“I’m more concerned about any other factors contributing to the cause of death,” Luka told Maggie.
“Why?” Harper asked. “Do you see anything that makes you suspect it isn’t suicide or an accident?”
Luka hesitated, uncertain of how to put his intuition into words. “Too early to say. At this stage, we can’t take anything for granted.”
Maggie patted down the body and searched Spencer’s pockets. Only coroner’s personnel were allowed to touch a body. “Nothing here.”
“No phone?” Where was Spencer going without his phone? Of course, if he did kill himself then he wouldn’t have needed it—which could mean Luka’s instincts were wrong.
“If you’re suspicious of something other than suicide, we could use the car’s computer system to calculate exactly what time he turned the engine on,” Harper volunteered.
“Good,” Luka said. “I want to know if that was enough time for the carbon monoxide to kill him.”
“I can build you a timeline once I get labs and the firefighters’ CO levels from when they entered,” Maggie said. She crouched down, examining the floorboard beneath the corpse. “I’ve got something.” She stood and pointed. “There’s an envelope down there, pretty thick. Still no signs of a phone, though.”
Luka sighed with impatience. Unlike in movies, where detectives routinely grabbed any evidence they saw, he’d need to follow protocol: after Maggie’s team removed the body, the crime scene techs would document where the evidence was found and bag it to maintain the chain of custody. Then, preferably back in the lab, they would photograph everything again, swab for touch DNA, and dust for prints. Only then would Luka be allowed to examine the envelope and its contents.
Thankfully Maggie was a step ahead of him. Before he could ask, she grabbed her camera and knelt beside the corpse’s legs, taking a photo of the envelope. She stood and showed it to Luka and Harper.
There, easily read on the camera’s digital screen, was Spencer Standish’s final message to the world scrawled across the outside of the envelope:
To whomever finds this, inside please find my full confession. To my dear, beloved Tassi—I am so very sorry. S.
Six
Leah knew she was probably in the running for worst mother of the year, but all she wanted was to get away from the noise, heat, and crowds and go home. She was exhausted from Emily and Nate—and Ruby—all trying to pull her in different directions, talking to her in loud, fast, sugar-hyped voices. Her shoulder ached from carrying the bag with all their supplies—no way was she about to pay five dollars for a bottle of water—along with all the “prizes” the kids—and Ruby—had won. The inventory now consisted of an assortment of troll dolls, plastic cars, stuffed animals, a fake feather boa, lumps of pyrite that the kids insisted were “gold nuggets,” and two goldfish in water-filled plastic bags that she had to carry by hand to ensure that they were visible and obviously alive each time Emily or Nate ran back to check on their new friends. By the time they reached the judging tent, she felt more like a pack mule than a woman.
But finally, it was almost time for the judges to announce the results for the kids’ age group in the non-livestock categories. And then, please God, they could go home, where Leah had decided she’d lock herself in the bathroom for a solid two hours of soaking in bubbles and reading a book without interruption. It was a blissful fantasy, even if it would never happen. Especially not tonight—she still had budget reports to review, along with the latest batch of résumés from applicants to her new Crisis Intervention Team. She wanted people experienced enough to handle a variety of mental health emergencies, disciplined enough to operate side by side with the police, and motivated enough to want to work the front lines where anything and everything was in play.
“Mommy.” Emily tugged at Leah’s elbow and pointed at a stand beside the judging tent. “Look, they’re selling the chickens. Can we get some?”
Nate ran up to the stand then jogged back to where they waited in line for the judging tent to open to the public. “They’re not selling them as pets,” he told Emily. “Sign says ‘butchering included.’”
“Butcher? They’re killing the chickens?” Emily’s voice rose to a screech, drawing scowls from a group of older kids wearing Future Farmers of America shirts.
“And plucking and cooking,” Nate told her.
“It’d save time for dinner,” Ruby said. “How many should I get?”
Emily was jitterbugging in place, at risk of toppling Leah as she tugged on her arm. “No! Mommy, we have to save the chickens!”
“Where did you think the chicken you eat comes from?” Ruby asked in a teasing tone, ignoring Leah’s glare.
“But I met these chickens! We saw them in the barn with the sheeps and the pigs and the bunnies—” She clapped both hands over her mouth and looked aghast. “Mommy, are they going to eat the bunnies? No, they can’t!”
“No one is eating bunnies,” Leah told her in a firm voice, hoping the thought of the rabbits would distract Emily from the idea of chickens.
“Nah, they don’t eat bunnies. They cut off their feet to make lucky rabbit’s feet,” Nate said, dangling a white furry keychain he’d won at one of the games over Emily’s head.
Before Leah could explain that the rabbit’s foot wasn’t real, Emily took the bait, leaving Leah as she chased after Nate. By the time they returned—Emily now in possession of the obviously fake bunny foot—the tent was open, and the line surged forward as other families with school-aged kids entered to see the fate of their children’s baked goods, sewing crafts, woodworking projects, fruit preserves, artwork, knitting, photography, calligraphy, candle making… and about every other craft and skill that didn’t require a blow torch.
Each group had its own display of winners, crowding the tent with cheering families as well as the occasional sobbing child—although Leah was
