He gave an exasperated sigh and turned to the younger of the two police officers. “Chambers, take these two ladies outside and wait for me.”
The cop nodded eagerly and waved us down the hall. Portia was all too eager to comply. After a parting glance through the open doorway at the crime scene, I followed reluctantly behind.
Chambers led us out the front door and onto the wide, wraparound porch that hugged the massive Victorian. There wasn’t anywhere to sit, so I made myself comfortable on the top step. It was a little chilly, but not too bad. The porch had a good view of the town below as well as the lights of the ships hovering off the coast.
Portia sunk down next to me and opened her mouth like she meant to say something, but I shook my head slightly. Chambers might look like an innocent, young newbie with his big hazel eyes and freckled nose, but I’d bet my last crumpled dollar that he was prepared to report anything we said to his boss. I reached over and squeezed her hand, which seemed to calm her slightly.
At some point, the medical examiner arrived. Or what passed for one in Astoria. In actuality it was Mr. Voss, the local mortuary owner and funeral director over at Slumber Rest. He’d store the body until the state medical examiner could collect it and do a proper autopsy in Portland. Voss crept up the stairs like the shadow of death while his assistant wheeled a gurney up the walkway. One wheel squeaked loudly in the silent evening. They should see about fixing that. It was distracting.
It felt like hours before Bat’s footsteps echoed down the hall. He appeared in the front doorway looking as neat and orderly as he had before. His expression was a mask, giving nothing away. He’d have made an excellent poker player.
He made his way down the steps so he could stand in front of us. He stared at us for a full minute. If he thought either one of us would break, he had another think coming.
“Now, Miss—” He turned to Portia, one eyebrow lifted, waiting.
She swallowed. “Wren. Portia Wren.”
“You said you found the body? When was that?”
“A little past eight. It was just getting dark.”
“Bit late to be working.”
She fidgeted, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I wasn’t.”
“She’d been down at Sip with us all evening,” I barged in. Last thing we needed was the detective focusing on the wrong person.
“And who is ‘us’?” he asked.
“Nina Driver and me. Nina owns Sip—”
“I’m familiar with Ms. Driver,” he cut me off rather rudely. “So, you left work for the bar at what time?”
“Um, a little after five.” Portia’s voice was squeaky with nerves. I squeezed her hand again.
“She arrived at Sip at precisely fifteen minutes past,” I injected.
Bat gave me a look of annoyance. “And you know this how?”
“I was on my computer at the time. I happened to look at the clock when she came in, of course.”
He looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. “Of course.” He turned back to Portia. “And you left Sip when?”
“Eight. Or maybe a little after.”
“Eight-oh-five,” I interrupted again.
“Ms. Roberts.” Ah, so he did know who I was. “Would you please refrain from interrupting?”
“Just trying to help,” I said, leaning back against the step and crossing my arms. He ignored my glare.
“Why did you come back to the museum after hours, Ms. Wren?”
“I passed by on my way home. I happened to see there was a light on in the study, which there shouldn’t have been. I figured I’d better check it out.”
“Why not call the police?”
She gave him a confused look. “Why would I? It wasn’t like there was a break-in. I figured somebody accidentally left the lamp on. It happens.”
“Was anyone here when you entered the building?”
She shook her head. “Not that I could tell, but I saw the light was on in the study. I went to turn it off.” She looked a little faint. “And that’s when I found him.”
The questions went on. Had she touched the body or the weapon? Of course not. Why had she called me? Because she was scared, of course. Did she and the victim have a relationship? That made her eyes pop.
“Excuse me?” she nearly shrieked.
“You heard me, Ms. Wren. Were you and the victim intimate?”
She was beet red clear to the roots of her platinum-blond hair. “Of course not. The Louse? Are you kidding me? I admit I don’t have great taste in men, but please, give me some credit.”
I winced at her tirade. Not a great way to convince the police she was innocent.
“You called him The Louse?” Detective Battersea actually seemed amused by that.
“We all did,” she mumbled defensively.
“Why?” He stepped aside so Mr. Voss and his assistant could wheel the gurney by. I tried not to stare at the lumpy black bag sitting on top. Portia kept her eyes glued on Bat.
“Because he was a sexist pig, that’s why. He was always grabbing the female employees and volunteers, propositioning them. Sometimes he’d even do it to tourists, which is no way to run a museum. He was mean to his wife, rude to his son, and a total jerk to Roger.”
“Roger?” Bat asked.
“Roger Collins. The assistant director here at Flavel House,” Portia informed him.
I knew Roger. At least I knew of Roger. He sometimes frequented Sip on Friday evenings where he’d sit in the corner by himself nursing a glass of pinot noir. He was a sad little man with a hangdog expression and a fondness for tweed jackets with or without leather patches on the elbows. That The Louse would be mean to a man like Roger came as no surprise to me. Nixon had probably found him easy prey.
“And what about you, Ms. Wren?” he asked.
I narrowed my eyes. I didn’t like the tone of his voice.
Portia looked confused. “What about me?”
“Was
