Chapter 2

To successfully stage your home, detach yourself emotionally from it and think more like a home seller and less like a homeowner.

“You’re next, Laura.”

I looked up from the ornate carpet I had been studying to see Neil Stanelli, a Louiston uniformed policeman and one of Nita’s numerous cousins. Nita, Mrs. Webster, Warren Hendricks, and I had been waiting in separate areas of the home before being interviewed one at a time by Detective Spangler. Most likely we were separated so we couldn’t confer on our stories before he could question us.

I’d been glad for the time alone in a separate room—time to collect myself. It was one thing reading about a murder victim in a novel and another thing actually seeing a victim. Thinking of the man’s sudden death at the hands of someone vile enough to stab him left me chilled to my very core.

Now it was my turn to be questioned. I rose from the ornate Victorian chair that had been designed for torture and not comfort, and stretched, trying to work the kinks from my body. I’d been sitting there for what seemed like hours, although I knew it hadn’t been that long. But it had been long enough for me to study the mishmash of old-fashioned wallpaper patterns on the walls in garish hues of peach and green; the heavy, ornate draperies; and the variety of chairs and sofas from different eras, none of them comfortable. I knew because I had tried them all. I regretted not having ear buds with me so I could have listened to an audiobook on my iPhone to fill the time. A Nero Wolfe mystery by Rex Stout, where I didn’t see the body firsthand, might have helped take my mind off this sad business.

Neil led me into a viewing room across the hall from where I’d waited, slid open tall oak pocket doors, and ushered me in. It was fortunate Warren hadn’t had any viewings scheduled that day. We were running out of rooms, and the police activity would have been disturbing to the family and friends of any deceased there.

“Laura Bishop’s here.” With that, Neil slid the doors closed behind us.

Detective Spangler studied a notebook in his hands, ignoring us. When he finally looked up and saw me, he grimaced. His dark eyes and handsome features didn’t appeal to me—much. I have this thing about handsome men. They always seemed to be at the root of any unhappiness I’d experienced in my life, and I tended to steer clear of them.

Detective Spangler pointed to the chair in front of him. “Take a seat.” Said the spider to the fly. This was worse than being called to the principal’s office.

“Please tell us what happened.” His eyes held my gaze, which unnerved me somewhat. His intense gaze looked powerful enough to make suspects confess.

I told him succinctly everything that had occurred from the time Nita left the square to use the restroom until the police showed up. No emotion, no embellishments, no theories. I was sad for the man, whoever he was, and felt emotionally drained. My throat was parched, but I was determined not to ask for anything to drink. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and return to our table at the fair and a world without bodies.

“Did you recognize the man?” Detective Spangler tapped his pen on his notebook.

“No. I don’t believe I ever saw him before. If I did, I don’t remember him. Didn’t he have any identification on him?”

“We didn’t find a wallet.” He looked at his notebook as though to confirm that. “Do you know if any of the others knew him?”

I’d seen each of the others going in to be interviewed, so I knew he was interviewing me last. Was he thinking I knew something they weren’t willing to say? Perhaps rat on them in some way?

“Nita and Mrs. Webster said they didn’t recognize him. Warren said he thought it was someone he knew but hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. You arrived just as he was about to name him.” So there, Detective. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I might be able to give you a name.

I sat up straighter and reminded myself not to be so grumpy. But something about Detective Spangler always put my teeth on edge. Besides, I had nothing more I could contribute.

“Warren Hendricks said the victim’s name was Ian Becker. Does that name mean anything to you?” Detective Spangler again tapped his pen on his notebook.

I shook my head.

“What was Nita doing in the funeral home to begin with?”

Uh, oh. Was he keying in on Nita as a possible suspect in the murder? “She went inside to use the restroom. Warren had told us that it would be okay. She’d been gone only a short time before she returned to tell us what she found.”

I stopped and thought about the sequence of events. “The man was lying in front of the door leading to the restrooms, so she hadn’t made it that far. When I ran into the building, Nita and Mrs. Webster followed me.”

Then it struck me. Nita might have missed the killer by only minutes. I shuddered to think what would have happened if she had witnessed the attack. Detective Spangler could now be investigating her murder as well.

Detective Spangler scribbled something in his notebook and stood. I took it as a signal I could leave.

“That’s all for now. I don’t need to tell you not to discuss this with anyone else.”

“I need to explain to my assistant outside what happened. He was scheduled to arrive to help us about the time the ambulance and police cars pulled up. With all the people in the square, what happened won’t be a secret for long.”

“Okay, but don’t go wild spreading Ian Becker’s name.”

I rolled my eyes, something I frequently reminded my young assistant and myself not to do. Childish I knew, but Detective Spangler always brought out the worst in me.

I left the room wondering who had wanted Ian Becker dead.