Powerful strides carried Butch to the nearest stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time, causing Heather to run after him. They wasted no time traversing the second-story halls across the front of the home, then turned down the north wing hall. A crying woman dressed in the monochromatic attire of a domestic maid stood outside a closed door.
Heather caught Butch by the arm as he reached for the doorknob. "Don't touch it."
He spun with a look that could freeze boiling water, but Heather didn't drop her gaze. She reached into the inside pocket of her lightweight blazer and pulled out latex gloves. "The police will dust it for fingerprints. If you don't want to be a suspect, stay here while I go in."
He turned to the crying woman. "Pull yourself together, Sylvia."
Heather concluded Butch might be a capable bodyguard and a first-rate medic, but tact wasn't his strong suit. She took the distraught woman by the hands, spoke soothing words, and eased her against the wall. Then, gently, she directed the woman to have a seat on the floor, facing away from the room. The woman's brown eyes twitched with fear and apprehension.
Still holding her hands, Heather said, "I’m going in the room. When I come out, I'm going to ask you a lot of questions about what you saw and heard when you discovered the body. You can practice with Butch. Tell him everything you remember."
Butch glared down at her. "I'm going in with you to clear the room."
It took less than a second for Heather to decide that a full-frontal assault on Butch would yield the best results. "Are you an attorney?"
"Negative."
"What about a former detective with ten years' experience as a cop?"
He shook his head.
"Do you want to hang on to that Model 19 Colt or have the cops take it from you?"
He shook his head again, not wasting his breath on responding.
"If you go in, you'll leave trace material and the police will question you at length. You're not trained in what to look for or how to process a crime scene. I am." She pulled her pistol out of her pocket. "I'll clear the room, take photos, and film the room. I’m very detailed. You'll get an email with all photos and the video. I don't have time to argue about this. You're to stay here and record Sylvia's first statement on your phone. I expect you to do a thorough job." She squared her shoulders. "Questions?"
She halfway expected a salute, but he answered by stepping away from the door.
Heather entered the room and allowed Butch to view it from the hall. He scanned the room, nodded his approval, and backed away. She closed the door, more to keep death away from Sylvia than to block Butch from watching her.
The first thing that struck her was, unlike the rest of the house, this room bristled with Christmas decorations, including a tree with presents ringing the base.
She moved to the bed where a woman lay facing upward with closed eyes. The pallor of the skin and a check of the artery in the neck confirmed death.
Heather completed a quick sweep of the bedroom, closet and bathroom, then returned to the body. A movement came from under the covers. Heather stepped away from the bed, almost tripping over her feet as her right hand found her pistol again. She assumed a shooter’s crouch position with her weapon pointed at the lifeless body of Lucy Green. Keeping her pistol trained on the movement, she jerked back the covers.
A bleary-eyed, long-haired cat of the Persian variety looked up at her as if to challenge the interloper who’d entered her domain. It let out a hiss.
"I apologize, kitty. I'm afraid I have bad news for you."
The cat moved to Lucy's face, sniffed, and backed away. It looked again at Heather and let out a low growl.
"Don't blame me. I didn't kill her."
The cat went to the door, turned around, and stared at Heather as if to say, "Don't just stand there. I need a litter box and my brunch."
Patience wasn't a virtue the cat possessed in much quantity. She let out a screech of discontent. The door flew open, and the cat learned a lesson about standing away from it. Butch stood with his pistol at the ready as the kitty shook her dented head and shot past him. With his weapon lowered, Butch mumbled a few choice words about cats and shut the door.
A visual exam of the body revealed little. No sign of a struggle, no blood or bruising, nothing visible embedded under the manicured nails. Then, she looked at the headboard. A single sprig of mistletoe was taped to the headboard, exactly halfway between where a man and woman would rest their heads.
She moved away from the body to examine the room in more detail. A check of the windows found them firmly locked, unmolested by any sort of tool to make entry.
The room did yield one potentially significant finding. A mostly-full bottle of wine sat on the nightstand beside Lucy's bed with only the dregs remaining in a stemmed glass. She examined the label on the bottle. She’d seen the name before but wasn’t familiar with it.
Heather stepped into the bathroom. Prescription medications abounded in a tall, narrow cabinet. The top row comprised partial bottles for physical ailments consistent with a post-menopausal woman. The next row held a smorgasbord of orange bottles whose contents fell under the purview of an overly helpful psychiatrist. Heather examined the dates on all the bottles and concluded Lucy Green had tried almost everything, but had not found the magic pill. A mixture of prescription drugs and a glass of wine might explain the death. Perhaps this wasn't a homicide after all.
Her last stop was a massive walk-in closet. Racks and rods held enough clothes to supply a small village with mostly name-brand garments. Price tags dangled from some. Shoes and hats lived on rows of vertical shelves while designer purses hung like tree ornaments on special poles down the center of the closet.
The search wasn’t exhaustive, but she did take the time to snap numerous photos and even captured a video of all the rooms and the victim. She closed the door behind her once she entered the hall. Butch looked at her with eyebrows raised in question.
Instead of answering Butch’s unasked questions, she said, "I heard Sid call the woman in the room Lucy. Who is she?”
“Lucy Green, Sid’s daughter-in-law. Howard’s wife.”
Heather nodded. “Has anyone called it in?"
"Negative."
"Make the call. Is there someone else who can open the gate for the police and let them in the home?"
"Chad’s on the property. He's Sid’s great-grandson."
"How old is he?"
"Twenty-one."
"Give him enough information to direct the cops upstairs to me. You make a quick survey of the downstairs rooms and check for a break-in. After that, go to Sid's room and stay there. I'll be here with Sylvia when the cops come."
Butch punched 911 into his cell phone as he walked to the nearest stairway.
Heather turned her attention to Sylvia. She looked recovered enough from the initial shock, so Heather began her interview with what she hoped would be a comforting smile. "Tell me your movements from the time you came up the stairs until you left Lucy Green's room."
Sylvia swallowed hard, looked to the stairway, and then back to the closed door. "Miss Lucy never sleeps past nine thirty, so I was concerned when it was almost ten and she hadn't come down for her morning coffee. She always starts her day with a double espresso. I thought about bringing her one, but she likes to have her coffee on the back patio."
Heather nodded to encourage her to continue the narrative.
"I came to check on her, knocked on the door, and found it unlocked."
"Is that unusual?"
"Not really. She usually left it unlocked unless she and Mr. Howard had a fight."
"Her husband?"
Sylvia nodded. "You probably noticed they no longer share a bedroom." She was quick to add, "It's not that they fight very often, it's that he's a large man and uses a CPAP machine at night. They both sleep better apart from each other."
"Go on," said Heather, cognizant of time ticking away.
"I knocked, opened the door enough to announce myself, and peeked in. I watched Miss Lucy for what seemed like forever, but it was probably only thirty seconds. There was no movement, and she's prone to loud snoring if she's on her back, which she was."
The words flowed, so Heather did nothing to slow them. She nodded frequently and gave positive groans and grunts.
"I went to her bedside and watched her. The hand sticking out from under the duvet felt cold, like she'd come in from outside. That’s when I ran from the room, called Butch, and waited until you showed up."
"Did you notice anything unusual when you entered the room? A smell or something out of place?"
She closed her eyes for several seconds. "Everything seemed normal—except she wasn't breathing."
"Was it normal for her to drink wine at night?"
"She didn't make a regular practice of it, but last night was their anniversary, and I guess she celebrated."
"Alone?"
"They had dinner with the family, but I don’t think Mr. Howard stayed here last night."
The sound of footfalls and keys jangling brought the conversation to an abrupt end. A Houston police officer took quick steps toward her. He withdrew a notepad from his shirt pocket as he approached. His gaze rested on Heather first. "Your name, ma'am?"
"Heather McBlythe."
"Are you a member of the family?"
"Attorney. Here on another matter."
He looked past Heather. "And your name?"
"Sylvia Lopez. Maid."
"Who found the body?"
"I did," said Sylvia. Her voice was now much stronger. She matched Heather's answers in brevity.
"Did you touch anything?" asked the officer.
"Only Miss Lucy's hand. It was cold."
His gaze shifted back to Heather. "What about you, Ms. McBlythe? Did you go in the room?"
She reached for the gloves in the pocket that didn't hold her small pistol and showed them to the officer. "I was a cop for ten years. It made sense for me to clear the room and check for signs of life."
"Any sign of life?"
"Not human."
He turned his head and raised his eyebrows. "Can you explain?"
"There was a cat under the covers that didn't move until I'd cleared the room."
"Are you armed?"
She nodded. "Front right pocket of my blazer."
He smiled. "Mind if I borrow your gloves? I left mine in the car."
Heather handed them over.
"Both of you wait here while I take a quick look. Is the door unlocked?"
Both women said yes at the same time. Once inside the room, the officer took only enough steps to draw near the body. He checked the neck for a pulse and keyed the microphone attached to his epaulet. A series of numbers and cryptic words followed. Heather understood the language, but didn't explain to Sylvia. Soon the house and grounds would be swarming with people, each with tasks to perform.
The man backed out of the room, and faced Heather. "Where were you a cop?"
"Boston."
"And you're an attorney now?"
"Among other things."
"Oh? Like what?"
"I own an investment company, and I'm a private investigator. You might know my partner, Steve Smiley?"
He'd been looking down until she mentioned Steve's name. His head snapped up like a Jack-in-the-box.
"Do you know Steve?" she asked.
"More by reputation than anything. I’ve heard stories about him that can't possibly be true."
"He's here. Maybe you’ll have a chance to meet him," said Heather. "Tell the detectives to come to Mr. Sid Green's room when they get through with the crime scene."
The officer ran a hand down his cheek. "Do you think this is a homicide or natural causes?"
Heather shrugged. "Better safe than sorry. Treat it as a homicide for the time being. The autopsy should tell us for sure."
What Heather didn't say was that Steve had a way of knowing if the death was a homicide long before the medical examiner received the body.