Cheryl pulled off the highway into a graveled parking lot off 36th Street. A large sign pointed the way to the piers. There were several other cars in the lot including three police vehicles and Mr. Voss’s mortuary van. As I swung open the car door, I could hear the loud barking of the sea lions that gathered on the empty docks below to sunbathe. Not that there was any sun to bathe in, but they didn’t seem to mind.
I didn’t bother with an umbrella. For one thing, it was far too windy. For another, I didn’t have one on my person. I ignored the raindrops splashing on my head. Maybe it would hide the bedhead disaster that was my hair. The cold certainly made the massive goose egg on the back of my head feel better.
“Are you sure about this?” Cheryl asked as she locked the car. “I don’t think the police are going to be thrilled with you poking around their crime scene.”
“Tough cookies. If the police insist on blaming poor Portia for everything, despite the obvious, I’m going to have my nose in their business 24/7.” I pondered the lack of sleep that would result in such dedication. “Well, maybe 12/7,” I amended.
Cheryl shook her head. “Well, I’m going with you to make sure you don’t fall into the bay or get eaten by a sea lion.”
“Sea lions don’t eat people.”
“They might if you collapse right in front of them. Might mistake you for a tasty fish and take a nibble.”
“Seriously?”
She shrugged. “It could happen.”
“No. No. It really couldn’t.”
She ignored me and tromped across the gravel toward the paved walkway leading down to the docks. I followed her, still exasperated.
Nearby, clusters of people gathered to watch the excitement down on the pier. The usual looky-loos, tourists, and locals, no doubt. I frowned. Was that Blaine Nixon?
Whomever it was saw me and dodged out of sight. I was pretty sure it was Blaine, but I hadn’t gotten a good look. How interesting that he was at Annabelle’s murder scene.
Down below, I could see the police clustered on one of the wooden docks. Crime scene tape was strewn everywhere, and Battersea was shouting orders as the rain picked up. Mr. Voss and his minion had already collected the body, and the assistant was trundling it up the walkway in a black body bag. I shuddered at the thought of Annabelle in there. Poor thing.
“Mr. Voss,” I called, flagging him down. “Is she really dead?” I gave what I hoped was an appropriate look of concern.
He gave me a sorrowful look. “Poor Miss Smead.” He shook his head morosely. “Just a young thing. And with a sick child. What is this world coming to?”
“She is dead then? Annabelle?”
“I’m afraid so, my dear.” He heaved a sigh and folded his hands in front of him. “Gone too soon.”
“What happened?”
He glanced around to ascertain that the three of us were more or less alone. His assistant had disappeared into the parking lot with Annabelle’s body.
“I heard the doctor say ‘blunt force trauma.’ Of course, I could have told you that myself.” He shuddered delicately. “Poor thing. Half her head was caved in.”
My stomach turned at the visual. “So, she was killed the same way August Nixon was?” He nodded. “Bashed her right in the head with something heavy. No weapon though. Likely at the bottom of the bay by now.” His whole face sagged as if the sorrow was too much to bear. “Well, I shall leave you ladies to it. Good day.” He lifted his trilby before striding off after the assistant.
“Couldn’t have been the same weapon, though. The police have that locked up,” Cheryl pointed out with maddening logic.
“Of course not,” I agreed. “But it could easily have been the same killer. Whoever murdered The Louse used a weapon of opportunity. The killer could have easily done the same with Annabelle. Poor thing.”
“Out here? What on earth would they hit her with? A rope?”
“Fine. They could have brought something from the museum or something. Or maybe the body was moved.” I stared walking toward the docks, determined to find out what I could.
“What do you think will happen to her little boy?” Cheryl asked. “Poor little mite. It’s got to be terrible losing your mother so young.”
“I’ll ask Bat. He’ll know.”
She grimaced. “You just want to find out what else he knows.”
I grinned. “Darn Skippy. Now,” I rubbed my hands together, “let’s get on with solving this thing, shall we?”
“MS. ROBERTS, WOULD you please stop annoying my people and get out of my crime scene. Why aren’t you in the hospital?” Detective Battersea came roaring up the ramp, expression as stormy as the clouds overhead.
“I’m a fast healer.”
He rubbed his temples with his fingers—a gesture he made often around me, I realized. “Ms. Roberts...”
“Viola.” I was getting tired of his formality. Plus I figured it would throw him off a little. “I heard Annabelle was murdered the same way as Nixon. This means you’ll have to let Portia go, right? She clearly didn’t do it.”
“One does not necessarily follow the other Ms. Ro—” I gave him a stern glare. “Viola. Just because the same method was used does not mean it was the same killer. Evidence still points to Portia Wren as August Nixon’s killer. I’m sorry, but that’s how these things work. With evidence.”
I all but growled in annoyance. The man was getting on my last nerve. And my head hurt like the dickens. It did not put me in a good mood. “Portia is innocent.”
“So you keep saying. I’ve yet to find proof of that, but there’s
