somewhere inside the house and managed to drag herself out here.”
Izzy says, “I agree.”
“But why?” I pose. “Why come out here rather than phone for help from the house?”
Hurley rewards me with a smile that makes Alison’s pout deepen. “Excellent question,” he says. “Let’s go inside and find out.”
Chapter 3
It turns out a white ball gown isn’t the best thing to wear to the scene of a bloody homicide. Despite my efforts, the hem of my skirt is spotted with blood and dirt. That means incurring a hefty dry cleaning bill before I can return it to our office receptionist, Cass Zigler, who let me borrow it from the wardrobe cache her thespian group owns. In order to avoid any further contamination of either the dress—which is actually two pieces, a skirt and a bodice—or the evidence, I slip on a pair of scrub pants from the stash Izzy maintains in the trunk of his car and remove my skirt.
Izzy, Larry, Alison, and I follow Hurley along the edges of the blood trail into the house, Izzy marking our progress with his camera. Alison really has no business being with us but I suspect Hurley is letting her come along because he doesn’t trust her not to sneak a few pictures if left outside with the body.
We’re only a few feet down the hallway when Izzy asks me, “How well did you know Shannon?”
The question makes Hurley stop and turn to look at me, bringing our human train to a halt. No doubt he’s wondering if I will need to be recused from this investigation the way I was from Karen Owenby’s. In the latter case I had to step aside not only because I knew the victim, but because she’d been having an affair with my husband, a fact that put me high on the list of suspects. This time I should be in the clear.
“Only casually,” I assure everyone.
Larry pipes up. “A lot of people know Shannon. She’s a waitress over at Dairy Airs.”
Dairy Airs is an ironically named restaurant in town run by a family who owns a dairy farm. The menu is filled with fattening and delicious foods like fried cheese curds, cream puffs, cheesecakes, and my personal favorite, ice cream. The name, though cute, is an apt one since the place has made significant contributions to many of the derrieres in town, my own included. With all the wonderfully fattening delights the place has to offer, it’s amazing to me that Shannon is so slender. If I worked there, I’d be big as a house in no time.
“To be honest,” I say, “I know Shannon’s husband, Erik, better than her. He’s a radiology tech at the hospital.”
Hurley frowns. “She’s married? Where’s the husband? Did he call this in?”
Larry repeats the trick-or-treater story, stating that the kids who found Shannon’s body have since gone home with their parents. “We talked to them and they were pretty traumatized but I don’t think they saw anything of consequence. She’d been dead a while by the time they found her. As for the husband, we’re not sure where he is.”
“He doesn’t live here anymore,” I tell Hurley. “He and Shannon split up three or four months ago. Did you try the hospital?” I ask Larry.
“We did. He’s not there.”
“Any scuttlebutt on why they split?” Hurley asks me.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Erik never said anything other than that he’d moved out, but there were lots of rumors flying around the hospital when it first happened.”
“What sorts of rumors?” Hurley asks, his blue eyes narrowing.
“The usual suspects,” I tell him. “That Erik is gay, that one of them wanted kids and the other didn’t, that he had an affair, that she had an affair.”
Hurley stares at me a moment and his gaze is so intense it feels as if he’s looking through my clothes to the skin beneath. Heat surges through me and I have to resist the urge to start fanning myself. Finally he says, “So what do you believe was behind the separation?”
I think I detect some subtle innuendo in the question and I blush. I’m hot on the heels of my own separation, a fact Hurley knows all too well, and he also knows all the sordid reasons why.
“I have no idea why Erik and Shannon split,” I say honestly.
“Are they just separated or have they filed for divorce?” Hurley asks.
Again I pick up a hint of subtext and I can’t help but wonder if Hurley is somehow alluding to my own situation. The fact that everyone else in the room is watching and listening intently makes me realize they have picked up on it, too.
“I’m guessing they were only separated, given the relatively short time since their breakup and the fact that Erik never said anything about a divorce, but I don’t know for sure.”
Hurley stares at me a moment longer, then his gaze drifts down my body. Alison sees it and seizes an opportunity to jump into the conversation, stepping away from me to force Hurley’s gaze in her direction.
“Shannon was dating someone,” she tosses out, looking proud. And rightly so. Gossip is a hot commodity in small towns like ours, and having the latest info elevates one’s standing in all social circles, especially one involving a homicide investigation. “She’s been seeing that new psychologist who came to town six months ago.”
Hurley poises his pen over his notebook and says, “Name?”
“Luke Nelson.”
As Hurley scribbles down the name I add my own two cents’ worth, just to show I’m not totally ignorant. “He’s a psychiatrist, not a psychologist.”
“What’s the difference?” Hurley asks.
“A psychiatrist is a medical doctor and a psychologist isn’t. Psychiatrists provide counseling and psychotherapy the same way psychologists do, but a psychiatrist can also prescribe medications and perform treatments, like electroshock therapy.” There is a moment of silence and I wonder if anyone besides me is picturing the grim electric chair scene out front.
“Has anyone canvassed the neighbors yet?” Hurley asks, shifting the topic of conversation and continuing deeper into the house along the blood trail. We all step in behind him.
Larry says, “One of the houses across the road is for sale and has been vacant for several months. There’s no one home at the other, and based on the mail flowing out of the box, I’m guessing they’re out of town. The closest house to the east is a quarter of a mile away and the one next door to the west is home to a ninety-seven-year-old woman who is nearly deaf, close to blind, and hasn’t had her hearing aids in all week.”
We arrive in the kitchen—the end, or technically the start of the blood trail—and everyone stops to gape at the scene. There is blood everywhere: on the walls, the table, the counters, and the floor. It looks like a blender full of catsup ran amok. And there are obvious signs of a struggle. One of the chairs is knocked on its side and the others are positioned at odd angles. Shards of broken glass, some with blood on them, are scattered at our feet, and there are puddles of milk on the table and floor. Still on the table are two plates bearing untouched pieces of cheesecake and a second glass of milk. Clearly this is where Shannon was shot and it looks like she didn’t go down easily.
Izzy takes out his camera and begins a running commentary on the blood splatter evidence. “Based on the spray on the far wall over there it appears the perpetrator shot her from the doorway leading to the hall behind us.” He pauses, snaps a few pictures, and then continues. “The first shot hit her when she was standing in front of the sink. It looks like she threw a glass of milk at the perpetrator, and it shattered all over the floor here. Based on the blood trail from the sink and the splatter on the wall to our right, I’m guessing Shannon was staggering her way around the table when the second shot hit.” He snaps a few more pictures of the walls, and then he bends down to snap several shots of the broken glass and the floor under the table. “Well, what do we have here?” he says, gingerly picking his way across the floor toward the table. He reaches under the table, picks up a blood-covered cell phone, and hands it to Hurley.
“Looks like it’s broken,” Hurley says. He looks around the kitchen and adds, “I don’t see any land lines here. That would explain why Shannon dragged herself down the hallway and out the front door.”
I open an evidence bag and hold it out to Hurley, who places the phone inside. As I’m sealing the bag, he makes his way across the room to the back door. “This dead bolt is locked so I’m guessing the shooter left along
