Then I saw the man sitting with Lindy Harmon start to rise. She put her hand on his arm, said something, and he lowered himself back into his seat. I leaned forward for a better look. His profile was stony, his shoulders stiff as he trained his gaze on Detective Tracy. Some history there, but what was it?
“What about the construction project?” a woman asked. “Will it go forward?”
“On hold for now. We have not released the crime scene. As for when that will happen, or what will be done with the building, I’m told that the family will make a decision when the time is right.”
Tracy turned the microphone back to Stafford, who began a presentation on crime statistics and block watch programs.
“Let’s get out of here,” Laurel whispered. I wasn’t ready to leave—I’d hoped to ask Maddie’s mother about the photo album. Later.
On our way headed out, I saw Agent Greer in the back row, in her nondescript, dressed-to-fit-in sweater and jeans. No sign of her partner.
A uniformed officer opened the door for us. “Thank you,” I said, looking straight into Kimberly Clark’s eyes. At least she had the grace to blush.
“Well, that was about as helpful as a heart attack,” Laurel said once we reached the courtyard.
“What did you expect?” I asked. “He couldn’t say much, even if he has a good working theory.”
“I expect,” she said, coming to an abrupt halt. “I expect that nearly a week after a woman is shot on her own property and left clinging to life that the police would have a clue what happened. I expect that after three years, they’d know what happened to my husband. Not some theory, or vague speculation. And I expect you to be on my side.”
Though there was a fine tremor in her voice and her eyes filled with tears that did not fall, her anger and her sense of bitter betrayal came through loud and clear.
Not what I had expected at all.
Twenty-One
Augustus Caesar reportedly wore a garland of bay and bryony leaves to protect himself from lightning.
LAUREL MARCHED ACROSS THE LAWN TO THE PLAYGROUND where she sat on a bench, arms folded, jaw set. In the dusk and the shade of the big trees, I couldn’t see the steam coming out of her ears. But I had no doubt.
On the other side of the big windows, Stafford was taking questions. I crossed the courtyard and leaned against the side of the pool building.
To me, the key question was why Maddie had gone to the old grocery Thursday morning. The assumption had been that she was clearing it out, getting it ready for demolition, or whatever came next. Maddie was hands-on, yes, but not like that—she and Kristen met weekly for a manicure.
What if she was meeting someone? Someone who hadn’t expected her builder, who’d shown up late and found her. A subcontractor? A potential future tenant?
Someone who brought a gun. Who would take a gun to a discussion about a construction project?
Movement caught my eye. The meeting had ended and people stood, clustering in twos or threes, or heading for the doors.
Lindy Harmon emerged, with the tall man I assumed was her husband.
“Oh, yes, I saw you come in with Laurel,” Lindy said when I reminded her that we’d met, and introduced her husband. “Barry and Pat worked together closely in Neighbors United. First on reducing the impact of the highway bridge expansion on the wetlands, then on voicing our concerns about the redevelopment proposal.”
Barry Harmon shook my hand. “A neighborhood belongs to the residents as much as to the city or the commercial property owners. Our goal is simply to have a voice in how it changes. If there’s no place for the kids to buy a Coke or to stop for milk on the way home, it’s hardly a neighborhood.”
“I live next door to Glenn Abbott, the city councilman, and he would agree wholeheartedly,” I said.
“Pat was a fierce champion for the cause. When he was—” Barry stopped, swallowed hard, then continued. “When Pat was killed, the cops interviewed everyone in the group. There had been some disagreements, but nothing significant. Now they’re going down the list, talking to each of us again.”
“About Maddie’s shooting?” I asked.
He nodded. “I was out of town last week. Soon as I showed them the boarding passes on my phone, they were done with me. I just wish they’d tell us more about what they’re thinking.”
“Me, too. Is that what you wanted to ask Detective Tracy?”
“I can be a bit blunt at times. My wife wisely stopped me.” One side of his mouth curved, and he gave her a quick, appreciative glance. “But the group fully supports Maddie’s proposal. It’s just what the neighborhood needs.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve known Maddie since kindergarten. I haven’t known Detective Tracy nearly as long, but I trust him. They’ll do everything they can to find the shooter”—I barely managed to stop myself from saying “the killer” and confirm Barry Harmon’s hunch that the police had evidence connecting the two crimes.
We said our goodnights and nice-to-meet-yous, and the Harmons angled across the lawn, hand in hand, toward home.
I turned back to the meeting room and saw Tim and Mrs. Petrosian talking with the detectives, then make their way toward the exit. Several people stopped them for a word, a quick hug, a handshake.
By the time they got outside, only a few people remained, chatting on the sidewalk or drifting toward the parking lot.
“Tim,” I called and stepped forward, my hand out. “Mrs. Petrosian. It’s Pepper Reece. I’m so sorry. Thank God she’s going to be okay.”
Mrs. Petrosian took my hand in both of hers. Maddie’s parents were older than mine, and age showed on her widowed mother’s face. “Pepper, of course. And
