Chapter 3

Rodriguez and Flynn asked the evidence techs to photograph the dust patterns, then pulled out their phones to snap a few shots of their own. The two detectives decided to spend time examining the rest of the basement, looking for anything else that might provide a clue to how Virginia died.

“There are two individuals upstairs,” Rodriguez said to a pair of uniformed cops. “Scott and Anton. Please ask them to wait for us. We’ll have a few questions for them. Also, try to keep them from wandering around. The scene has already been trampled on. Let’s not make it worse.”

When they started for the stairs, Bruce said, “I’ll go up with them.”

Rodriguez nodded. He and Flynn started down the first aisle, exactly the way Bruce and I had.

With everyone else gone, I wandered back to where Joe worked alone, squinting in the bright artificial light as he knelt next to the body. He noticed me watching.

“Crouching is a little hard for me, still,” he said as he placed one gloved hand on Virginia’s shoulder, the other on her hip, ready to turn her over.

“Is it okay if I watch?” I asked. “I promise not to get too close.”

He glanced up, taking a moment to focus, then smiled. “That seems to be our problem, doesn’t it? Not being able to get close?”

Pleased that he’d opened the door to a bit of an awkward subject, I decided to push it a little further. “How did your family issue work out? Is everything okay?”

“Long story,” he said, retuning his attention to the matters at hand. “One of these days, when you and I have a chance to have a real conversation . . .” He let the thought hang as he eased Virginia’s body onto its side. “Hello, what’s this?”

Instinctively, I stepped forward. “What is it?”

Using the back of his wrist to scratch the side of his head, he frowned. “A credit card?”

“You don’t sound so sure.” Maintaining my distance, I came around to see better as he pulled out what resembled giant plastic tweezers.

“Hang on,” he said. Using the tool, he lifted a maroon rectangle of plastic off the floor, which did, indeed, resemble a credit card. A second, similar card lay below it.

“What are they?” I asked.

He held the first card up, making it easier for me to see. “I’d say it is a credit card, or was supposed to be.”

The small rectangle featured a familiar credit company logo but lacked any numbers or name. “It’s a blank,” I said unnecessarily.

“What would she be doing with unidentified credit cards?”

“She works—worked—at the bank,” I said. “That’s probably where they came from. Maybe she brought them with her.”

“Hmph,” he said. “Then why were they found beneath her body? If she had them on her person, they’d be in a pocket or her purse, not under her shoulder.”

“Where is her purse, by the way?”

“Detective Flynn had one of the uniforms take it into evidence.” He pointed about four feet away. “It landed there, some distance away from Virginia.”

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

He looked up at me. “Nothing yet. Just asking questions.”

“Do you think she may have been carrying more of these blanks?” I asked. “And that whoever killed her did it because he wanted them? Maybe when he shoved her down the stairs, he didn’t realize that two cards went down with her.”

Joe got to his feet as he peeled off his latex gloves. “Solid reasoning,” he said. “Of course, we don’t know for certain that she was pushed. My preliminary observations are just that: preliminary. I’ll know more when I get her on the table.”

“Is there any chance you’ll let me know what you find out?”

“As long as Rodriguez doesn’t mind.” His gaze was warm. “Maybe we could discuss updates over dinner, or drinks.”

“Or both.” I smiled. “Speaking of Rodriguez—and Flynn—we should probably call them over to show them what you found.”

“Detectives?” Joe called loudly. “If you have a moment?”

“Be right there,” Flynn shouted back from the basement’s far corner.

While we waited, Joe came to stand next to me. “Unfortunately, if our illustrious detectives order me to keep the matter confidential, I won’t be able to share any information at all.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s a definite possibility.”

Staring down at the dead body before us, he shrugged with the utmost nonchalance. “If that’s the case, I’d understand if you wouldn’t want to go for dinner or drinks. Or both.” He turned to meet my eyes.

“I think we can restrain ourselves sufficiently to avoid discussing the investigation. If we have to, that is.”

“Then I’m game if you are,” he said.

“Especially since you promised to share your long story when we do get a chance to talk.”

“That, too. And as long as we avoid Tuesday nights,” he said. “My family practice office hours start in the afternoon and run late on Tuesdays. Patients can’t always make it in to see me during the day.”

“That’s really nice of you.”

“Patients are my life,” he said. “It’s a small inconvenience for me to avoid a huge inconvenience for them.”

“Okay. Any night but Tuesday.”

He smiled. “How about—”

“What’s up?” Flynn asked as he loped over. Rodriguez followed behind. “You find something?”

“Maybe.” Joe had slipped the two blank credit cards into separate evidence bags. He held them up. “What do you make of these?”

“Give them here.” Flynn yanked the bags away from Joe and handed one to Rodriguez. “Where were they?”

Unfazed by Flynn’s rudeness, Joe said, “Under our victim.”

Rodriguez and Flynn wore identical expressions of puzzlement as they turned the bags over and studied the maroon cards contained inside.

“Under,” Rodriguez repeated. “Could she have had them in her hand when she fell?”

Joe made a so-so motion with his head. “Of course it’s possible, but I think a more likely scenario was that the cards fell to the bottom of the stairs before she did.”

“What makes you say that?” Flynn asked.

“If, as I theorize, our victim was indeed struck by a heavy object prior to her fall, whatever items she’d been holding would have been launched from her hands. Her purse, as we documented, landed farther away from her body than it should have, had it fallen with her.”

Rodriguez rubbed his forehead, then shot a glance at his partner as though asking a silent question.

Flynn shrugged. “She’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “You know how she is. Go ahead.”

Rodriguez stepped closer. “We have a team down at the far end taking pictures and collecting evidence.”

I bounced my attention between the two detectives. “Of?”

One end of Flynn’s mouth curled up. “Looks like a squatter has had the run of this place for some time.”

“A squatter?” I said.

“A homeless person. A bum,” Flynn said. “You don’t know what a squatter is?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Of course I know what a squatter is. I was expressing surprise. Are you sure?”

“Of course we’re sure.” He gesticulated wildly. “We found a pile of junk over there. A grungy makeshift campsite. Most people would look at it and see a pile of garbage. But we’ve seen this sort of thing before. And geez, the smell.” He shook his head, then turned to Rodriguez for support. “We just wait for the bum to return and we’ll have our killer.”

Rodriguez blinked slowly. “One step at a time, amigo. Let’s let the good doctor present his findings first, okay?”

Joe and I exchanged a glance. “I’ll get started as soon as she’s brought to the morgue,” he said.

“In the meantime, maybe we should try to figure out what’s missing from that dusty table,” I said. “Do you think the squatter is also the thief?”

“How about you leave the speculation to us?” Flynn said.

I looked up as a group made their way over to us from the far staircase. Bruce, Scott, and Anton followed two men rolling a gurney. “Doctor?” one of the men asked, addressing Joe. “Okay to take her?”

Joe trotted over to where they waited. While he spoke to them, I made my way over to my friends. “How are you, Anton? Feeling any stronger?”

He kept his eyes averted from Virginia’s lonely form. “How are you unaffected by such sadness?” he asked.

“I’m not unaffected.” It was the truth. Every time I caught sight of Virginia lying there, my heart clenched a little bit. But sadly, because of all the situations I’d been involved in these past few years, I’d begun to develop a protective shell that allowed me to compartmentalize. An accident would have been bad enough, but the idea that she may have been killed here shattered me. “Although I can’t mourn Virginia personally because I didn’t know her, I’m terrifically sad for those who did.”

“You are able to keep your equanimity. Your balance,” he said. “This is what allowed you to be able to help discover what happened to my friend Gus, is it not?”

He was referring to the situation involving Frances that had occurred a little more than three weeks ago.

I nodded. “Though whether that’s a blessing or a curse, I can’t tell for sure.”

“It’s a curse all right,” Flynn said from behind me. I hadn’t even realized he’d been listening in. “Everywhere Grace goes, murder follows.”

Anton raised a thick hand to his forehead. “I should like to remain elsewhere.”

Scott shrugged and followed the older man as he shuffled back toward the far stairs.

“Hold up there a minute,” Flynn said, motioning to Rodriguez. “We have questions.”

“Is it all right if I head back to Marshfield?” I asked Rodriguez. “I told Frances I’d be late, but I’m sure she’s starting to wonder.”

“Go ahead, Miz Wheaton. We’ll be in touch.”

As the attendants transferred Virginia’s body to the rolling stretcher, I made my way over to Joe, who was packing up his examination kit. Time for me to take the initiative.

“You’re heading straight to the morgue from here?” I asked him.

He paused and looked up. “I am. Even though I have office hours this morning, my colleagues will cover my patients until I get in. I’m lucky to be part of such an understanding group.”

I waited a beat, then said, “Any chance you’ll be free for drinks tonight? Or dinner?”

He smiled. “Or both?”

“Or both.”

The smile faded. “I’d like that, but I don’t know what the rest of the day holds. Let me get back to you.”

Though his reasoning was completely understandable, I still felt a tiny sting of disappointment. “No problem,” I said with a smile. “Talk to you soon.”

Joe started to say something else, but Flynn stepped between us. “We’re going to need to fingerprint you,” he said. “All of you. That way we can eliminate any familiar prints as suspects.”

“You have my prints on file,” I said. “But you may want to mention that to the guys before they take off.”

“Yeah,” Flynn said, though I didn’t know why. Despite his earlier comment about questioning Bruce, Scott, and Anton, Flynn didn’t appear inclined to move anytime soon, so I said good-bye and left for Marshfield.

Outside, though the rain had let up, the morning was still chilled. Gusty, dreary. I pulled my jacket tight and tucked my head down. But when I turned the corner toward my car in the adjacent parking lot, I stopped short.

A strange man stood behind my car, taking pictures with his phone. Wearing a nondescript windbreaker, sunglasses—on an overcast day, no less—and a baseball cap pulled low on his face, he was ever so slightly turned away.

“Hey,” I shouted. “What are you doing?”

The man spun to face me, snapped another photo, then—in one smooth move—pocketed the phone and took off fast into the alley. I started after him, but by the time I got to the back of the parking lot, he’d disappeared.

Pulling up my phone, I called Rodriguez and told him what had just transpired.

He gave a thoughtful grunt. “Stay put. I’ll be up there in a minute.”

Moments later, three cops burst from the building, two of them running into the alley, the other down the street. Sirens echoed in the distance. I hoped that my vague description helped the police find the guy. Who was he?

When Rodriguez arrived in the parking lot, I explained the man’s actions again. Provided his description again.

“How old would you say?” he asked.

“Hard to tell because I didn’t get a good look at his face,” I said, “but something in the way he moved makes me believe he’s not a youngster. I’d guess over forty.” I closed my eyes to picture him again. “He wore brown pants and gym shoes. And a plain, baggy windbreaker. Not particularly fashionable. That’s not much help, is it?”

“Could be an ambulance chaser,” he said. “Or in this case, a coroner’s van chaser. Or a wannabe journalist. Don’t know.”

“Or the murderer?” I asked.

“If this was a murder,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s hope, this time, it isn’t.”