4

SUSAN STOOD ON tiptoe, struggling to release the bird feeder from a hook on the elm tree while a blue jay hopped from branch to branch and made raucous complaints of impatience. Daniel had put the feeder up long before she knew him; he’d been six-foot three. With her five-eight, the thing was just enough too high that she never bothered with a stepping block, only swore. She opened the bag, poured in seed, and teetered on her toes to catch the wire back over the hook.

Inside, at the kitchen window, she watched the jay dive-bomb at sparrows to chase them away. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. February already, the thirteenth. A year, over a year since Daniel’s death. She’d had his job longer than she’d been his wife.

She exhaled a stream of smoke. Everybody said she’d be okay after a year. Everybody was wrong. Sparrows fluttered like brown leaves blown in a sky covered with thin gray clouds. I have to do it, I have to go upstairs and open that closet door and box up all those clothes.

Daniel isn’t there; nothing’s there but pants and shirts and jackets. Right. And ghosts. Ghosts that will rise up as soon as the door is opened.

The doorbell rang and she looked down at her jeans, long past their prime, a disreputable red sweatshirt that had been Daniel’s and sneakers with holes in the toes. She stubbed out the cigarette, raked fingers through her shoulder-length dark hair and took her time getting to the door, hoping whoever it was would decide she wasn’t home.

The bell sounded again and she thought it might be the kid up the street. Jen had taken to dropping in at odd moments when life got too much for her, which it did a lot lately. The living room didn’t look so hot either; newspapers everywhere, books, filled ashtrays and dirty coffee mugs, dust on the oak tables. Maybe she should consider a cleaning woman.

A white box—ordinary shoe box, size six and a half B, tied with string—sat all by itself on the porch. As she eyed it, an ominous awareness surfaced. Oh no. Moving fast, she jumped over it and hit the steps, looked up and down the street—wide tree-lined street with bare branches meeting overhead, neat middle-aged homes, some brick, some woodframe. Halfway down the block an elderly white Chevy tore off with a squeal of tires.

Oh no, Sophie, no you don’t. Hands on her hips, she watched the car disappear, then trudged up the steps and picked up the box. Inside, she gingerly placed it on the coffee table. Ha, am I going to feel stupid if there’s a bomb in here. She untied the string and lifted the lid. A tiny beige kitten with a chocolate-brown face popped its head up and regarded her with unblinking blue eyes.

“Ahh.” A silly smile spread itself over her face. The little thing was about as substantial as a feather. Only a baby. She and Daniel’d had plans for a baby. Didn’t happen. Won’t happen now. Nobody for a father and there’s all that biological clock stuff.

“Sorry, baby. You have to go right back to Sophie.” Sophie was a nutty old woman devoted to cats, and she was constantly searching out homes among the unwary. Clapping the lid back, Susan tried to hold it down while she fumbled for the string. The kitten spurted out one end, skittered across the coffee table and somersaulted to the floor.

Just as Susan made a dive for it—and missed—the phone rang. She hustled into the kitchen and answered sharply.

“Sorry to spoil your Sunday,” Hazel said, “but a body’s been found at the old Creighton place.”

“Whose body?” She had a bad feeling.

“A young woman. Her name is Lynnelle Hames.”

Damn, damn. Leaning an elbow on the countertop, Susan rested her forehead on her fingertips and remembered Lynnelle standing in the doorway of that grim little house. “Has Dr. Fisher been notified?”

“Yes. And Ben’s out there with Osey.”

Upstairs in the bedroom, she shed her jeans and sweatshirt, selected a pair of navy-blue wool pants, a bulky blue sweater and pulled on black ankle boots. She ran a brush through her hair; makeup, she didn’t bother with—she seldom did unless she was feeling vulnerable—and checked the gun in her shoulder bag. As she slipped on her charcoal trenchcoat with its wool lining, she glanced at the other closet door, the one with Daniel’s clothes inside, then trotted down the stairs.

It was just after eleven when she headed the pickup cross-town on Rockridge and cut north. Fifteen minutes later, she turned into the long driveway, all the potholes now filled with rain water, and angled the pickup nose in to the shrubbery at the end of a line of cars, patrol cars and emergency vehicle. The local radio station van was also there, she noted; not surprised, but not pleased either.

Ben Parkhurst, in black pants and gray wool jacket with the collar turned up, crunched down the driveway toward her. He was a compact man about five-ten with dark hair, intense dark eyes, and olive skin. During the year she’d been chief, they’d moved from hostility and distrust to grudging respect and finally, like two suspicious dogs sharing the same territory, had worked out an uneasy truce. In the past few weeks he’d regressed to icy arrogance and she’d wondered what that was all about. “Where is she?”

“This way.” With a jerk of his head, he started back up the driveway.

When they came around the rear of the house she saw, with surprise, David McKinnon standing under an oak tree that spread out overhead like a giant umbrella. David, an attorney, was a friend; she wondered what he was doing here. The woman with him had Lynnelle’s dog, who lunged at them, barking wildly, and was brought up short by the leash. Susan hoped it would hold.

Officer White, spruce in his uniform and keeping a discreet eye on them, stiffened when she glanced at him. He was the youngest and most recent of her officers and didn’t quite know how to handle himself in her presence, so he opted for military correctness.

“Susan.” David took a step toward them. He looked tired; a handsome man, late thirties, blond curly hair, but fatigue lined his fine-chiseled face and his sharp blue eyes had dark circles. He wore a tan leather jacket, brown turtleneck sweater and brown pants dripping wet, expensive boots soaked.

He turned and touched his companion’s arm. “This is Carena Egersund.”

Susan knew the woman by sight; math professor at Emerson. Egersund’s pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, green eyes shadowed with shock, rigid stance suggested a hard rein on her emotions. A breeze ruffled her short blond hair and she clutched her tweed jacket together at the throat.

“I’ll need to talk with both of you,” Susan said. “I hope you won’t mind waiting. It’ll be just a few minutes.” If David was irritated by her official manner, he didn’t show it.

Irregular stepping stones led across the muddy ground to an open field of winter-dead weeds. Fifty yards further was a thick stand of trees.

“Those two found her,” Parkhurst said when they were out of earshot and headed for the woods.

Moldering leaves squelched and slid underfoot as they tromped through the trees. “The dog led them to her, some kind of Lassie bit.” He grunted. “Your friend McKinnon moved the body.”

At the edge of the creek, the photographer was packing up his gear, the ambulance attendants were waiting patiently with a stretcher, Dr. Fisher was kneeling by the body. Water from sodden jeans and black poncho puddled over the plastic sheet under it.

Parkhurst went off to check with the officers he had searching the area. Susan looked down at Lynnelle, made even smaller by death, her pale skin almost colorless except for the bruised-looking patches of lividity, her matted blond hair pasted to the skull, mouth hanging loose, eyes open and staring. The wind plucked forlornly at a clump of curls.

The creek bank showed marks in the mud where the body had landed and tumbled down. They were crisscrossed with paw prints. To one side, sliding footprints gouged the mud, made by somebody climbing down in a hurry. Probably David. They, obviously, were made after the rain had stopped.

“Owen?” She looked at Dr. Fisher, a large solid man, stocky and slightly overweight, square fleshy face and heavy dark eyebrows that contrasted sharply with an abundance of white hair. Latex gloves covered his long-fingered hands; hands that looked borrowed from a much thinner, more delicate man.

“She probably drowned.”

“Accident?” Susan had a great deal of respect for him, he was thorough and precise and tackled each task with unending patience and enthusiasm. Being a gentleman of the old school, he disapproved of female cops and especially female police chiefs, but he was a gentleman and never let his disapproval show. She also appreciated the fact that he didn’t indulge in crude humor like some pathologists she had known.

“She took a nasty blow to the occipital region. It’s hard to see how that could happen accidentally and have her end up face down in the water.”

He turned the girl’s head to one side and tenderly eased his fingers through the dripping hair. “Rain and creek water washed the blood away. It doesn’t feel like more than one hit. I won’t know till I get her on the table. Then I’ll tell you if that blow could have killed her if she hadn’t drowned.” He rose, brushed at the damp spots on his dark blue trousers and peeled off the latex gloves, fussily wiped his hands with a white towel.

As she studied the dead face, a monumental sense of rage coiled up deep inside her and burned in her chest. She clenched her teeth and shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her trenchcoat so he wouldn’t see them shaking. “How long has she been dead?”

“I might know after the autopsy.” He replaced instruments in his bag and snapped it shut with a final click.

“Some rough guidelines would be helpful.”

He gave her an irritated look. “That water’s cold. It’s going to complicate things.”

She waited.

He frowned. “Maybe ten to twelve hours. Rigor still evident. A guess,” he added. “A very rough guess.” He nodded curtly and began to pick his way, fastidious as a cat, across the wet ground.

She struggled with a hideous thought. Did I let this happen by being in too much of a hurry? If I’d gone back yesterday, asked the right questions, found out why she came here, could I have prevented this?

She felt the helplessness that was always her response to a violent death. The awful finality. Lynnelle was so young, she should have a lifetime ahead; career, marriage, children, all of it.

I’ll find who did this, Susan promised her silently, for whatever that’s worth.

When Parkhurst returned, she left him to examine the surround and see to the removal of the body. As she walked back through the trees, skirting a boarded-over well, she caught glimpses of the men searching for evidence and hoped they would find something. With the size of the area and the various layers of rotting vegetation, any success would be mainly a matter of luck.

Egersund and David sat side by side on the wooden step by the back door, the dog lay on the ground with her head across Egersund’s feet. All three rose as Susan approached.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I just need to get a few things clear and then you can go.” Osey Pickett was still inside the house gathering fingerprints and she wanted to get David out of the cold air. From all that standing around in wet clothing, his lips had turned decidedly blue. She shouldn’t have kept him waiting.

“Dr. Egersund, perhaps you’d like to wait in a squad car with Officer White. Out of the wind.”

Egersund shook her head. “The dog will be less upset if we just wait here.”

Susan nodded. “I won’t be long. David, would you mind?” She led him along the driveway, intending to question him in her pickup.

When he realized where they were headed, he suggested his own car, a snappy little black Mercedes with soft leather interior. He started the motor and switched on the heater. “Was it really necessary to have your storm trooper standing guard?”

“White? A storm trooper?” White was an apple-cheeked kid who looked more like a boy scout than a police officer.

David smiled a wry acknowledgement. He had the half-angry expression that comes with “if only,” the constant replay so it all comes out right.

“All right, David, why did you move the body?”

“My God, Susan, she was facedown in the water. I didn’t know she was dead.” He took in a breath and spoke in a calmer voice. “Sorry. I just feel some blame here. I never should have let her stay.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “I own the place. And the woods, however many acres. You can see the house has been abandoned for years. She liked it. She wanted to live in it.”

Susan turned to look through the rear window at the dilapidated house. “You rented that?”

“Yes, well, in love as in literature it’s often difficult to understand someone else’s choice. She wouldn’t give up. She needed a place to live. It was empty. Why not? She loved the woods. Oh hell.” Resting an elbow on the steering wheel, he pinched the area between his eyebrows as though he had a headache.

“How could anybody in all good conscience collect rent for that?”

“I didn’t go that far. She would live there and make this and that repair.”

The bright red paint on the front door must have been an attempt to impose some cheer on the squalor. “I’m surprised you weren’t concerned about liability.”

“Believe me, I thought of that. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have allowed anyone in there.”

“But?”

“There was something so angry and needy about her that I felt sorry for her. She was a young lady battering at walls. She seemed totally guileless and trustworthy. I waived my better judgment. Based on my assessment of her, and let me remind you I’ve had a few years of judging character, and based on the strength of her desire to live here, and based on her financial position—” He stopped speaking as though he were addressing a jury. “She wanted a place where she could keep the dog. She couldn’t find one. You think I could say no? I did have a contractor check it first. It’s not as bad as it looks. At least, the structure’s sound.”

“How long did she live here?”

“About three months.”

“Tell me what you know about her.” The heater hummed softly, sending out warm air. It certainly worked well; maybe there was something to all this luxury stuff. She unbuttoned her trenchcoat.

“Only her name.”

“David—”

“Oh yes, I asked. She’d recently arrived in Hampstead; she wouldn’t say from where. She wouldn’t tell me anything at all about herself. She was—” He put both hands high on the steering wheel. “Worried, troubled, apprehensive—” He lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. I tried to keep an eye on her.”

“How often did you see her?”

“Not as often as that question seems to imply,” he said dryly. “Half a dozen times, maybe.”

“What time did you get here this morning?”

“Ten.”

“Why did you come?”

“The furnace quit working. She phoned about it yesterday evening.”

“You fix furnaces too?”

“Of course not. I was going to look at it intelligently, kick it a few times and call somebody to fix it.”

“Why wait until this morning?”

“Her choice. She said she was busy, plans for the evening.”

“What plans?”

He hesitated a moment before answering. “She didn’t say.”

“Did you ask?”

He sighed. “No.”

A flock of small birds swooped to the shrubbery in front of the car, hopped around twittering, and then took off again, dark spots against a cold gray sky.

“You came out with Dr. Egersund?”

He slouched back in the seat. “She came while I was waiting for Lynnelle.”

“You going to tell me what happened? Or make me get it question by question.”

“We’re not friends here, is that it? You’re just a cop doing a job.”

She shrugged, smiled, and nodded mildly. What kind of half-assed remark was that? He seemed to imply something that she didn’t catch. The hell with it. She was a cop and this was her job. “What happened after Dr. Egersund arrived?”

He slouched further, letting his head rest on the seatback. “We stood around a while. The dog kept nudging us. She’d bound off, then trot back. Finally, we followed her.”

“Whose idea was that?”

He looked at her. “Dr. Egersund’s.”

Susan waited.

He turned to look through the windshield. “The dog jumped in the creek. Pawed at Lynnelle, tugged at her. I got her face out of the water.” He paused. “It was obvious she was dead.”

“Did you touch anything in the house?”

“Only the telephone.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “And the leash. The damn dog didn’t want to leave her.”

“Egersund go in the house?”

“No.”

“How well do you know her?”

“We just met.”

Susan buttoned up her trenchcoat and reached for the door handle. “Just for the record, where were you last night?”

He snapped alert. “It wasn’t an accident?”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“I’m a suspect,” he said tightly.

“Come on, David, you’re an attorney. You know how this works.”

“I see. What times are we talking about?”

“From around eight to eleven.”

“Home. Alone.”

She nodded, opened the door and slid out. “You better go and change into dry clothes.”

“If it’s all the same with you, I’ll wait till after you’ve wrung out Dr. Egersund.”

This concern seemed a little odd, if they’d just met.

Egersund looked as though she hadn’t moved the entire time Susan was with David. She still stood by the back step, one hand bunching her jacket at the throat, dog at her feet. In response to some imperceptible stiffening, the dog sat up and shifted nervously. Egersund reached down to pat her and her fingers twisted the thick fur.

Mistake, Susan thought. I should have questioned her first. Now she’s had time to think about the answers. “How long have you known Lynnelle Hames?”

“I didn’t know her.” The words were barely audible, spoken through a thick gumbo of emotions.

What’s this? “When did you meet her?”

Egersund blinked and seemed to bring her mind back from far away. “She came to my house last night and—”

“What time?” Susan deliberately interrupted. Rattle the woman a little, maybe shake her faith in her predetermined answers.

“About eight,” Egersund said and waited.

Susan also waited a beat, then asked, “Why?”

“I think she wanted to ask about math classes.”

The woman was lying, Susan thought, and not at all comfortable with it. Basically honest people don’t make good liars. “You think?”

“I only assume that. She didn’t stay long, simply said she’d changed her mind and then she left.”

“You didn’t know her. She came to your house at eight o’clock at night. She didn’t say why she came. The only thing she said was she changed her mind?”

Egersund didn’t respond.

“I don’t understand, Dr. Egersund, since you didn’t know her, saw her so briefly, why you came out here this morning.”

She’d prepared herself for that one and had the answer ready.

“Her coat.” Egersund nodded at the blue down jacket lying across the board on the rope swing. “She forgot her coat.”

Forgot her coat. Uh-huh. It was cold; it was raining. Lynnelle wouldn’t have forgotten her coat unless she was greatly upset. Now, just what might she be upset about? And why hasn’t Egersund mentioned it?

The medics came out of the woods carrying a stretcher with a black body bag. The dog trembled and whimpered as they stumbled along over the stepping stones, passed under the oak tree and turned to go up the drive. They loaded the stretcher, slammed the doors, and tramped around to the front of the ambulance. When they pulled away, the dog yelped and lunged, twisting and straining. She managed to slip her collar and tore after it, barking frantically in a high-pitched bark. She charged down the driveway and along the road.

When the ambulance disappeared, she padded back slowly, head down, tail drooping, sides heaving. She flopped to the gravel and dropped her head to her paws.