Misty backed the sedan out without speaking, allowing Alexa to screech out of there. She didn’t go far—just to the corner, where she pulled over to await the police. After five minutes, the Tandys drove by, Martin at the wheel. Alexa scrunched low but neither of them looked her way. They appeared to be arguing. At the sight of the taillights, Alexa let go the gallon of air she’d been holding.
What the hell just happened?
Constable Blume and someone riding shotgun finally sped by, siren blaring. Then DI Katakana and Senior Sergeant Fielding whizzed by.
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. Alexa turned the car around and followed them to number eleven. She beeped her horn to get the officers’ attention before getting out of the car.
DI Katakana lunged toward her. “Why didn’t you tell us the address?”
“What are you talking about?”
“None of your messages left the address, eh? Where are they?”
The gang had turned on her. “Martin and Misty left together—ten minutes ago.”
Constable Blume came up beside her. “You confused the dispatcher.”
“What do you mean?”
The officer riding with Constable Blume was the female constable from this morning’s meeting. “Bramble Street is in Cromwell,” she chimed. “This is Bracken.”
Bramble, bracken-frackin, Alexa thought. “I was nervous. Martin Tandy blocked me in.”
“You’re not blocked in now, are you?” The DI spread her blazer and put her hand on her hips. “Bloody hell. Where were the Tandys headed?”
“I don’t know.”
She pulled out her radio. “What are they driving?”
“A four-door tan sedan. Older model.”
DI Katakana contacted the dispatcher. “Persons of interest left Bracken Street. Ten-One. Tan four-door.”
The lady from next door stood at the foot of the driveway, the dog waddling behind her. “What’s going on?” she called.
Constable Blume rushed to meet her. He spoke with the woman, looked toward her yard, nodded, and jogged back. “She’s complaining the Airbnb lodgers trespass in her yard, mess it up.”
The DI rolled her eyes. “Stay here for the search,” DI Katakana told Alexa. She thrust the warrant at Constable Blume. Then she and the senior sergeant hustled to their car. “Wait,” Alexa called. She wanted to share the information she’d sussed out.
DI Katakana ignored her and sped off. She turned to Constable Blume and Constable Stafford for an explanation.
“Eileen Bowen’s phone pinged,” Constable Blume said.
“From the grave?” It was a lame-ass thing to say.
“Like the battery was dead, and then someone charged it,” he said. “Anyway, it pinged from Frankton.”
Chill bumps broke out on her arms. “Remember when I was mopping the spilled tea in Misty’s lounge? There was a phone under the couch. Misty said it was Susie’s, but I saw Susie’s phone a little while ago, and it has a different case. And guess what?” She pointed to the cottage. “There’s a new shower curtain in the bathroom.”
“And that’s important how?” Constable Stafford asked.
“The new curtain might have replaced the one Eileen was wrapped in. I learned Misty is Eileen’s half sister, and she was basically stiffed by the stepfather’s will. And she knew about the pregnancy.”
“That’s a motive. Good on ya,” Constable Blume said. “I’ll text Senior.” When he finished, he waggled the warrant. “DI Katakana said to look for evidence of a crime.”
Alexa doubted they’d find anything obvious after Misty’s cleaning. She grabbed the crime kit from the car, and the three of them pulled on booties, suits, and gloves.
Constable Blume rapped on the door. “Police. We have a warrant. Open up.”
There was no answer, of course.
He tried the knob; it was locked. There was a lockbox next to it. Constable Blume opened it to reveal a keypad. He tried various combinations. “Take a squiz,” he said. “The combo is 12345.” He waved a key. “Beats forcing the lock.”
The tiny house smelled lemony fresh and had a kitchen, living area, hall bath, and two bedrooms. The furniture was worn, but colorful pillows, throw blankets, and a few candles perked it up. The decorating touches that Susie had mentioned, Alexa decided. “I’ll check the bathroom,” she said.
The constables each took a bedroom.
She sprayed Bluestar in the tub, grout, and sink. Traces of blood, especially if they matched Eileen’s, would be a huge help in reconstructing the primary crime scene. She turned off the light and held her breath. The reagent failed to oxidize and produce a blue glow. No trace of blood. Voices startled Alexa. She left the bathroom at the same time the two constables appeared from the bedrooms. “Who are you?” Constable Blume asked.
The woman let go of her suitcase handle. She and her companion stared open-mouthed at the three of them dressed in white hooded suits. “We’re the Butlers. Here for holiday.”
“You’ll have to find another place to stay,” Constable Blume said. “This is a crime scene.”
“We have reservations,” the man said. He flashed his phone.
“Like I said, the house is off limits.”
“Will we get a refund?” the man asked.
“I’m sure that will be arranged,” Constable Blume said. “If you’ll step outside now.”
“I’m giving the host a bad review,” the woman said. Then her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Is the host the murdered woman? I thought the name was familiar.”
Alexa kept her face passive. The Butlers left quickly.
The guest book caught her attention. The inside flap was dated last June. She opened it to a random page. Clara Rodriguez from California wrote: April 22–26, Clean and comfortable, like living in a tiny nest, short walk to town. Alexa flipped to the last entry: Thank you for the lovely stay. Clean and cozy. Our son loved the rabbits in the garden and playing in the creek. Mud! A washing machine would be a nice addition. Stephen, James & Grayson, Sydney
“This Sydney family left three days before Eileen was killed.” She showed the constables. “I think the cottage was empty Thursday.”
“I never sign those things,” Constable Stafford said.
“There will be Airbnb records,” Constable Blume said.
“No traces of blood in the bathroom. I’ll check the backyard,” Alexa said.
A hedge of rubbery red leaves separated it from Kate Hepburn’s yard. Branches and sprays shot from it willy-nilly like grabby hands. Must be the Copso-what-so, Alexa thought.
The tiny patio was slick with leaves. Alexa got on her hands and knees and inspected the flagstone closely. There was no sign of blood or struggle. Two wrought-iron chairs faced the creek. She opened the large wooden box between them. It held spades and big tin pans. “Strike gold in Bush Creek,” a cheerful sign said.
Alexa crossed the wet grass, skirted a concrete firepit ring, and stood at the edge of the creek. It was swollen and angry. She followed its course; it flowed toward Prospector’s Cottage. She thought of Eileen’s hat. How did it get in the creek? She hopped back when the bank beneath her caved in, sending a trickle of pebbles into the creek.
A path followed alongside the creek. Alexa imagined Eileen taking the path from her house to here. Someone needed to check it for the primary scene of death.
Maybe she’d come back later.
The constables waited for her on the front porch. The basket of dirty linens was still there. The sight sent a spark to her brain. “If one of the Tandys killed Eileen, there was blood spatter, right?”
“Bound to be,” Constable Stafford said.
Alexa nudged the laundry basket with her foot and looked at Constable Blume. “Remember when we visited Misty right after Eileen’s body was discovered?”
He nodded, alert.
“She was coming out of the garage with a basket of wet laundry. It smelled like bleach. You hung it on the line. Can you get a warrant for the Tandys’ garage?”