure, his study now matched his first impression—there was no blood spatter from a live wound, but instead smears that might have come from touching someone you hoped would still be alive.
“Where do you work?” he asked, looking at a vaguely familiar emblem embroidered on the pocket of her shirt—a pair of hands cupped beneath a loaf of bread.
“Our Daily Bread,” she answered, giving him the name of a local home-health-care agency and making him wonder what she did there, since he’d already met several of the nurses and the PA. She touched her forehead with her palm. “I’ve got to call in. I was due at my first patient’s house a long time ago.”
“You’re a nurse?”
“A physical therapist. I work with patients who can’t get to the rehab center at the nursing home.” She reached for the clip on her belt that held her cell phone.
“Why is that body still lying out here?” The sonorous voice of Wade’s boss, Chief Carl Egan suddenly carried toward them.
Wade looked up to see the chief coming toward him, his eyes shadowed by the brim of the black baseball cap he always wore.
“There you are, Prescott. What do we have so far?”
“Maybe now is a good time to make that call,” Wade said to Megan. “I’ll be back.” Standing, he headed for the driveway, leading the chief away from his witness. “The body is still here because I haven’t examined it yet,” he said.
“And why not?”
“It’s not going anywhere. Not like other evidence and witnesses.”
“Uh-huh. Continue.” Though Egan’s tone was curt, he relaxed a little, folding his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels the way he did when he was concentrating.
“At the moment, we’re taking witness statements and doing the initial neighborhood canvas. As soon as we’re done, we’ll begin processing the crime scene.”
The chief lifted his hat, scratching his nearly bald head. “You can’t just leave a corpse lying out here in the driveway. This is a small town, Prescott. People aren’t used—”
“The body was like that when I got here,” Wade said. “So I don’t have any context for the crime scene.” He nodded toward Megan. “She’s the one who found him, and in a minute, I’m going to get her to show me exactly where and how.”
“Well, get to it, Prescott. You’re my expert, but I can tell you, you’ve already ruffled a few feathers. Doc Wagner called me up while I was on my way over here and bent my ear about the way you’ve run roughshod over everyone.”
Wade didn’t bother correcting that, but said, “Maybe he should have thought of that before he moved the body.”
The chief’s head came up and he looked back toward Wagner. “He did that?”
“He did.”
“Well. That does color things a little different now, doesn’t it?”
“We’ve got a mess,” Wade added. “Since the body was moved, I don’t yet know whether the victim died here or somewhere else. I don’t even know for sure that it was a murder, though at least one person evidently made a threat against him. But there were so many people moving through the area and contaminating the scene that this investigation is going to be a problem.”
“Hang on a minute. You’ve already talked to a suspect?”
“Witness,” Wade corrected.
“Well, bring him down to the station. Who is it?” Egan asked, remaining fixed on the idea of a suspect and a quick resolution to the case. Wade understood the agenda since it was the same with police chiefs everywhere. The quicker a case was solved, the less fallout there would be.
“A witness,” Wade repeated, nodding toward Megan. “Mrs. Russell’s neighbor.”
“The gal who found him?” The chief looked in her direction. “I’ll take her down to the station and put her in holding. You want to be there for the interrogation?”
“I’d like to get her statement before we accuse her of anything that, at this point, is pure conjecture,” Wade said. “And, since she’s the one who called this in, I want her to tell me how she found the body. Then you can take her.” He glanced back at Megan. “We’ll need her clothes, too.” Wade paused, waiting for Chief Egan to look back at him. “You know that witnesses to this kind of crime sometimes have post-traumatic stress symptoms that makes them look like they have things to hide when they don’t.”
“I’ve done my share of interrogations, Detective,” the chief said stiffly.
“All I’m saying is maybe we want to take it easy with her. See where it leads us.”
Chief Egan nodded. “Smart. Get her to convict herself with her own words.” He glanced back toward Doc Wagner. “You talk to your suspect and I’ll get Doc Wagner settled down. The sooner you can release the body to him, the better.”
“The body needs to go to Grand Junction for an autopsy by the medical examiner, in case this goes to court. We’ll need this done by a certified professional.”
Egan stared into space a moment. “That’s spreading resources pretty thin, since we’ll need to send an officer along to keep the chain of evidence intact.”
“That’s right.” Wade looked toward Doc Wagner, who was still talking on his cell phone. “Like the man told me, the body is his by state statute. As coroner, he can accompany it.”
Chief Egan laughed. “Nothing like getting even for messing with your crime scene, is there? Okay.” He slapped Wade on the back. “I’ll talk to him.”
By the time Wade headed back toward her, Megan had finished her call. Her boss, Sarah Moran, had told her not to worry about a thing, saying that she’d notify all the patients on Megan’s schedule for the day.
Detective Prescott’s posture was all tense again, she noted, deliberately thinking of him by his title. Finding that her hands were once more trembling, she clasped them on top of the table. She remembered this from before, and it seemed to her that she’d spent a long time shaking, especially when she had tried to go to sleep.
Stop it, she mentally scolded herself. She was no longer a child, and she’d be able to handle this.
“Are you up to showing me how you found the body?” he asked, pulling out a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and coming to a stop a few feet away from her.
She stood and came toward him, determined to get everything out in the open. Better he hear it from her than someone else. “I helped Doc Wagner put him—Robby—in the body bag.”
He looked at her steadily as though she’d simply told him something banal, like it was a nice day. “Is that when you got the blood all over you?”
She looked down at herself. “I don’t honestly remember.” How could she have not noticed the blood before now? “I remember touching Robby’s neck to see if there was a pulse. There wasn’t.”
Over the next few minutes she explained to Wade how she had found Robby while he drew a sketch, adjusting the lines on the drawing as she struggled to remember as many details of those awful minutes as she could.
When they were finished, he thanked her, then said, “We need to get a formal statement from you, and for that, Chief Egan is going to take you down to the station.” He paused. “And, we’re going to need your clothes as possible evidence, so he’s going to go inside your house with you while you get something to change into after you get to the station.”
Megan felt her lips go numb. This was more than a witness statement. “Am I a suspect?”
He seemed to weigh his words before answering without anything close to a reassuring smile to ease his somber expression. “Let’s take this one step at a time, Megan.” He said her name the way a friend might, only she knew he wasn’t, couldn’t be, her friend. “The sooner we get your statement and process the crime scene, the sooner we’ll have an idea of who did this.”
With that, he introduced her to Chief Egan, whom she had seen at quite a few different civic functions over the last three years. If he recognized her, he didn’t indicate it at all. He was silent as they went inside her house and she retrieved clothes to change into.
As stern as Detective Wade Prescott had seemed to her, Chief Egan was even more so, his gaze avoiding hers as she climbed into the back seat of his cruiser. When he closed the door, she looked across the street to the shocked faces of her neighbors. Was it her own rampant imagination, or had their eyes narrowed in suspicion? She wanted to bow her head and cry, but instead she lifted her chin, managed what she hoped would pass for a reassuring smile and waved at them. Only Angie Williams, her youngest child riding on her hip, waved back.
On the short drive to the police station, Chief Egan was quiet, his gaze meeting hers in the rearview mirror only once. When they arrived, he barked an order to Caroline York, the dispatcher, to accompany her to the restroom where she was to collect Megan’s clothes.
“Hi, Caroline,” Megan said as the woman came around her desk.
“I’m so sorry for what happened this morning,” Caroline responded. “Are you okay?”
“Wait,” Chief Egan said. “You two know each other?”
“Sure,” Caroline said. “We go to the same church.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the only female on duty today, so you’re stuck with collecting the evidence whether she’s a friend or not. Understood?”
“Yes,” she replied evenly, leading Megan down the hall and rolling her eyes when they were out of sight of Chief Egan. “My gosh, he’s acting as if you’re a suspect, instead of the person who reported the crime.”
Megan didn’t say anything about the chief. Instead, she asked Caroline, “How’s your grandfather?” He had been a patient last winter when he’d suffered a mild stroke.
“Testy as ever,” Caroline replied in her cheerful tone. “He likes making me think that he doesn’t want Billy and me living with him. And I’d almost believe him if he didn’t light up like Christmas when Billy gets home from school. Billy can’t wait to show his great-grandpa his papers, and Gramps can’t wait to see them.”
Caroline’s description of a family that took care of one another, even as they meddled and interfered in one another’s lives, made Megan envious. She thought of the void in her own life. Helen Russell was the closest thing she had to a mother, a bond that was sure to be tested when the old woman found out how much Megan had disliked and distrusted her grandson—a man who was no longer here to tell his side of the story.
“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Caroline added as Megan passed her bloodied shirt and pants over the bathroom stall. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Megan said.
“Is there anyone I can call for you?” Caroline asked.
“I’m worried about my neighbor, Helen Russell. If you could call Reverend Ford and ask him to check on her, that would be great.”
“Consider it done.” She paused, then asked, “What about you? Anyone I can call for you?”
“No, but thanks, Caroline.” Megan emerged from the stall as Caroline carefully labeled the paper bags she had put Megan’s clothes in. “What’s going to happen with my clothes?”
“You’ll have to ask Detective Prescott. He’s sure a stickler for making sure everything is packaged just so. We all had to sit in on training just last week.” She frowned. “With all this, I guess it’s a good thing we have a system.”
“Hey, enough of the chitchat!” Chief Egan called from outside the door.
Shaking her head in disapproval at his tone, Caroline pushed open the door. Chief Egan stood in the hallway, his arms folded over his chest. “Ms. Burke, you’ll wait in here.” He pointed toward a conference room.
Relief feathered through her chest—she had been sure that she was on her way to jail.
“Maybe she’d like a cup of coffee, Chief,” Caroline said.
He scowled, then asked, “Would you?”
“Yes, please,” Megan said as much to goad him as because she really did. “With cream.”
“I’ve got some half-and-half in the back instead of that icky powdered stuff the officers use,” Caroline said. “I’ll get it after I lock this up.” She held up the paper bags and disappeared down the hallway while Chief Egan waited pointedly next to the conference room door.
“So you and Caroline are friends,” he said to Megan.
“We are.” Not close ones, but no reason to admit that at the moment.
“Uh-huh,” he said, motioning Megan into the room.
Megan went to the end of the table and chose a chair that let her look out into the front of the building. She hoped she looked calm, but the truth was, inside she felt as though she was shattering into a gazillion little pieces. The truth was that inside she felt like she was eleven again, a child whose whole world had shattered.
Looking out the window to the street beyond, she was able to reassure herself that she was not in Hackensack, New Jersey. She closed her eyes, deliberately recalling each of the businesses on the block across the street. This was Natchez, the town that had been her home for the past three years.
“Here’s your coffee,” came Caroline’s bright voice. She breezed through the door past Chief Egan, a coffee mug in one hand and a pint of half-and-half in the other.
“Thanks.” Megan poured it into the mug filled with coffee, watching the two liquids merge together before handing the carton back to Caroline. Beyond her, Chief Egan gave the dispatcher a curt nod, urging her out of the room.
Then he crossed the room and sat down across from Megan.
“My new detective said he wanted to be here for your statement,” he said. “Do you want to call a lawyer?”
She knew what he was really saying—that he thought she had killed Robby—and she also knew she probably should call a lawyer. Instead, she wrapped her trembling hands around the warm coffee, raised her chin, and met his gaze. “If you’re accusing me of anything, you need to be a lot more direct.”
“When the time comes to Mirandize you, you’ll know it.”
She met his gaze without answering.
“And you’re not hiding anything,” he added, his tone too flat for the sarcastic words.
She wasn’t, at least not in the way he meant.
“You’d better pray you have your story straight by the time Detective Prescott gets here,” Egan said, closing and locking the door behind him as he strode toward the front door.
This wasn’t quite jail—not like it had been the last time she’d been accused of murder.
THREE
Three hours later and with his frustration level mounting, Wade came through the front door of the police station. Just as he had been afraid of, the crime scene had not yielded any obvious evidence that could set him on a logical path forward. Forensics might turn up something, but he couldn’t count on it. The probable murder weapon, a garden spade, had smeared fingerprints on it, as did the lid of one of the garbage cans. The only other interesting things discovered were some old coins next to scuffed footprints that were near the back fence behind the garage. At the moment, he had no idea if those were connected to the crime.
All he wanted to do was go home where he could lose himself in the hard, physical labor of turning over the caked red dirt that passed for soil in his backyard. Caroline said hi from her place at the front desk as he paused to pick up messages from the credenza behind her.
“Chief wants to see you,” she said. “And Megan Burke is still here.”
“Thanks,” he automatically said, pushing through the gate that separated the front of the office from the bull pen where his desk was. His gaze lit on the glass-encased conference room across from Chief Egan’s office. Megan sat at the head of the table, her gaze focused on the door he’d just come through. She looked directly at him. As intensely as had happened when he’d met her this morning, he had that punch in the chest of pure, male interest. He’d been here six months, working only a couple of blocks from where she worked, and he’d never seen her until this morning. He wished that he’d met her some other way.
But wishes, like prayers, were futile things.
With that he reminded himself of the big reasons to shelve his interest until he forgot about her. She was his probable best witness in a major case, possibly a major suspect. If that wasn’t enough, all he had to do was remind himself of the nightmares that haunted him, which didn’t mix with a relationship. At the turn of his thoughts, he gave himself a mental shake. He’d gone from thinking the woman was pretty to planning a life with her in a single bound. Irrational and stupid.
Across the hall from the conference room door, Chief Egan sat behind his desk, his feet propped on the credenza behind him, and a telephone receiver tucked between his ear and his shoulder. Their eyes caught in the reflection of the glass doors above the credenza. He waved at Wade to come into his office, dropping his feet to the floor and turning to face his desk.
Glancing a last time at Megan, Wade headed for Egan’s office. He ended the call with whomever he was talking to and resettled the baseball cap on his head. He pushed several sheets of paper across the desk toward Wade.
“I’ve had a couple of interesting phone calls,” Egan said as Wade picked up the sheets. “Your suspect—”
“Witness,” Wade corrected.
“—had a very public and heated argument with the victim a couple of days ago in front of the pawnshop.” Egan waved toward the sheets. “I took Thomas Johansen’s initial statement.”
“Of Johansen’s Pharmacy?”
“That’s right. I’ve known the man for thirty years, and he’s as trustworthy an individual as you could ever find.”
A good trait to have, Wade thought, since he wouldn’t want an untrustworthy pharmacist to fill his prescriptions.
“Anyway, the vic accused Ms. Burke of being a gold digger and she told him that he was no good and that Helen Russell didn’t deserve the kind of heartache he was putting her through. According to Johansen, she also told him that she wished he’d never come here and that Mrs. Russell was better off without him.” He waved toward the sheets of paper once again. “Mrs. Russell’s most recent bank statements are in there. Never knew before the lady was richer than Midas, so we’ve got our motive.”
Wade had spent more than an hour with the lady, and he’d come away with the impression that she lived comfortably. If she was wealthy, she wouldn’t be the first person he’d met who lived far more simply than their bank account permitted. He did understand where Egan’s thinking had headed; however, as he turned to look out the door and across the hall where he could see Megan. “You think she’s after Mrs. Russell’s money and killed the grandson to get it?”
Egan nodded. “We’ve got to start somewhere, and that motive makes sense. That young lady drives a Lexus RX, has a pot full of money in savings, and a job that wouldn’t appear to support having either one. I figure the vic was onto something. She makes friends with these old people, gets in their good graces, and steals from them while everyone is smiling. She killed the grandson to squash his accusation.”
“Got any evidence to support that theory?” Wade asked.
“That’s why I’ve got you, Detective. To find it.”
Wade stared at his boss a long moment, remembering all the other times he’d been pressured to button up a case and get the public settled down. Too well, he knew the cost of putting the wrong person in jail.
Wade stepped into the office and closed the door. “Since this is the first major case we’re on together,” he said, setting the papers on the corner of the desk, “a reminder about how I work. I follow the evidence where it leads me, not where anyone with an agenda wants it to go. If it proves a theory, fine. If it doesn’t, fine.”
“I get your drift.” Egan pointed at the glass door of his office, through which there was a view of the conference room door across the hall. “Call her a person of interest or a suspect or a witness. But in my book, she’s at the top of the most-likely list even if you don’t buy into my theory. In those papers is the preliminary criminal report I’ve pulled on her, along with her credit report.”
“Have you read it yet?”
The chief shook his head. “Nope. I’ve been fielding phone calls from everyone in town from the mayor to the editor of the Gazette.” With that, he once more propped his feet on the credenza, turning his back on Wade. “When you talk to her, I suggest you go in armed with the facts.”
“You said something about a couple of interesting phone calls. Johansen and who else?”
“A guy who didn’t want to leave his name, but who says he knows for sure that Megan Burke held a grudge against Robby Russell.”
“He didn’t leave his name,” Wade repeated flatly.
“No. Caller ID was blocked, but we’ve got the phone company on it. I’ll be sure to let you know when we hear something.”
Wade nodded.
“Close the door behind you,” the chief instructed as Wade left the room.
He discovered the door to the conference room was locked when he tried the knob. Nothing like making a witness even more nervous by locking her up, Wade thought. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open.
“Sorry you’ve had to wait all this time,” he said, meaning it. This close, he could see her expression was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. “Is there anything I can get for you? Coffee, something to eat?”
She shook her head, brushing her hair away from her face. He remembered her hair had been in a ponytail this morning. Now it fell to her shoulders, softly curling around her neck.
“The ladies’ room is back there. I’ve got one thing to do, which should take me no more than ten minutes.”
She nodded her understanding, stood, and came toward him. Despite her height, she seemed fragile as she slipped past him, heading for the restroom. The urge to protect her overwhelmed him for a moment—and then he looked down at the papers in his hand.
Sitting down, he scanned Egan’s notes and the record Caroline had printed. Megan was originally from New Jersey and evidently had come to Colorado to go to graduate school. She had worked as a physical therapist for several years in Denver at a rehab clinic affiliated with Denver General Hospital. Three years ago, she had moved here.
Three things stood out, and they were biggies. First, she had close to two hundred thousand dollars in savings—a lot of money for anyone, but a huge amount for someone on her wages. Second, she had changed her last name from Norris to Burke shortly after turning twenty-one. And third, she had been arrested and charged with assault and attempted murder.
He closed the file and stared down the hallway that led to the restrooms. He had been so sure she was one of the innocent ones. That, after telling Egan he didn’t make assumptions.
Expelling a harsh breath of irritation at himself, he put everything inside a folder and waited for her return. One minute turned into two, and with each passing one, his level of irritation with himself and her grew. When she finally came down the hallway, the five minutes had felt like an hour. Her hair was once more in a ponytail, her expression more composed than it had been a few minutes earlier. He followed her into the conference room. She sat down, folding her hands neatly on the table, her gaze not quite meeting his. For some reason, that pierced his control.
He let the door slam behind him when he came into the room. She jumped slightly, but nothing in her expression changed when he sat down across from her.
“Tell me about Megan Norris,” he said. “Tell me about your arrest.”
She blinked, then something in her expression dissolved. There was simply no other word for it. In a matter seconds, color drained out of her face, leaving a white line around her mouth and making the freckles sprinkled over her nose stand out. She stared at him without speaking, but the expression in her eyes was so devastated that he imagined he was looking at a person in shock. He’d interviewed enough witnesses, suspects and victims over the last fifteen years to know when a reaction was faked, and when one wasn’t. This was as real as it got.
The tug of sympathy pulled at his chest once more while he reminded himself he had a job to do. Collect the facts, build a case. Forget that he wanted to like this woman. That he already did like her.
“Did you read the whole report?” she asked, her voice surprisingly calm. “Or did you simply stop when you saw that I had been arrested?”
The fact that she seemed to know that further irritated him. “I want you to tell me about it.”
She lifted her chin slightly. “We don’t always get what we want, Detective. If you want the story…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed, all the time holding his gaze as though he had somehow betrayed her. “Read the rest of the report.”
“And then you’ll talk to me about it.”
She nodded, the reluctance in the gesture as obvious as her tightly clasped hands.
“Fair enough. Tell me about your relationship with Mrs. Russell,” he said.
She did, her color improving little by little. They were neighbors and friends. Everything she told him echoed what Helen Russell had told him when they had talked. Mrs. Russell had described how Megan watched out for her, shoveling the snow in winter, taking her to church and the grocery store. She’d never asked for anything, which contradicted the chief’s theory that she was a gold digger. Megan’s tone of voice and demeanor suggested that she genuinely liked her neighbor. But the knowledge that she had been arrested for attempted murder colored his perceptions, as unprofessional as that was. The cynic in him kept searching for motive in everything she relayed, but the side of him that wasn’t a cop kept wanting to take what she said at face value.
When Megan fell silent, he said, “But you didn’t like her grandson.”
“I didn’t,” she agreed without any defensiveness in her voice. “Helen raised him, you know. So, I think it hurt her that he didn’t visit very often. When he showed up a couple of weeks ago needing a place to stay, she was surprised.”
Megan paused while she continued to study the detective. Common sense urged her not to volunteer anything. And the promise that she’d made to herself to live an open life after her father died last year was right there at the surface, too. Was it better, she wondered, to tell everything she suspected about Robby? Or was it better to operate the way she knew a lawyer would advise—keep her mouth shut. And if she did, would that make finding Robby’s killer harder? And if she spoke up, would Detective Prescott assume he could—and should—build a case against her?
And then she remembered a verse from her Bible-study group a couple of weeks ago. You will come to know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. It had been true for her all those years ago when the finger of suspicion had been pointed at her. It had to apply now.
“I need to tell you about two different things that happened.”
“Either of these come under the heading of your needing a lawyer?”
The question surprised her since her impression was that cops wanted information any way they could get it. Once more reminding herself that the truth couldn’t hurt her, she said, “I’ll take my chances. The first has to do with a strange thing that started about a month ago after a visit to the bank.”
“Was that before or after Russell came to town?”
“Before, by a week or so,” she replied. “Helen has this huge collection of old coins that she decided to have appraised. They were in a safety-deposit box at the bank, and she wanted help carrying them home.”
“They were that heavy?” His soft question was interested, the kind friends asked when they were getting acquainted.
Ignoring the warning in her head that this man wasn’t a friend, couldn’t be a friend, she said, “You have no idea. She kept them in a washtub.” Visualizing the plastic container, she motioned with her hands. “You know, like you’d set in the bottom of a sink. Anyway, we got them home, and she asked me to put them away on a shelf in the closet of her spare bedroom. A couple of days ago, she told me that the appraiser was finally coming to see her and asked me to get them down. At least a quarter of them were gone.” She paused, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach from that day back now.
“These coins…just how old are we talking?” Wade asked.
“Pre-civil war for a lot of the collection.”
“And Mrs. Russell showed them to you.”
“She did,” Megan said. “Her father had begun the collection, and she had a story to go with many of the coins.”
“And you think this has something to do with Robby’s death?”
She met his gaze. “I don’t know. It just seems strange, you know?” She sighed. “The second part of this…Robby accused me of stealing from her.”
“Were you?” The question so calm, so much still like two friends talking. Even so, her heart pounded.
“No. I wouldn’t do that.” She clasped her hands on top of the table, mentally repeating, the truth will set you free.
“So, you’re telling me you’re not a gold digger.”
“Good grief, what do you take me for?” She stared at him, seeing an attractive man with penetrating brown eyes and a half smile. His posture was relaxed, an ankle drawn over the opposite knee, everything in his demeanor open. Friendly. Not at all like his stern-faced boss.
And yet, there was the accusation. The motive they thought she had, she realized. Swallowing, she looked away from the eyes that she had taken for kind.
“What’s the second thing?” he asked. She must have given him a blank look because he tacked on, “You said you had two things to tell me. Missing coins and…”
“When Robby showed up a couple of weeks ago, he complained about being broke. Then, a few days after he got here, he wasn’t, and he flaunted it.”
“And?”
“I think he was stealing from Helen.” She paused and looked away for a second, too aware of Wade’s focused energy directed at her. “Helen mentioned that she had misplaced a bracelet she often wore—a gold bangle. I’m talking real gold, not some piece of costume jewelry.”
“And that’s when you confronted Robby?”
Megan shook her head. “Not then. I didn’t even make the connection until a few days later. Lou Gessner, the woman who owns the pawnshop, is in my Bible-study group. I asked her if she ever had any bangle bracelets, and she said one had just come into her shop a few days earlier. Then, the following Saturday morning, I saw him coming out of the pawnshop holding his money.”
“Are you accusing this woman of accepting stolen goods?”
“Of course not,” she said in defense of her friend, who was one of the most honest, forthright people she knew. “How is she supposed to know until she hears back from the police after she submits her reports?”
“Sounds like you know a lot about it.”
“That’s because I asked her,” Megan said evenly, despite the accusation that once more laced Detective Prescott’s voice.
“And that morning—what day was that?”
“Last Saturday.”
“And you confronted him?”
“I did.” Megan felt her throat close as she remembered those moments, now wishing they had never happened. “We got into it, and to be honest, I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but I do remember telling him that he was a thief and he didn’t deserve to be Helen’s grandson…and that she would be better off without him. Mr. Johansen saw us, and I’m sure he’ll tell you pretty much the same thing if you ask him.”
“You do realize what you’re telling me, don’t you?”
Megan opened her mouth to speak, then stopped when the detective held up his hand.
“If Johansen corroborates your story and says that you threatened Robby Russell…” His eyes bore into hers, and something there softened imperceptibly. “You need a lawyer.”
She nodded her head. “Is this the part where you tell me that I’m a suspect?”
“Yeah.” His voice turned gravelly. “At the moment, you’re my only suspect.”
FOUR
You’re my only suspect. The statement was at odds with Wade Prescott’s gentle expression she kept seeing in his eyes, despite his tough demeanor.
Megan had weighed the risks before deciding to be so open, and she really had believed this would all be okay. This was all so surreal that the urge to laugh bubbled up when Megan remembered how she had felt this morning when she had first walked out of her house. This was to have been a perfect day. It had all the ingredients—crisp autumn weather, a patient who was progressing well under her care, a life that pleased her. She had an equal urge to cry over how the day had turned out. Unfair as all this was, the day had been a far worse one for Helen Russell, a thought that burned behind Megan’s eyes.
She met Wade’s gaze, which had softened. She really wished he’d stop looking at her that way because it made her want to like him.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sharon-mignerey/the-good-neighbor/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Sharon Mignerey
Detective Wade Prescott knows he has his prime suspect: Megan Burke. He found her in the yard beside the body of her neighbor's grandson. With a victim and a motive, it should be simple to connect the dots. Yet Megan's sweet demeanor has Wade believing in her innocence.And if she is innocent, a murderer is still at large. Wade vows to protect Megan, but can he shield her from a killer's crosshairs?
“Do you know Mrs. Russell well?” Wade asked.
Megan met his gaze head-on, his dark brown eyes drawing her in. She imagined telling him all her secrets. She shook her head. Though it would be a relief to tell someone, sharing with a cop, especially now, would come under the heading of stupid.
“She’s one of my best friends,” Megan said. She wished she knew what he was thinking. “I didn’t know her grandson very well at all, though. He’s been back in town only a couple of weeks.”
“But that isn’t what you want to tell me.”
Megan bowed her head, searching for the right words, knowing there wasn’t anything except the bald truth. Finally she shook her head.
“You’re going to think I killed him.”
“Did you?” Such a calm question, those dark eyes still drawing her in.
“No.” She swallowed. “But I told him that his grandmother would be better off if he was dead.”
SHARON MIGNEREY
After living most of her life in Colorado, Sharon recently moved to the Texas Gulf coast where she found that southern hospitality lived up to its reputation for being warm and welcoming. She’s always known that she wanted to be a storyteller from the time she learned that spelling words could be turned into stories. Sharon’s first book was published in 1997 after winning RWA’s Golden Heart award in 1995. That same book went on to win the National Readers’ Choice Award. In addition to writing novels, Sharon has had several articles published by The Writer magazine. She says the accolades are wonderful, but the only lasting satisfaction comes from serving the work. When she’s not writing, you can find her happily involved with her critique group, learning how to garden in the Texas heat, or playing with her two dogs.
Sharon loves hearing from readers. She can be reached either through her Web site (www.sharonmignerey.com) or in care of Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
The Good Neighbor
Sharon Mignerey
Seest thou how faith wrought with his works,
and by works was faith made perfect?
—James 2:22
For Daniele Seidner; critique partner, proofreader
and most of all, friend—I would have never made it
through this book without you.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ONE
This was the sort of morning that scrubbed the shadows from Megan Burke’s heart. The sun peeked over Grand Mesa’s ramparts east of town, golden rays spearing between houses and trees, leaves fluttering in the crisp breeze.
Definitely a TGIF kind of day.
Two of the patients on her schedule for today lived out of town, so she was looking forward to a long, beautiful drive through the autumn day under a brilliant turquoise sky.
Automatically giving thanks for the day the Lord had made, Megan locked her front door behind her and skipped down the steps, heading for the driveway, which hugged the boundary line of her small yard.
She set her bag of patient charts in the back seat of her car then went to the gate next to her garage. After she rolled her trash can out to the curb, she went back for the recyclables.
Her neighbor Helen Russell waved to her from her kitchen window where she kept an eye on the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Megan waved back, hoping Helen wasn’t as stressed as she’d been yesterday. As usual, Helen’s cat sat on the windowsill, its gaze fixed unblinkingly on something in one of the trees whose large branches draped over the garage and driveway. Probably the regularly visiting raccoons that Megan had heard pulling over the garbage cans earlier. If they had, there would be a mess to clean up.
Helen disappeared, then opened the back door a second later. “Good morning, sweetie,” she said. Deep smile lines creased the corners of her eyes. “It’s sure a gorgeous morning.” The cat rubbed against her legs, purring loudly.
“It is,” Megan replied, thinking Helen sounded better today. She was glad for that. Her neighbor was the closest thing to family that Megan had, something she hadn’t anticipated finding when she had moved here three years ago.
Helen’s only living relative, her grandson, Robby, had returned to Natchez from Denver three weeks ago after losing his job. He had moved into Helen’s basement bedroom and was trading heavily on his old reputation. He hadn’t lived in Natchez in ten years, but was still regarded as one of the town’s own, a status Megan doubted she’d achieve even if she lived here twenty years. Megan’s concern was that Robby worried Helen with his late-night comings and goings, his loud music and his apparent lack of job prospects.
“How are the heads for our apple dolls looking this morning?” Along with several other people, Megan and Helen had peeled and carved over a hundred apples last night in Helen’s inviting kitchen. To raise funds for the seniors’ center, the dolls were going to be sold at the Apple Festival coming up at the end of the month.
“You should come see,” Helen said with a smile. “Personality is beginning to pop out all over the place.”
“Tonight,” Megan promised, with a glance at her watch.
“Glenna Adams told me you were coming to see her today. She lived across the street, you know, until her husband retired. Poor thing. He died less than a year later,” Helen said. “Does she still live with her daughter out in Granger Gulch?”
“She does.” Megan responded as though this was the first time they’d had this identical conversation. Helen’s lapses of memory had seemed worse over the past month, which had coincided with Robby’s unexpected arrival. “And I’ll be late if I get sidetracked.”
“You don’t need to worry about taking my trash out,” Helen said. “Robby told me he’d do it when he left a little while ago.”
Though Megan knew the trash barrel wasn’t out by the curb, she looked back toward it anyway. “It’s not there. It will just take me a minute to grab yours.”
“That boy.” Helen shook her head as though he really was a boy instead of a grown man in his midthirties.
“His car is still here,” Megan added, “so he’s probably still around somewhere.”
Personally, she hoped he’d find someplace else to stay soon, since she was nearly positive he had been stealing from Helen. She had vast collections that included expensive jewelry, Italian ceramic figurines, hundreds of colorful, hand-painted pitchers from all over the world and a plastic washtub filled with old coins, some predating the Civil War. Every time she had been in Helen’s house since Robby’s arrival, he was asking his grandmother about her things and how much they were worth. Megan suspected his interest wasn’t just a simple matter of curiosity.
“He came through the kitchen like a whirlwind about a half hour ago,” Helen said. “He told me he had errands to run and that he’d be gone all day because he was checking out some prospects.” She shook her head, her short, white curls bouncing a little. “I wish I understood what that meant. If he was applying for a job somewhere, why couldn’t he say so?”
Helen had talked about that, too—Robby’s job hunting or lack of it—every day.
Megan wished she knew how to tell her neighbor that Robby was stealing from her. Not an easy thing to do, since she couldn’t prove it. Besides that, Helen saw him as needing sympathy because of his recent bad luck after losing his job in Denver.
“Is there anything you need today?” Megan asked. “I’ve got to stop at the grocery store on the way home.”
“You’re such a dear to ask, but no.” Smiling, Helen gave a little wave, scooped up her cat and went back inside.
Megan headed for Helen’s trash cans, her thoughts on her busy day as she pulled open the gate.
And there was Robby, sprawled on the ground next to an overturned trash barrel, a bloody gash at his temple, his sightless eyes fixed on the brilliant autumn sky.
His old stomach ulcer burning, Detective Wade Prescott arrived a half hour later at the address on Red Robin Lane in response to a personal call from the chief. Natchez, Colorado, had its first murder in more than thirty years.
Wade had moved here from Chicago six months ago to be closer to the vast expanse of wide-open spaces that had captured his imagination when he’d come to the area on vacation last year. He also wanted to live in a community where the crime rate was so low that he was the only detective in the county. The position had been described to him as more of a community outreach than an investigative job, and that had sounded perfect for a burned-out cop who had prayed to never investigate another murder. The one that haunted him daily had occurred twenty-two months ago, and involved two little girls who had been executed by their father and whose mother was now serving a life sentence for taking his life. The case had shaken Wade to the core, making him question whether he was fit to be a cop. Worse, he wanted to rage at God for the injustice of it all.
The houses in this older neighborhood were modest, with neat yards and big shade trees. The place was the quintessential small town. When he’d first moved here, he kept expecting to see Andy and Opie emerge from one of Natchez’s tidy houses with their fishing poles over their shoulders.
He knew he was at the right place because of the people standing in clusters on the neighboring lawns. A police cruiser, a fire truck and an ambulance were parked in the middle of the street, effectively blocking traffic and adding to the chaos.
The first thing he noticed was a body bag and an old woman who couldn’t take her eyes away from it.
A body bag. Surely some fool hadn’t moved the body.
His gaze went back to the old woman who was being comforted by a much younger woman whose shirt and slacks were stained with blood. Both looked familiar to him, something that still surprised him even after six months. Natchez was a community of three thousand in such a remote part of the state the nearest city of any size was a three-hour drive away. That was undoubtedly why everyone had begun to look familiar—because he was seeing them all the time at places like the grocery store, the local diner and the Independence Day picnic. Firemen from the volunteer station were standing around, and the officer talking to them was Aaron Moran, a rookie who had been on the squad a whole four weeks.
Moran came toward Wade as he got out of the car.
“I’m sure glad to see you,” he said as another police cruiser drove up and a hearse from the funeral home parked behind Wade’s vehicle.
“Where was the body found?” Wade asked.
“Over there by the trash cans,” Moran answered, waving in the direction of a partially open gate with a rose-covered arbor. “The neighbor found the body when she went to take out Mrs. Russell’s trash.”
“Take Mrs. Russell inside,” he told Moran, saving the talk about securing the crime scene and getting witness statements for a moment when he wasn’t irritated. “Get her statement, and stay with her until I come get you.”
He called to Officer Jim Udell, who was getting out of his cruiser. “Cordon off the crime scene,” Wade told him, “starting there.” He pointed to the curb about sixty feet in front of the gate. Then he headed down the driveway toward the young woman who was following Moran and Mrs. Russell into the house.
“Miss,” Wade called to her.
She stopped, her vivid blue eyes filled with the dazed expression of someone unexpectedly exposed to violence. He felt an unexpected tug of sympathy for her. “You’re the one who called this in?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her gaze left his and drifted to the body bag.
“I need to talk to you.” Noticing a picnic table under an umbrella in the backyard, he waved toward it. “Do you mind waiting for me over there? I shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”
He’d had years of experience securing people’s cooperation—just the right amount of authority in his voice without making people afraid. Yet, she reacted to him as though he had shouted at her. She was pretty, something he noticed as a man more than as a cop, a notion that didn’t please him a bit, as he studied her face. There was a time and a place, and this was neither.
Her shocky expression faded a bit. With a nod, she walked away from him, leaving him with the feeling there was more to her than a neighbor simply finding a body. Tucking away that thought to reexamine later, he turned back toward the chaos, determined to get control of the crime scene.
Firemen, EMTs, a couple of guys from the funeral home, and the county coroner were the only other people left inside the perimeter that Officer Udell had blocked off with crime-scene tape. “Talk to the folks standing around,” Wade told him, “and see what they saw or heard. Find out who belongs on this street and who doesn’t.”
“I’m on it,” Udell said.
Doc Wagner, a family practitioner who had first been elected as the county coroner close to forty years ago, came toward him. Since there wasn’t much crime in Natchez, there was no medical examiner to help investigate and make sure evidence was preserved—just this family doctor who was a fixture in the community.
“Just need your okay to hand the body over to the mortuary and I’ll get out of your hair,” Doc Wagner said, smiling as if it was already a done deal.
“Can you hang around for another minute?” Wade asked, doing his level best to hide his irritation. How could the man not know to leave the body alone?
Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the firemen. “Are you guys finished up here?” he said, instead of demanding that they get out of his crime scene.
“Who are you?” one of them asked.
“Detective Wade Prescott,” he answered, flashing his badge. “Clearing the crime scene so I can start my work.”
“I know this guy,” the fireman said, pointing at the body bag. “We went to school together.”
“Yeah?” Wade reached for the notebook in the pocket of his jacket. “What’s your name?”
“Brian Davis.” The firefighter stuck out his hand. “You’re the new guy on the force.”
“I am.” That came up daily. “What can you tell me about Mr. Russell?”
“Robby?”
Wade looked at the name he’d written down when the chief had called him. “That’s right.”
“Haven’t seen much of him lately, but he grew up right here in that house. His grandmother raised him.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
Davis stared at the ground a moment before answering. “Couldn’t tell you for sure. Probably a couple of years. I’d heard he was back in town, but our paths hadn’t crossed, you know?”
Which meant this witness couldn’t help nail down the events leading up to the murder. Wade took down the phone number and other contact information, aware that Doc Wagner was calling to him.
Turning back to the coroner, Wade led him toward the body bag. “You couldn’t wait until I got here before you moved the body?” Wade knew his tone was too sharp, but didn’t care. Bodies didn’t go anywhere, and you got only one chance at the physical evidence. This crime scene was so contaminated, he didn’t know how he was going to figure out what had happened, much less make a case.
“I couldn’t leave him out here in plain sight of his grandmother,” the doctor responded, clearly irritated. “Dead or not—”
“This is your first murder?”
Doc Wagner was long past seventy and was exactly what you’d expect a family doctor of his generation to look like. “No,” he said. “The last one was five years ago. Hasn’t been one inside the Natchez city limits, though, in a long time.”
“The crime scene is mine,” Wade said. “Nothing gets moved until I clear it.”
“And the body is mine,” the doctor said. “I’d be happy to show you the state statute that says it is.”
“Maybe. But where I come from, we don’t move anything until we’re sure the evidence is preserved.”
Wagner’s eyes glinted and he straightened to his full height. “I determined the cause of death.”
Wade knew he wouldn’t have that for sure until after the autopsy, but there was no point in arguing right now, especially when he looked toward the backyard and saw his witness watching them. “Which was?”
“Blunt-force trauma to the head.” The doctor waved in the direction of the half-open gate and the overturned trash cans. “Looks like a garden spade back there was the murder weapon.” He took a breath then continued, “I might not be some young, big-city detective who’s up on all the latest. But I know you can’t leave a dead man around for all the gawkers. And, I couldn’t stand that Helen was so upset.”
“Next time, move the gawkers, not the body,” Wade said, figuring this would be only the beginning of the criticism. He was bound to step on a lot of toes before the day was over. “I don’t suppose you thought to take any pictures.”
Looking baffled, Doc Wagner shook his head, making Wade wonder if he had ever attended any continuing-education classes in forensic science since being elected. Murder 101. Do not move the body. Even one of the bad police dramas on television ought to have clued him in.
At the moment, Wade wished this really was one of those dramas. Give him an hour, and he would have corralled all the witnesses, uncovered all the evidence, foiled the killer before he made his escape or killed again, and kissed his pretty witness, all before heading home for a good night’s sleep. Yeah. And pigs could fly.
From her seat at the patio table, Megan watched the detective take charge and thin out the throng of people that had shown up after she had called 9-1-1.
Megan’s regret was that Helen had seen, and she kept wishing that she had thought to cover the body. Megan knew from personal experience how devastating losing a family member in a violent death was. There was no erasing that image, no matter how much time passed. She knew because she’d been carrying one for nearly twenty years. Sometimes it was so vivid that it might have been yesterday.
Don’t go there, she warned herself, focusing on the detective as he talked to Doc Wagner. She vaguely remembered reading an article about him in the Gazette when he had been hired last spring. He wasn’t as old as she had imagined someone with his experience would be, though he certainly had a hard-edged look. His piercing gaze roved constantly over the yard as though he was memorizing the scene in addition to listening to Doc. She couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but from the set of the detective’s jaw and shoulders, she suspected that he was irritated.
Megan knew from her own training that Robby’s body shouldn’t have been moved, though at the time, helping Doc had seemed the sensible thing to do. She wasn’t sure how she was going to explain that to the detective. Actually, there were a lot of things she wasn’t sure how to explain to the detective.
“God help me,” she whispered under her breath as he came toward her, unsure whether it was prayer or lament. As for the prayers, she knew she’d have a lot of those later.
He smiled when he reached her. “I’m Detective Wade Prescott,” he said. “You’re Mrs. Russell’s neighbor?”
“Yes. Megan Burke.”
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
She shook her head, and he settled into the chair next to her, taking in Helen’s colorful backyard. Megan looked, too, wondering if he saw the yard the way she did—a well-cared-for sanctuary where murder should never be thought of, much less committed.
“Somebody is quite the gardener,” he said. “I’ve never seen more beautiful roses.”
“They are Helen’s pride and joy,” Megan said, wishing he’d skip the small talk and get to the point.
“You know her well?” he asked.
“She brought me a loaf of freshly baked bread the day I moved in three years ago and I’ve talked to her almost every single day since.”
Megan met his gaze head-on. His dark brown eyes drew her in, the expression there so interested, so focused, she imagined telling him all her secrets. Though it would be a relief to tell someone, sharing with a cop, especially now, would fall under the heading of “stupid.” He cocked his head to the side as though waiting to hear what she’d say next, his dark hair falling across his forehead.
“She’s one of my favorite people,” Megan said. She met his gaze, wished she knew what he was thinking. “Aren’t you going to ask about Robby?”
“Okay,” he agreed. “What about him?”
“I don’t—didn’t—know him very well at all. He’s been back in town only a couple of weeks.”
“But that isn’t what you want to tell me.”
It wasn’t.
Megan bowed her head, searching for the right words, knowing there wasn’t anything except the bald truth. Finally she shook her head.
“You’re going to think I killed him.”
“Did you?” Such a calm question, those dark eyes still drawing her in.
“No.” She swallowed. “But I told him that his grandmother would be better off if he were dead.”
TWO
Megan’s statement echoed in Wade’s head as he looked at her. She had a girl-next-door wholesomeness about her that he knew from experience was usually only skin-deep. For some reason, he wanted Megan to be what she seemed. Of course, he had hoped to spend the next fifteen years of his career without investigating another murder.
Clearly that wasn’t going to happen.
Her dark blond hair was sun-streaked as though she spent a lot of time outside. At the moment, though, she was pale, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks clearly visible. Her hands were clasped, probably to keep them from trembling. All the classic and expected things of a witness in this circumstance. But, her own words took her from witness to suspect.
She held his gaze steadily without saying anything further, which intrigued him. Most people couldn’t stand the silence and were eager to fill it up. Not this woman, though. She didn’t look away, but there was nothing defiant in her gaze. All Wade heard was the murmur of voices beyond them and the chirp of a bird in a nearby tree.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that it was one of those things you say in jest when you’re mildly annoyed.” He never spoke first. It was a cardinal rule of his, one he was acutely aware of breaking.
Then, she did look away, her gaze moving toward the backyard, a shimmer appearing in her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “I’ve never—I don’t say things like that.”
She never what? He wondered even as he acknowledged that she was telling him she’d been serious about the threat. He’d given her a way out, and she hadn’t taken it.
“Maybe you should just tell me how it happened. Give me some context to work with.”
Those vivid eyes fastened on him once more, and he realized her lashes were the longest he had ever seen. She really did have beautiful eyes. If he were to trust the old saying that eyes are a window to the soul, then this woman was innocent. Tempting, but he knew better.
He looked away from her face, studying the blood on her clothes. Though it would take a forensic examination to know for sure, his study now matched his first impression—there was no blood spatter from a live wound, but instead smears that might have come from touching someone you hoped would still be alive.
“Where do you work?” he asked, looking at a vaguely familiar emblem embroidered on the pocket of her shirt—a pair of hands cupped beneath a loaf of bread.
“Our Daily Bread,” she answered, giving him the name of a local home-health-care agency and making him wonder what she did there, since he’d already met several of the nurses and the PA. She touched her forehead with her palm. “I’ve got to call in. I was due at my first patient’s house a long time ago.”
“You’re a nurse?”
“A physical therapist. I work with patients who can’t get to the rehab center at the nursing home.” She reached for the clip on her belt that held her cell phone.
“Why is that body still lying out here?” The sonorous voice of Wade’s boss, Chief Carl Egan suddenly carried toward them.
Wade looked up to see the chief coming toward him, his eyes shadowed by the brim of the black baseball cap he always wore.
“There you are, Prescott. What do we have so far?”
“Maybe now is a good time to make that call,” Wade said to Megan. “I’ll be back.” Standing, he headed for the driveway, leading the chief away from his witness. “The body is still here because I haven’t examined it yet,” he said.
“And why not?”
“It’s not going anywhere. Not like other evidence and witnesses.”
“Uh-huh. Continue.” Though Egan’s tone was curt, he relaxed a little, folding his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels the way he did when he was concentrating.
“At the moment, we’re taking witness statements and doing the initial neighborhood canvas. As soon as we’re done, we’ll begin processing the crime scene.”
The chief lifted his hat, scratching his nearly bald head. “You can’t just leave a corpse lying out here in the driveway. This is a small town, Prescott. People aren’t used—”
“The body was like that when I got here,” Wade said. “So I don’t have any context for the crime scene.” He nodded toward Megan. “She’s the one who found him, and in a minute, I’m going to get her to show me exactly where and how.”
“Well, get to it, Prescott. You’re my expert, but I can tell you, you’ve already ruffled a few feathers. Doc Wagner called me up while I was on my way over here and bent my ear about the way you’ve run roughshod over everyone.”
Wade didn’t bother correcting that, but said, “Maybe he should have thought of that before he moved the body.”
The chief’s head came up and he looked back toward Wagner. “He did that?”
“He did.”
“Well. That does color things a little different now, doesn’t it?”
“We’ve got a mess,” Wade added. “Since the body was moved, I don’t yet know whether the victim died here or somewhere else. I don’t even know for sure that it was a murder, though at least one person evidently made a threat against him. But there were so many people moving through the area and contaminating the scene that this investigation is going to be a problem.”
“Hang on a minute. You’ve already talked to a suspect?”
“Witness,” Wade corrected.
“Well, bring him down to the station. Who is it?” Egan asked, remaining fixed on the idea of a suspect and a quick resolution to the case. Wade understood the agenda since it was the same with police chiefs everywhere. The quicker a case was solved, the less fallout there would be.
“A witness,” Wade repeated, nodding toward Megan. “Mrs. Russell’s neighbor.”
“The gal who found him?” The chief looked in her direction. “I’ll take her down to the station and put her in holding. You want to be there for the interrogation?”
“I’d like to get her statement before we accuse her of anything that, at this point, is pure conjecture,” Wade said. “And, since she’s the one who called this in, I want her to tell me how she found the body. Then you can take her.” He glanced back at Megan. “We’ll need her clothes, too.” Wade paused, waiting for Chief Egan to look back at him. “You know that witnesses to this kind of crime sometimes have post-traumatic stress symptoms that makes them look like they have things to hide when they don’t.”
“I’ve done my share of interrogations, Detective,” the chief said stiffly.
“All I’m saying is maybe we want to take it easy with her. See where it leads us.”
Chief Egan nodded. “Smart. Get her to convict herself with her own words.” He glanced back toward Doc Wagner. “You talk to your suspect and I’ll get Doc Wagner settled down. The sooner you can release the body to him, the better.”
“The body needs to go to Grand Junction for an autopsy by the medical examiner, in case this goes to court. We’ll need this done by a certified professional.”
Egan stared into space a moment. “That’s spreading resources pretty thin, since we’ll need to send an officer along to keep the chain of evidence intact.”
“That’s right.” Wade looked toward Doc Wagner, who was still talking on his cell phone. “Like the man told me, the body is his by state statute. As coroner, he can accompany it.”
Chief Egan laughed. “Nothing like getting even for messing with your crime scene, is there? Okay.” He slapped Wade on the back. “I’ll talk to him.”
By the time Wade headed back toward her, Megan had finished her call. Her boss, Sarah Moran, had told her not to worry about a thing, saying that she’d notify all the patients on Megan’s schedule for the day.
Detective Prescott’s posture was all tense again, she noted, deliberately thinking of him by his title. Finding that her hands were once more trembling, she clasped them on top of the table. She remembered this from before, and it seemed to her that she’d spent a long time shaking, especially when she had tried to go to sleep.
Stop it, she mentally scolded herself. She was no longer a child, and she’d be able to handle this.
“Are you up to showing me how you found the body?” he asked, pulling out a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and coming to a stop a few feet away from her.
She stood and came toward him, determined to get everything out in the open. Better he hear it from her than someone else. “I helped Doc Wagner put him—Robby—in the body bag.”
He looked at her steadily as though she’d simply told him something banal, like it was a nice day. “Is that when you got the blood all over you?”
She looked down at herself. “I don’t honestly remember.” How could she have not noticed the blood before now? “I remember touching Robby’s neck to see if there was a pulse. There wasn’t.”
Over the next few minutes she explained to Wade how she had found Robby while he drew a sketch, adjusting the lines on the drawing as she struggled to remember as many details of those awful minutes as she could.
When they were finished, he thanked her, then said, “We need to get a formal statement from you, and for that, Chief Egan is going to take you down to the station.” He paused. “And, we’re going to need your clothes as possible evidence, so he’s going to go inside your house with you while you get something to change into after you get to the station.”
Megan felt her lips go numb. This was more than a witness statement. “Am I a suspect?”
He seemed to weigh his words before answering without anything close to a reassuring smile to ease his somber expression. “Let’s take this one step at a time, Megan.” He said her name the way a friend might, only she knew he wasn’t, couldn’t be, her friend. “The sooner we get your statement and process the crime scene, the sooner we’ll have an idea of who did this.”
With that, he introduced her to Chief Egan, whom she had seen at quite a few different civic functions over the last three years. If he recognized her, he didn’t indicate it at all. He was silent as they went inside her house and she retrieved clothes to change into.
As stern as Detective Wade Prescott had seemed to her, Chief Egan was even more so, his gaze avoiding hers as she climbed into the back seat of his cruiser. When he closed the door, she looked across the street to the shocked faces of her neighbors. Was it her own rampant imagination, or had their eyes narrowed in suspicion? She wanted to bow her head and cry, but instead she lifted her chin, managed what she hoped would pass for a reassuring smile and waved at them. Only Angie Williams, her youngest child riding on her hip, waved back.
On the short drive to the police station, Chief Egan was quiet, his gaze meeting hers in the rearview mirror only once. When they arrived, he barked an order to Caroline York, the dispatcher, to accompany her to the restroom where she was to collect Megan’s clothes.
“Hi, Caroline,” Megan said as the woman came around her desk.
“I’m so sorry for what happened this morning,” Caroline responded. “Are you okay?”
“Wait,” Chief Egan said. “You two know each other?”
“Sure,” Caroline said. “We go to the same church.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the only female on duty today, so you’re stuck with collecting the evidence whether she’s a friend or not. Understood?”
“Yes,” she replied evenly, leading Megan down the hall and rolling her eyes when they were out of sight of Chief Egan. “My gosh, he’s acting as if you’re a suspect, instead of the person who reported the crime.”
Megan didn’t say anything about the chief. Instead, she asked Caroline, “How’s your grandfather?” He had been a patient last winter when he’d suffered a mild stroke.
“Testy as ever,” Caroline replied in her cheerful tone. “He likes making me think that he doesn’t want Billy and me living with him. And I’d almost believe him if he didn’t light up like Christmas when Billy gets home from school. Billy can’t wait to show his great-grandpa his papers, and Gramps can’t wait to see them.”
Caroline’s description of a family that took care of one another, even as they meddled and interfered in one another’s lives, made Megan envious. She thought of the void in her own life. Helen Russell was the closest thing she had to a mother, a bond that was sure to be tested when the old woman found out how much Megan had disliked and distrusted her grandson—a man who was no longer here to tell his side of the story.
“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Caroline added as Megan passed her bloodied shirt and pants over the bathroom stall. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Megan said.
“Is there anyone I can call for you?” Caroline asked.
“I’m worried about my neighbor, Helen Russell. If you could call Reverend Ford and ask him to check on her, that would be great.”
“Consider it done.” She paused, then asked, “What about you? Anyone I can call for you?”
“No, but thanks, Caroline.” Megan emerged from the stall as Caroline carefully labeled the paper bags she had put Megan’s clothes in. “What’s going to happen with my clothes?”
“You’ll have to ask Detective Prescott. He’s sure a stickler for making sure everything is packaged just so. We all had to sit in on training just last week.” She frowned. “With all this, I guess it’s a good thing we have a system.”
“Hey, enough of the chitchat!” Chief Egan called from outside the door.
Shaking her head in disapproval at his tone, Caroline pushed open the door. Chief Egan stood in the hallway, his arms folded over his chest. “Ms. Burke, you’ll wait in here.” He pointed toward a conference room.
Relief feathered through her chest—she had been sure that she was on her way to jail.
“Maybe she’d like a cup of coffee, Chief,” Caroline said.
He scowled, then asked, “Would you?”
“Yes, please,” Megan said as much to goad him as because she really did. “With cream.”
“I’ve got some half-and-half in the back instead of that icky powdered stuff the officers use,” Caroline said. “I’ll get it after I lock this up.” She held up the paper bags and disappeared down the hallway while Chief Egan waited pointedly next to the conference room door.
“So you and Caroline are friends,” he said to Megan.
“We are.” Not close ones, but no reason to admit that at the moment.
“Uh-huh,” he said, motioning Megan into the room.
Megan went to the end of the table and chose a chair that let her look out into the front of the building. She hoped she looked calm, but the truth was, inside she felt as though she was shattering into a gazillion little pieces. The truth was that inside she felt like she was eleven again, a child whose whole world had shattered.
Looking out the window to the street beyond, she was able to reassure herself that she was not in Hackensack, New Jersey. She closed her eyes, deliberately recalling each of the businesses on the block across the street. This was Natchez, the town that had been her home for the past three years.
“Here’s your coffee,” came Caroline’s bright voice. She breezed through the door past Chief Egan, a coffee mug in one hand and a pint of half-and-half in the other.
“Thanks.” Megan poured it into the mug filled with coffee, watching the two liquids merge together before handing the carton back to Caroline. Beyond her, Chief Egan gave the dispatcher a curt nod, urging her out of the room.
Then he crossed the room and sat down across from Megan.
“My new detective said he wanted to be here for your statement,” he said. “Do you want to call a lawyer?”
She knew what he was really saying—that he thought she had killed Robby—and she also knew she probably should call a lawyer. Instead, she wrapped her trembling hands around the warm coffee, raised her chin, and met his gaze. “If you’re accusing me of anything, you need to be a lot more direct.”
“When the time comes to Mirandize you, you’ll know it.”
She met his gaze without answering.
“And you’re not hiding anything,” he added, his tone too flat for the sarcastic words.
She wasn’t, at least not in the way he meant.
“You’d better pray you have your story straight by the time Detective Prescott gets here,” Egan said, closing and locking the door behind him as he strode toward the front door.
This wasn’t quite jail—not like it had been the last time she’d been accused of murder.
THREE
Three hours later and with his frustration level mounting, Wade came through the front door of the police station. Just as he had been afraid of, the crime scene had not yielded any obvious evidence that could set him on a logical path forward. Forensics might turn up something, but he couldn’t count on it. The probable murder weapon, a garden spade, had smeared fingerprints on it, as did the lid of one of the garbage cans. The only other interesting things discovered were some old coins next to scuffed footprints that were near the back fence behind the garage. At the moment, he had no idea if those were connected to the crime.
All he wanted to do was go home where he could lose himself in the hard, physical labor of turning over the caked red dirt that passed for soil in his backyard. Caroline said hi from her place at the front desk as he paused to pick up messages from the credenza behind her.
“Chief wants to see you,” she said. “And Megan Burke is still here.”
“Thanks,” he automatically said, pushing through the gate that separated the front of the office from the bull pen where his desk was. His gaze lit on the glass-encased conference room across from Chief Egan’s office. Megan sat at the head of the table, her gaze focused on the door he’d just come through. She looked directly at him. As intensely as had happened when he’d met her this morning, he had that punch in the chest of pure, male interest. He’d been here six months, working only a couple of blocks from where she worked, and he’d never seen her until this morning. He wished that he’d met her some other way.
But wishes, like prayers, were futile things.
With that he reminded himself of the big reasons to shelve his interest until he forgot about her. She was his probable best witness in a major case, possibly a major suspect. If that wasn’t enough, all he had to do was remind himself of the nightmares that haunted him, which didn’t mix with a relationship. At the turn of his thoughts, he gave himself a mental shake. He’d gone from thinking the woman was pretty to planning a life with her in a single bound. Irrational and stupid.
Across the hall from the conference room door, Chief Egan sat behind his desk, his feet propped on the credenza behind him, and a telephone receiver tucked between his ear and his shoulder. Their eyes caught in the reflection of the glass doors above the credenza. He waved at Wade to come into his office, dropping his feet to the floor and turning to face his desk.
Glancing a last time at Megan, Wade headed for Egan’s office. He ended the call with whomever he was talking to and resettled the baseball cap on his head. He pushed several sheets of paper across the desk toward Wade.
“I’ve had a couple of interesting phone calls,” Egan said as Wade picked up the sheets. “Your suspect—”
“Witness,” Wade corrected.
“—had a very public and heated argument with the victim a couple of days ago in front of the pawnshop.” Egan waved toward the sheets. “I took Thomas Johansen’s initial statement.”
“Of Johansen’s Pharmacy?”
“That’s right. I’ve known the man for thirty years, and he’s as trustworthy an individual as you could ever find.”
A good trait to have, Wade thought, since he wouldn’t want an untrustworthy pharmacist to fill his prescriptions.
“Anyway, the vic accused Ms. Burke of being a gold digger and she told him that he was no good and that Helen Russell didn’t deserve the kind of heartache he was putting her through. According to Johansen, she also told him that she wished he’d never come here and that Mrs. Russell was better off without him.” He waved toward the sheets of paper once again. “Mrs. Russell’s most recent bank statements are in there. Never knew before the lady was richer than Midas, so we’ve got our motive.”
Wade had spent more than an hour with the lady, and he’d come away with the impression that she lived comfortably. If she was wealthy, she wouldn’t be the first person he’d met who lived far more simply than their bank account permitted. He did understand where Egan’s thinking had headed; however, as he turned to look out the door and across the hall where he could see Megan. “You think she’s after Mrs. Russell’s money and killed the grandson to get it?”
Egan nodded. “We’ve got to start somewhere, and that motive makes sense. That young lady drives a Lexus RX, has a pot full of money in savings, and a job that wouldn’t appear to support having either one. I figure the vic was onto something. She makes friends with these old people, gets in their good graces, and steals from them while everyone is smiling. She killed the grandson to squash his accusation.”
“Got any evidence to support that theory?” Wade asked.
“That’s why I’ve got you, Detective. To find it.”
Wade stared at his boss a long moment, remembering all the other times he’d been pressured to button up a case and get the public settled down. Too well, he knew the cost of putting the wrong person in jail.
Wade stepped into the office and closed the door. “Since this is the first major case we’re on together,” he said, setting the papers on the corner of the desk, “a reminder about how I work. I follow the evidence where it leads me, not where anyone with an agenda wants it to go. If it proves a theory, fine. If it doesn’t, fine.”
“I get your drift.” Egan pointed at the glass door of his office, through which there was a view of the conference room door across the hall. “Call her a person of interest or a suspect or a witness. But in my book, she’s at the top of the most-likely list even if you don’t buy into my theory. In those papers is the preliminary criminal report I’ve pulled on her, along with her credit report.”
“Have you read it yet?”
The chief shook his head. “Nope. I’ve been fielding phone calls from everyone in town from the mayor to the editor of the Gazette.” With that, he once more propped his feet on the credenza, turning his back on Wade. “When you talk to her, I suggest you go in armed with the facts.”
“You said something about a couple of interesting phone calls. Johansen and who else?”
“A guy who didn’t want to leave his name, but who says he knows for sure that Megan Burke held a grudge against Robby Russell.”
“He didn’t leave his name,” Wade repeated flatly.
“No. Caller ID was blocked, but we’ve got the phone company on it. I’ll be sure to let you know when we hear something.”
Wade nodded.
“Close the door behind you,” the chief instructed as Wade left the room.
He discovered the door to the conference room was locked when he tried the knob. Nothing like making a witness even more nervous by locking her up, Wade thought. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open.
“Sorry you’ve had to wait all this time,” he said, meaning it. This close, he could see her expression was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. “Is there anything I can get for you? Coffee, something to eat?”
She shook her head, brushing her hair away from her face. He remembered her hair had been in a ponytail this morning. Now it fell to her shoulders, softly curling around her neck.
“The ladies’ room is back there. I’ve got one thing to do, which should take me no more than ten minutes.”
She nodded her understanding, stood, and came toward him. Despite her height, she seemed fragile as she slipped past him, heading for the restroom. The urge to protect her overwhelmed him for a moment—and then he looked down at the papers in his hand.
Sitting down, he scanned Egan’s notes and the record Caroline had printed. Megan was originally from New Jersey and evidently had come to Colorado to go to graduate school. She had worked as a physical therapist for several years in Denver at a rehab clinic affiliated with Denver General Hospital. Three years ago, she had moved here.
Three things stood out, and they were biggies. First, she had close to two hundred thousand dollars in savings—a lot of money for anyone, but a huge amount for someone on her wages. Second, she had changed her last name from Norris to Burke shortly after turning twenty-one. And third, she had been arrested and charged with assault and attempted murder.
He closed the file and stared down the hallway that led to the restrooms. He had been so sure she was one of the innocent ones. That, after telling Egan he didn’t make assumptions.
Expelling a harsh breath of irritation at himself, he put everything inside a folder and waited for her return. One minute turned into two, and with each passing one, his level of irritation with himself and her grew. When she finally came down the hallway, the five minutes had felt like an hour. Her hair was once more in a ponytail, her expression more composed than it had been a few minutes earlier. He followed her into the conference room. She sat down, folding her hands neatly on the table, her gaze not quite meeting his. For some reason, that pierced his control.
He let the door slam behind him when he came into the room. She jumped slightly, but nothing in her expression changed when he sat down across from her.
“Tell me about Megan Norris,” he said. “Tell me about your arrest.”
She blinked, then something in her expression dissolved. There was simply no other word for it. In a matter seconds, color drained out of her face, leaving a white line around her mouth and making the freckles sprinkled over her nose stand out. She stared at him without speaking, but the expression in her eyes was so devastated that he imagined he was looking at a person in shock. He’d interviewed enough witnesses, suspects and victims over the last fifteen years to know when a reaction was faked, and when one wasn’t. This was as real as it got.
The tug of sympathy pulled at his chest once more while he reminded himself he had a job to do. Collect the facts, build a case. Forget that he wanted to like this woman. That he already did like her.
“Did you read the whole report?” she asked, her voice surprisingly calm. “Or did you simply stop when you saw that I had been arrested?”
The fact that she seemed to know that further irritated him. “I want you to tell me about it.”
She lifted her chin slightly. “We don’t always get what we want, Detective. If you want the story…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed, all the time holding his gaze as though he had somehow betrayed her. “Read the rest of the report.”
“And then you’ll talk to me about it.”
She nodded, the reluctance in the gesture as obvious as her tightly clasped hands.
“Fair enough. Tell me about your relationship with Mrs. Russell,” he said.
She did, her color improving little by little. They were neighbors and friends. Everything she told him echoed what Helen Russell had told him when they had talked. Mrs. Russell had described how Megan watched out for her, shoveling the snow in winter, taking her to church and the grocery store. She’d never asked for anything, which contradicted the chief’s theory that she was a gold digger. Megan’s tone of voice and demeanor suggested that she genuinely liked her neighbor. But the knowledge that she had been arrested for attempted murder colored his perceptions, as unprofessional as that was. The cynic in him kept searching for motive in everything she relayed, but the side of him that wasn’t a cop kept wanting to take what she said at face value.
When Megan fell silent, he said, “But you didn’t like her grandson.”
“I didn’t,” she agreed without any defensiveness in her voice. “Helen raised him, you know. So, I think it hurt her that he didn’t visit very often. When he showed up a couple of weeks ago needing a place to stay, she was surprised.”
Megan paused while she continued to study the detective. Common sense urged her not to volunteer anything. And the promise that she’d made to herself to live an open life after her father died last year was right there at the surface, too. Was it better, she wondered, to tell everything she suspected about Robby? Or was it better to operate the way she knew a lawyer would advise—keep her mouth shut. And if she did, would that make finding Robby’s killer harder? And if she spoke up, would Detective Prescott assume he could—and should—build a case against her?
And then she remembered a verse from her Bible-study group a couple of weeks ago. You will come to know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. It had been true for her all those years ago when the finger of suspicion had been pointed at her. It had to apply now.
“I need to tell you about two different things that happened.”
“Either of these come under the heading of your needing a lawyer?”
The question surprised her since her impression was that cops wanted information any way they could get it. Once more reminding herself that the truth couldn’t hurt her, she said, “I’ll take my chances. The first has to do with a strange thing that started about a month ago after a visit to the bank.”
“Was that before or after Russell came to town?”
“Before, by a week or so,” she replied. “Helen has this huge collection of old coins that she decided to have appraised. They were in a safety-deposit box at the bank, and she wanted help carrying them home.”
“They were that heavy?” His soft question was interested, the kind friends asked when they were getting acquainted.
Ignoring the warning in her head that this man wasn’t a friend, couldn’t be a friend, she said, “You have no idea. She kept them in a washtub.” Visualizing the plastic container, she motioned with her hands. “You know, like you’d set in the bottom of a sink. Anyway, we got them home, and she asked me to put them away on a shelf in the closet of her spare bedroom. A couple of days ago, she told me that the appraiser was finally coming to see her and asked me to get them down. At least a quarter of them were gone.” She paused, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach from that day back now.
“These coins…just how old are we talking?” Wade asked.
“Pre-civil war for a lot of the collection.”
“And Mrs. Russell showed them to you.”
“She did,” Megan said. “Her father had begun the collection, and she had a story to go with many of the coins.”
“And you think this has something to do with Robby’s death?”
She met his gaze. “I don’t know. It just seems strange, you know?” She sighed. “The second part of this…Robby accused me of stealing from her.”
“Were you?” The question so calm, so much still like two friends talking. Even so, her heart pounded.
“No. I wouldn’t do that.” She clasped her hands on top of the table, mentally repeating, the truth will set you free.
“So, you’re telling me you’re not a gold digger.”
“Good grief, what do you take me for?” She stared at him, seeing an attractive man with penetrating brown eyes and a half smile. His posture was relaxed, an ankle drawn over the opposite knee, everything in his demeanor open. Friendly. Not at all like his stern-faced boss.
And yet, there was the accusation. The motive they thought she had, she realized. Swallowing, she looked away from the eyes that she had taken for kind.
“What’s the second thing?” he asked. She must have given him a blank look because he tacked on, “You said you had two things to tell me. Missing coins and…”
“When Robby showed up a couple of weeks ago, he complained about being broke. Then, a few days after he got here, he wasn’t, and he flaunted it.”
“And?”
“I think he was stealing from Helen.” She paused and looked away for a second, too aware of Wade’s focused energy directed at her. “Helen mentioned that she had misplaced a bracelet she often wore—a gold bangle. I’m talking real gold, not some piece of costume jewelry.”
“And that’s when you confronted Robby?”
Megan shook her head. “Not then. I didn’t even make the connection until a few days later. Lou Gessner, the woman who owns the pawnshop, is in my Bible-study group. I asked her if she ever had any bangle bracelets, and she said one had just come into her shop a few days earlier. Then, the following Saturday morning, I saw him coming out of the pawnshop holding his money.”
“Are you accusing this woman of accepting stolen goods?”
“Of course not,” she said in defense of her friend, who was one of the most honest, forthright people she knew. “How is she supposed to know until she hears back from the police after she submits her reports?”
“Sounds like you know a lot about it.”
“That’s because I asked her,” Megan said evenly, despite the accusation that once more laced Detective Prescott’s voice.
“And that morning—what day was that?”
“Last Saturday.”
“And you confronted him?”
“I did.” Megan felt her throat close as she remembered those moments, now wishing they had never happened. “We got into it, and to be honest, I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but I do remember telling him that he was a thief and he didn’t deserve to be Helen’s grandson…and that she would be better off without him. Mr. Johansen saw us, and I’m sure he’ll tell you pretty much the same thing if you ask him.”
“You do realize what you’re telling me, don’t you?”
Megan opened her mouth to speak, then stopped when the detective held up his hand.
“If Johansen corroborates your story and says that you threatened Robby Russell…” His eyes bore into hers, and something there softened imperceptibly. “You need a lawyer.”
She nodded her head. “Is this the part where you tell me that I’m a suspect?”
“Yeah.” His voice turned gravelly. “At the moment, you’re my only suspect.”
FOUR
You’re my only suspect. The statement was at odds with Wade Prescott’s gentle expression she kept seeing in his eyes, despite his tough demeanor.
Megan had weighed the risks before deciding to be so open, and she really had believed this would all be okay. This was all so surreal that the urge to laugh bubbled up when Megan remembered how she had felt this morning when she had first walked out of her house. This was to have been a perfect day. It had all the ingredients—crisp autumn weather, a patient who was progressing well under her care, a life that pleased her. She had an equal urge to cry over how the day had turned out. Unfair as all this was, the day had been a far worse one for Helen Russell, a thought that burned behind Megan’s eyes.
She met Wade’s gaze, which had softened. She really wished he’d stop looking at her that way because it made her want to like him.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sharon-mignerey/the-good-neighbor/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Sharon Mignerey
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Detective Wade Prescott knows he has his prime suspect: Megan Burke. He found her in the yard beside the body of her neighbor′s grandson. With a victim and a motive, it should be simple to connect the dots. Yet Megan′s sweet demeanor has Wade believing in her innocence.And if she is innocent, a murderer is still at large. Wade vows to protect Megan, but can he shield her from a killer′s crosshairs?