stared at Jimmy with haunted eyes.
More quick steps in the hallway. A wiry, trim figure in a sport shirt and Levi’s trotted past the archway. I recognized the medical examiner. His official pronouncement of death was necessary before the bodies could be moved and the business of collecting evidence begun.
I moved restively in a not very comfortable early Victorian chair. Perhaps Wiggins had been right to discourage appearances. If I weren’t a guest at The Castle, I could be upstairs right this moment. Instead, I was trapped in the drawing room.
Occasionally Johnny Cain slid a puzzled glance toward me.
I sat in a shadowy corner with one hand to my face, as if propping up a cheekbone. Upstairs so much was happening…I gave a little mental shrug. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I stood, still with a hand to my face. I veered fairly near Johnny and muttered, “Going to the lavatory. Back in a minute.”
He said, “Miss de Sales…”
“Got to hurry.” Dignity was a small sacrifice for duty.
He followed me through the archway.
I flapped a hand as I opened the lavatory door only a few feet away and stepped inside.
I punched the lock, gave myself a thumbs-up in the ornate ormolu mirror, and disappeared.
In the hallway, Johnny stood where he could keep an eye on the lavatory door as well as the drawing room. In two quick strides, he checked the doors on either side. One opened to a closet, a second to a storage room. Now he could feel comfortable that the restroom had no other exit and I was inside until I came out. I was glad to see he’d lost his tense expression.
In an instant I was upstairs. I hovered above the chief, Detective Sergeant Hal Price, and the quick-talking medical examiner. I spared one admiring glance for Hal Price, the cotton-top detective with craggy good looks, slate blue eyes, and a muscular build. I was always true to Bobby Mac, but I would be disingenuous to pretend my pulse didn’t quicken when I saw Hal Price. I knew the attraction was mutual. Perhaps someday I could find the right redhead for him.
“…looks like contact wounds, both to the chest and temple.” The M.E. pointed at Ronald’s body. The doctor stepped to the bedside and looked down, his thin face intent. “Same MO here. That’s kind of a puzzle. The guy at the door had to be shot first. There’s no suggestion of trauma or struggle by him to prevent the attack. Why did she remain still? Natural thing would be to fling back the covers and fight or run. Instead, she’s lying here, and bang, she’s dead. Probably a narcotic. I’ll run the tests, let you know.”
The last words came as he stepped casually over Ronald’s feet and edged out of the partially open door.
Several uniformed officers were working around the perimeter of the room, measuring and photographing. One officer on his knees near Ronald’s pooled blood looked up. “Hey, Chief. The blood’s pretty much dry except in the center. Paw prints go right through it. But there’s a smear here”—one finger pointed at a brownish curl—“that looks like the edge of a shoe.”
Chief Cobb stepped nearer. “That’s critical. Get a good photo, then try for an impression. Whether we get it or not, the murderer may have stepped in blood. If we get a suspect, we can get a warrant to check shoes. There may be microscopic traces that will send somebody to jail.”
Cobb was thoughtful. “Here’s how I figure it. Late last night there was a knock at the door. Phillips gets up. Probably he’s foggy with sleep. He opens the door, the gun’s jammed against his chest, and bingo. As he falls, the murderer steps inside, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, and kicks the door shut. A couple of strides to the bed.” The chief matched action to his words. “Gun to her throat, pull the trigger. Back to the guy on the floor, maybe he’s moaning. Maybe he’s still alive. Gun to the temple and that’s the end of the story.”
Hal looked at him quizzically. “Three, maybe four shots, and nobody heard?”
Cobb raised a sardonic eyebrow. “If anybody noticed the shots, they haven’t shared that information with us. I don’t think there was that much noise. A gun fired against his body muffled the first shot and very likely that was the only shot fired from the doorway. Once Phillips was down, the murderer stepped inside and shut the door. The Castle walls are old, thick, and well insulated. If anyone in bed heard a pop, it didn’t register as gunfire. I doubt the entire attack required more than three or four minutes. When they were dead, the gun was tossed down beside him”—the chief pointed at the gun lying on the floor—“and the door opened. The murderer likely waited long enough to be sure no one was stirring, then returned to his or her room. Or left The Castle.”
The chief looked at Hal. “Process the weapon, then see if anyone in the drawing room can identify it. I’ll find a place downstairs and interview those who are in the house.”
“I am Detective Sergeant Hal Price. We appreciate your patience. Chief Cobb will speak with each of you individually in the library.” He glanced at a card in his hand. “Ms. Francie de Sales?” He looked inquiringly around the room.
As we walked down the hall, I held a hand to the side of my face. In my peripheral vision, through the spread of my fingers, I saw Hal Price give me a long, searching look.
He held the door to the library. “Ms. de Sales, Chief.”
I sat down with my hand apparently stuck to my jaw.
Price started to pull up a chair to one side of the oak table.
The chief tapped a legal pad. “I’ll take care of this interview.” His bulldog face was bland. “Check upstairs on the evidence collection.”
“Yes, sir.” Hal moved out of my view. I heard the door open, then shut.
Chief Cobb and I sat on opposite sides of the oak table in the library. His heavy face looked purposeful and determined. His tie was loosened at the throat of a pale blue shirt. “You can take your hand down. He’s gone.”
I yanked off the kerchief and sunglasses as well, tucked them in a pocket.
