“Tonight?”
“I think we can wait until tomorrow. Maybe the county has an empty storage closet they’ll rent us.”
Overhead, something crashed to the floor. Or was thrown.
“Holy crap,” Zoe muttered. “What’s she doing up there?”
“Should I call the police? What if that’s not Loretta. Someone might be vandalizing the place.”
Zoe weighed the possibility until a string of profanities echoed down the staircase.
“Never mind,” Paulette said. “It’s her.”
Zoe was about to repeat her initial question when she realized what Loretta was doing. “She’s looking for Franklin’s will.”
“That’s what I figured too.” Paulette pushed the full box aside with her foot and leaned down to drag an empty one closer. “She won’t find it. I looked. And I know all of Franklin’s hiding places.”
Another crash. More swearing. Zoe pictured Loretta pulling out drawers and dumping them on the floor. “Never mind the new office. New first order of business.” Zoe met Paulette’s gaze. “Track down Franklin’s attorney and learn what’s in his will that Loretta is so intent on finding.”
A slow smile spread across Paulette’s face. “I know exactly who to call.”
Lights blazed from the windows of Marshall’s Funeral Home as Pete parked in front. He would’ve thought there was a viewing going on except for the lack of other cars.
Overhead, stars sprinkled the night sky, dimmed somewhat compared to the view at Zoe’s farm. Out there, city lights didn’t compete with nature’s more distant source of illumination. Pizza box in hand, Pete wasted no time covering the distance between his department SUV and the front door. Without a blanket of clouds to hold the day’s heat, temperatures had tanked as soon as the sun set.
A neat, hand-lettered sign on the door stated the business was closed until further notice due to the owner’s death. At the bottom, Paulette had added a phone number to contact. Pete rested a hand on the latch, expecting to meet the resistance of the lock. Instead, it clicked open.
The center hallway stood empty. The rooms on either side, while lit, were also vacant. Rustling and a loud thud from what he knew was Paulette’s office brought him fully alert. Intruder? Or the ex-wife Zoe and Baronick had told him about?
Pete took one silent stride to the entrance of one of the front rooms where he could dart behind a wall for cover if needed. Silently, he placed the pizza box on a table, next to a box of tissues. Right hand resting on his sidearm, he called out. “Hello?”
The rustling ceased. A tall, angular woman with dark hair and an even darker expression appeared in the office doorway. “Who’s there?” she demanded in a voice that sounded as if it had been hit with forty-grit sandpaper.
He stepped away from the wall, giving the woman a good look at his police issue coat and ball cap. “Vance Township Chief of Police Pete Adams. And you are?”
“I didn’t call the police.”
“I know that. You didn’t lock the front door either.”
“My mistake.” She crossed her arms. “That still doesn’t tell me what you’re doing here. You’re out of your jurisdiction.”
“And you haven’t told me who you are.” He knew precisely who she was, but he wanted to regain the upper hand.
“The owner of this establishment. Unless you have a warrant, I want you to leave.”
He didn’t budge. “Owner, huh? Funny. You don’t look like Franklin Marshall.”
“Frank’s dead. I’m his widow. Satisfied?”
“Not until I see some ID.”
Her fists went to her hips. “You have no right—”
“I have every right. I’m aware Franklin Marshall died yesterday. I stop by to pay a condolence call to his staff and find you rummaging through his secretary’s office. For all I know, you’re vandalizing the place.” When she didn’t move, he added more forcefully. “ID. Please.”
For the first time since he’d arrived, the woman showed signs of uncertainty. She shifted her weight to one foot. After a long moment of considering her options and not liking them, she lifted her chin. “Fine. Wait there.” She turned and retreated into the office.
Ignoring her order, Pete crossed the hall and moved to the doorway, taking in the widow’s handiwork.
The desk drawers had been removed and unceremoniously dumped on the floor along with every book from the now empty shelves that lined the rear wall. The file cabinets had met a similar fate, folders extracted, papers scattered. The computer, he noticed, wasn’t on. Whatever she was after wasn’t digitized. Nor had she found it yet.
The widow Marshall wheeled, purse in hand, when she realized he’d followed her. “I don’t recall asking you to come in here.”
“Good. I don’t recall having been asked.”
Her lip curled as if she was about to bite him. Or spit. She thrust out one hand, a driver’s license clenched in her bony fingers. “Here.”
Pete studied the card. Her address was listed as a street in Harrisburg. “You’re a long way from home, Ms. Marshall.”
She glared at him without responding.
The photo matched perfectly. Apparently, black was her color of choice and had little to do with mourning. Nor did she look any more pleasant in the image. He couldn’t blame her taught, drawn face on bereavement. Pinning the license between his index and middle fingers, he handed it back.
She snatched it as if afraid he might try to hold on. “You may leave now.”
He made an obvious point of studying the mess on the floor. “Looking for something?”
“I said, you may leave now.”
“I don’t think so. The fact that you’re Franklin Marshall’s widow doesn’t give you the right to vandalize his property.”
She again folded her arms, her purse clamped against her side. “This is my property now, which means I can do whatever I damned well please. And you, Chief whatever your name is, are well out of your jurisdiction.”
“You have a point about jurisdiction.” Pete nodded, as if about to concede. Except he pulled out his phone instead of leaving. “Let me just call Brunswick City Police and Monongahela County PD.
