Stepping forward, Toni shakes Mick’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We know you’ve already been over this with Chris and Herb, but would you mind telling Joe and me what happened, before we inspect the area? It’ll help us to know what we’re looking at and looking for.”
Leading the four of them to the edge of the area, Mick points while sharing everything he knows—the same information he’d shared last night. “I stayed clear of the area so I wouldn’t disturb anything.”
Lifting up one of his feet, he continues, “I wore the same shoes as last night so you can tell my tread from the others.”
“That’s helpful, thank you. This isn’t your first rodeo, is it?” Toni asks.
“No. I used to be on the force, too.”
“Yeah, on the way over, Joe explained what happened. I’m sorry about that.”
Shifting gears to the subject at hand, Chris says, “Even after the storm, we can see three sets of shoe prints. These impressions correspond in design, physical size, and mold characteristics to your shoes,” she says, pointing at Mick’s feet. “These,” pointing to another set, “belong to a woman. See?” she continues, squatting near the ground. “This divot was made by a pointed spike like the heel on a woman’s shoe.” After snapping photos in rapid succession, she turns to Mick and asks, “Do you recall what shoes Ms. Winters was wearing last night?”
“When I lifted her into the ATV, I was trying to be careful not to bump any part of her, so I was paying attention. She was wearing fancy sandals, but I couldn’t say with certainty if they had spiked heels, or not.”
“Thank you. And these,” pointing to the third set, “have a completely different design, mold characteristics, and are physically smaller in size than yours,” she says, looking at Mick. “How tall would you guess Mr. Hughes is?”
“He’s at least six inches shorter than I am.”
“These,” she says, pointing at paw prints, “must belong to your dog, the one who got hurt last night. How’s he doing, by the way?”
“I haven’t seen Hemingway yet this morning, but the vet assures us that he’ll fully recover.”
“By the size of these prints, he must be huge,” Toni muses.
“He is,” Mick says, smiling. “He’s an Irish Wolfhound.”
“I’m familiar with that breed. I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with a dog that size.”
“This slide or drag mark that goes to the edge is in keeping with a human body. And look, there are paw marks on each side, like the dog was standing over the person,” Toni says.
“If he was,” Mick counters, “it was to protect Cynthia. Hemingway’s only aggressive when he’s defending himself or someone else.”
“It’s hard to tell in the mud,” Toni continues, “but this area is darker.” She points. “It seems like it could be blood. And look at all of the glass shards. From what’s left of this neck, I’d say they’re from a wine bottle.”
Slipping on a pair of thin latex gloves before bagging the broken glass, she continues, “I’ll send these to the lab to see if they can lift any prints, even a partial might help. I’m going to collect some of this mud too. After all the rain I doubt they can test this potential blood for DNA, but it’s worth a shot. It might not all be from Ms. Winters. From the looks of the scene, your dog may have done some serious damage to Mr. Hughes.”
“Thanks, Toni,” Mick says. “If it’s blood, it’s probably Cynthia’s. Dr. Zimmerman said that her femoral artery had been nicked. She said that if it had been severed, she’d have bled out right here on the bluff.”
“Can you think of any reason why Mr. Hughes would want to hurt Ms. Winters?”
“No, none. The guy arrived with what seems like a chip on his shoulder, and he likes his liquor. We have a well-stocked bar in the main house, yet he went to town and bought an additional stash. In fact, when Niall gave him a lift, he popped open a flask in the car. Niall made him walk the rest of the way. If he’s angry about that, he’d be pissed at us, not Cynthia.”
Joe says, “There hasn’t been a mudslide here in a long time, but to be safe, let’s not all walk to the edge. I’ll take a look over the side to see if Mr. Hughes is down there.”
Peering over, Joe lets out a long, low whistle. “Man, that’s a long way down. I can’t imagine anyone surviving that fall.” Shaking his head, he continues, “We’ll send a diving team to see if they can locate his body. It may have already gone out with the tide.”
Finished with the unpleasant task at hand, a haggard-looking Niall stands back and presses both hands to his arched back.
Before he can suggest to Libby that they open the outer mudroom door to let Hemingway outside, she opens the Dutch door adjoining the kitchen.
Smiling at a pathetic-looking Hemingway, she says, “Oh dear, you do look like a cone—”
But before she can finish the sentence, he dashes past her, knocking into the doorframe on his way. With a reduced line of sight, Hemingway bumps blindly into chairs, the kitchen island, and the refrigerator door before bounding into The Ink Well.
“Come back here,” Niall roars, as he and Libby make their way, hoping to trap him in that room.
A thundering crash announces that Hemingway just toppled the oak stand holding the retreat’s journal.
Barreling back the way he’d come, the Elizabethan collar acts like a cowcatcher on the front of a train, clearing everything in its way.
Libby and Niall press their backs to the wall as Hemingway shoots past them.
“Quick Niall, open the front door before he destroys anything else.”
Hand flying to her chest, Fran yelps, stopping mid-stride on the
