I knew the drill. Sadly, I had experienced the aftermath of violent death before, so I knew the first thing I had to do. I called Eric Jensen and the police chief answered on the second ring. He actually sounded happy to hear from me, even though it was barely five o’clock in the morning. I knew that happy vibe wouldn’t last long.
“Hi, Eric,” I said, not even trying to sound cheery as I paced back and forth across the ballroom. “I’m working over at Forester House and wanted to get an early start this morning, so I apologize if I woke you.”
“You didn’t. I like to get an early start most mornings myself.”
“Good. That’s good. Real good. Okay.” I was stalling and there was no reason for it. After all, it wasn’t like I had killed Potter myself. As a shiver crossed my shoulders, I tried to banish that thought from my mind. Because, let’s face it, even though I hadn’t killed the man, I had certainly threatened him with bodily harm once or twice. At the time it hadn’t bothered me because, frankly, he deserved my wrath. But now I just hoped no one had overheard those conversations. In my defense, though, I’d heard a half dozen or more people say much the same things to him. Now one of those people had gone one step beyond just saying the words.
I took a deep breath and blurted, “I found Mr. Potter dead in the butler’s pantry. I think someone killed him.”
There was a long pause in the conversation and I played back my words. You think someone killed him? Yeah, duh.
Finally, Eric said, “Potter. Are you talking about Peter Potter? The bigwig over at Lighthouse Cove Bank and Trust?”
“That’s the guy.”
“And you think he’s dead.”
I recalled that quick glimpse I got of the man. “Actually, I know he’s dead.”
“Are you anywhere near the body right now?”
“Uh, no, not exactly. Well, I mean, I’m closer than you are, but, yeah, he’s in the room right next to this one and the door between us is closed, so . . .” I was yammering nonsense. It happened once in a while when I was under stress. You’d think I would have, oh, I don’t know, gotten used to finding dead bodies? But how did anyone ever get accustomed to stumbling across death?
“He’s in the butler’s pantry,” Eric reiterated, as though he might be writing down notes.
“Yeah, he’s in there and I’m in the ballroom and there’s a door . . . never mind.” He didn’t care where I was, I thought, rolling my eyes. “Can you come soon?”
“Give me ten minutes.” And he hung up.
All the breath in my lungs deflated and I had to grab a folding chair and sit. Talking to the chief of police about a dead body could do that to you. Still, at least Eric knew me well enough now to be reasonably sure I hadn’t killed Potter myself. At least, I hoped he did.
I couldn’t sit still for long. I grabbed my phone and called my father, pacing the floor as I listened to his phone ringing.
“Yeah?” Dad whispered.
I could tell I woke him up. “It’s me, Dad. Sorry to call so early.”
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Mr. Potter’s dead.”
There was a long silence, then, “How?”
“He was murdered.” I closed my eyes and brought the image back. “Stabbed to death, I think.”
“Whoa.” He exhaled. “Wow. Well, I’m shocked, but I can’t say I’m sorry. And probably not all that shocked, either, when you come to think of it. If there was anyone in town asking to be killed, it had to be Potter. So who did it?”
“I don’t know. I just called Eric Jensen and he’s on his way.”
“You called the cops?” He paused as the subtext of my words sank in. “Honey, where are you?”
“At Forester House. Dad? Here’s the thing.”
But I couldn’t say it. I was still shaking inside. This was what I hadn’t wanted to say out loud. To Eric. To anyone. But there was just no getting around it.
“What is it, sweetheart? Are you in danger?”
“No, but . . . Dad, Potter was killed with your ax.”
He whispered an expletive. “I’ll be right there.”
* * *
It took Eric eight minutes. I was waiting inside the front doorway, shivering despite my down vest and a heavy turtleneck, when his black, police-issued SUV turned into the driveway and stopped at the spot where the veranda began. I stepped onto the front porch as he climbed out of the car. He saw me and lifted his hand in a brief greeting.
He looked good—really good, as usual—in his faded brown leather bomber jacket, worn blue jeans, and boots. In his rush to hurry over here, he hadn’t bothered to dress in his chief’s uniform and I appreciated it.
“Thank you for getting here so fast,” I said, hating to hear my voice crack. But honestly, how many dead bodies did one person have to come across before they went completely bonkers?
“There was no traffic. Hey, are you all right?” he asked, and wrapped me in a warm, secure hug. He was big and muscular and handsome and blond, and since the first day I met him at a much different crime scene, I had thought of him as Thor. You know the guy. Superhero. Nordic god. Carried a big hammer. Yeah, that guy.
“I’ll survive,” I said, adding, “That’s more than I can say for Potter.”
“Indeed.”
We both turned at the sound of another vehicle turning into the driveway. I recognized Tommy Gallagher’s brown SUV and both of us waited for the assistant chief of police to park and jog over to join us at the front door.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, sighing as I hugged him back. “It’s good to see you.”
Not only was Tom Gallagher the assistant police chief; he was also my former high school boyfriend and Whitney’s husband. I wondered if Tommy knew about Whitney’s private meeting with Potter the afternoon before. I was willing to bet she hadn’t mentioned a word of it to her darling husband. And did Tommy know their home was in jeopardy because of Mr. Potter’s connection with Whitney’s father? If he did know about the threat to their home, was that enough to make Tommy a suspect, too?
Tommy was still just as tall and adorable as he’d been in high school, with surfer blond hair and a charming smile. He was warm and sweet and funny, and why he had ever chosen Whitney over me remained one of the great mysteries. But he loved her madly and he was a terrific dad to his three kids, so that only made him sweeter in my book.
I stared at the two cops and sighed. If one was inclined to compare humans to animals, then Tommy was like a big cuddly bear while Thor was a powerful stallion. A tall, golden-haired, brawny, take-charge stallion. Tommy was a warm, wonderful cutie-pie, while Thor—Eric—was tough, compelling, and resolute. He was blue twisted steel come to life. He didn’t smile a lot, because when he did, women tended to melt into puddles at his feet.
It wasn’t easy being around two such manly dudes, but I managed to make it work for me.
“Why don’t you show us where you found the body?” Eric said, bringing me back down to earth with a thud.
“Right,” I said, shaking my head at my errant thoughts. “It’s this way.”
I led them into the house and down the hall to the ballroom, crossing the wide, hardwood floor to the door of the butler’s pantry. That’s where I stopped and pointed. “He’s right inside there. You’ll have to push hard to get the door open because his body is pressed up against it.”
“Is there another way into that room?” Eric asked.
I had been wondering that same thing earlier when I’d tried to push the door open, and while waiting for the cops I’d realized there was a simple answer. “There are two windows in there that lead to the side of the house by the driveway.”
“Then let’s take a look through the windows first,” Eric said, “rather than disturbing the scene right off.”
Oops. I had already disturbed the scene by pushing on Potter’s body, but I decided not to mention that right now. Besides, since I’d told them that Potter’s body was blocking the door, they’d probably already guessed that I’d done some pushing. I had them follow me outside using one of the French doors that led to the veranda and around to the side of the house.
One of the windows was wide open.
“Screen’s been removed,” Tommy said, pointing at the large, thin screen leaning against the stone foundation. “Looks a little rusty.”
Eric frowned. “I can see that. Not sure if we can get prints off an aluminum frame. But don’t touch it, just in case.”
The chief moved over to the windowsill and studied the surface from several angles, then turned to Tommy. “Give Charlie a call and tell him to get his guys over here. We’ll need to lift these fingerprints.”
Tommy walked away to make the call to Charlie Samuels, their crime-scene investigator, while Eric stood as close as he could get to the window’s ledge without touching anything. He leaned over the sill and stared down into the hallway space for a long minute. Taking out his cell phone, he snapped several pictures.
“There’s a lot of dust in there,” he muttered to himself. “Might catch a break and find some footprints.”
“They were hanging drywall yesterday afternoon,” I said. “That’s where the dust came from.”
“That’s lucky for us.”
I frowned a little. “You realize everyone working here has been through this room and probably handled the windowsills and God knows what else.”
“We’ll get prints from your workers if we need to.”
I coughed to clear my suddenly dry, guilt-ridden throat. “I should mention that I did try to push the door open, so Mr. Potter might be in a slightly different position than he was originally.”
“Was he lying on his stomach when you saw him?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you know it was Potter?”
“I, um, had some run-ins with him yesterday. I recognized his blue pinstripe suit and his bald head.” Oh God, I thought. Why did I mention run-ins? That didn’t sound good. Would it make me a suspect? I almost whimpered. Not again.
“So you saw the ax sticking out of his back?” Eric asked, his voice flat. It wasn’t really a question.
I gulped, then took a deep breath, then another, and tried not to hyperventilate. The ax had been closer to his neck, I thought, and there was a lot of blood pooled under his head. I imagined the weapon must have severed one of the vertebral arteries. I knew something about arteries because of the tool-safety classes I used to teach at the local junior college. Yes, believe it or not, part of my curriculum included teaching students how to avoid cutting an artery with one tool or another. Kids enjoyed all those sorts of blood-and-guts details. But I digress.
“Yeah, I saw the ax,” I said. “It looked to me like it was sticking out of his neck.”
“I stand corrected,” he said dryly, then gave me a hard look. “Did you recognize the ax?”
I couldn’t speak, just nodded slowly.
“Shannon, whose ax is it?”
It was like I was standing in quicksand. Time slowed down to a crawl and stars began to burst in my eyes. Was I having a stroke? Was I going to faint?
“Shannon?”
I couldn’t say the words.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Are you going to pass out?”
I shook my head rapidly. “No.” But the word echoed around in my head, and I must have stumbled because he grabbed me and held on until I was steadier. He put his arm across my shoulders and walked me away from the window. We took a brief stroll down the driveway while he murmured words of encouragement. “It’s okay, Red. You’re going to be all right. Come on. You’re stronger than this.”
I was, usually. But this time was different.
He stopped walking and turned to look at me. “Tell me who the ax belongs to.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “It belongs to my father.”
* * *
Dad arrived ten minutes later, parking his truck on the street and running up the driveway to the front porch. “Shannon?”
“Dad.” I jumped up from the veranda patio chair and dashed over to meet him. The crime-scene guys had arrived moments before and I was trying to stay out of their way while still sticking close by the action.
My father grabbed me in a tight hug, then held me at arm’s length, squeezing my shoulders as he stared at my face. “Are you all right?”
I was still shaky but there was no point in telling my dad that. He already looked worried enough, for good reason. “I’m better than I was earlier. And I’m just glad you’re here.”
We walked back up the steps to the veranda and sat on the cushioned outdoor sofa. He turned and met my gaze. “Honey, I have to ask you this.”
“Anything, Dad.”
“Did you see the ax? I mean, did you see it in Potter? Are you sure it’s mine?”
“I saw it, Dad. It’s yours. It’s got the hard foam black handle with the leather cord. There’s no mistake.”
He shook his head in disgust. “So someone stole my brand-new demo ax and used it to kill Potter.”
“Yeah.” But as I heard him say the words out loud, I suddenly wondered, did the killer deliberately plan to set up my father? But why? Who would do that? Everyone loved my dad. And I wasn’t just saying that because he was my father. He had been born and raised here and knew everyone in town. He’d built dozens of homes and designed a number of beautiful neighborhoods in Lighthouse Cove. Anyone who knew him admired him. I couldn’t imagine who would try to frame him for murder. It didn’t make sense.
No, I preferred to think that the murder had occurred in the heat of the moment, which made it a crime of passion. Potter had to have been arguing with someone—the killer—and then he’d walked away, leaving the killer feeling helpless. Frankly, it was a scenario I’d seen several times yesterday. But in this case, Potter had used up his allotment of mockery and scorn, and the killer, in a fit of rage, searched around desperately for a weapon. Dad’s tool chest was sitting right there and the killer had rushed to open it to find a weapon.
Maybe Potter had been looking for a way out of the house and used the door to the butler’s pantry, not realizing it was a dead end, so to speak. The murderer came running after him with the ax and thrust it into his neck. Stunned by the act of violence he—or she—had just committed, and realizing that he—or she—couldn’t budge the pantry door open with the victim wedged next to it, the killer opened the window, removed the screen, and jumped to freedom.
It made as much sense as any other scenario. More, in fact, if you knew Potter. I did, and I’d experienced that same feeling of impotent rage. I wouldn’t have reacted the same way, of course, but I definitely could understand how it might have happened.
So until I learned the truth, I would call Potter’s murder a crime of passion—or even temporary insanity. It sounded a lot better than going with a premeditated theory in which the killer had purposely tried to set up my father as the main suspect.
But would Eric believe it? He might, if he’d ever had to deal with Mr. Potter. Either way, I was going to have to try my darnedest to convince him. Because the pure truth was that my father had nothing to do with it.
The only questions that continued to bug me were these: Why was Potter in the ballroom last night? What were he and the killer doing in there after everyone else had left for the day?
Dad bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he considered the situation. “This is all my fault. You warned me to lock up the tools but I didn’t have the key with me. It was stupid, but instead of taking my tools with me, I just closed up the box and laid one of the tarps on top of it.”
“It’s not your fault, Dad. Some killer went searching for a weapon and happened to rummage through your tools. When I got here this morning, the chest was wide open and some of your screwdrivers and other things were on the floor. And your ax sheath was empty. My first thought was that you and the guys had been joking around before you left for the night and you just got distracted and left everything open.”
He frowned at me. “You know I don’t work like that.”
I held up both hands. “I know. It was my brain trying to justify what I knew couldn’t have happened. And I realized it as soon as I had the thought.”
“The guys and I worked until about five thirty,” he said, staring off into space as if seeing it all again. “Then we cleaned up and went to the pub for some beers and fish and chips.”
“Who went with you to the pub? How late were you there? Do you have an alibi for afterward? Did anyone see you after you left?”
My barrage of questions caused him to grimace. “Jeez, honey, slow down.” He thought for a moment. “Okay, we stayed until nine and then I walked home. I doubt if anyone saw me.”
“Are you sure? Someone must have seen you.” Yes, I was grasping at straws.
“Not that I know of. I walked back to the RV and slept like a baby all night.”
Dad had bought himself one of those great big recreational vehicles about five years ago, after he had recuperated from his heart attack. He and my mom had once dreamed of touring around the country in an RV. Mom died when I was eight, but instead of letting that dream die with her, Dad was determined to follow through in hopes of keeping her memory alive. Once he hit the open road, though, he realized it wasn’t much fun driving the humongous thing without a loving partner beside him.
So he drove the RV back home, parked it in our driveway, and turned it into his man cave. Eventually, he moved into the RV full-time, and why not? It had a huge flat-screen TV and a comfy living room, a nice-sized bedroom, a galley kitchen, and a full bathroom. These days, the only time he came into the house was to use the laundry room. And two weeks out of four, he was off fishing with Uncle Pete.
As I said, the RV was usually parked in my driveway, but it wasn’t last night.
“Where did you park the RV?” I asked.
“I’ve got it parked over by the marina.”
That was odd. “How come?”
He gave me a crooked smile. “Lately I’ve been thinking of buying a boat. I wanted to check out the scene for a few days.”
His boyish enthusiasm made me want to laugh, but his answers to my questions were too critical to his own fate to allow me the luxury. I especially couldn’t laugh because I had experienced the fear and dismay of being a murder suspect and it wasn’t fun. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to my dad. I hated the image of him sitting in a squalid room for hours while the police chief interrogated him, wondering all the while whether they were going to lock him up in a cell or not.
To be fair, the Lighthouse Cove Police Headquarters was actually quite pleasant and nowhere near squalid, but it suited my mood to think so. And Eric wasn’t stupid. He’d been in town long enough to know my father and his reputation, so that all worked in Dad’s favor, too.
The marina was only a few blocks beyond my house, so Dad’s walk home from the pub last night wouldn’t have taken him more than fifteen minutes. But since we didn’t yet know what time Potter was killed, it was foolish to try to pin down his whereabouts to a particular time. I would just have to let the police do their job.
This feeling of helplessness was starting to make me crazy, and it was barely past sunrise. I figured I’d be a basket case by noon.
“There you are, Shannon. Hello, Jack.”
I almost jolted off the couch at the sound of Eric’s voice. I guess I was a little edgy, but who could blame me?
Dad stood immediately and went over to shake his hand. “Hey, Eric. Looks like you’ve got yourself some trouble here.”
“You could say that.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help out.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He glanced at me, then back at Dad. “You will have already heard about the ax.”
“Yeah, Shannon told me. I’m confounded as to why anyone would open up my tool chest looking for a murder weapon.” He scratched his head in frustration. “All I can say is, I’m sorry. I wish I could go back in time and put a lock on the darn thing.”
“I wish you could, too,” Eric said, and gave me another look before continuing. “I’m sympathetic to both of you needing to share information with each other, but I would appreciate it if you’d keep everything between the two of you. I don’t want any details leaking out to the general public.”
I winced at the admonition. Maybe it had been stupid to tell my dad how Potter had been killed, but what else was I going to do? He deserved to know the truth. And besides, he was my dad.
“We won’t tell a soul,” Dad said, touching his heart. “You can count on us.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Nobody will hear another word from me.”
“I’m grateful for your discretion. And I’ll want to talk at length to both of you at some point later this morning.” He looked at me with sympathy in his eyes. “For now, though, I need to shut down your construction site.”
“What? No!” I hadn’t even considered the reality that Forester House was now a crime scene. “But we only have nine days to complete the work. The families are moving in on Christmas Eve. This is our biggest charity event of the year. You can’t just shut down the whole house.”
He said nothing, just gazed at me with infinite patience.
I waved my hands in the air. “I mean, of course you can shut it down because you’re the police. But if you could just allow us to work in some of the rooms, it would be a huge help.”
He thought for a moment. “In the spirit of the holiday, I’ll have my people search through as many of the rooms as we can get to this morning and then we’ll try to open up a section or two by lunchtime.”
I released a big sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
He held up his hand. “Except for the butler’s pantry and ballroom. That space is off-limits for now.”
“That’s okay. Thank you, Eric.” I jumped up and hugged him, much to his surprise. I mean, we’d hugged before, but not when there was a freshly dead body in the vicinity.
“I really appreciate it,” I said, letting him go and stepping back. “You have no idea how critical every hour is to the success of this project.”
“I have an inkling,” he said kindly. “And I’ll try to get things back on track as quickly as possible. We just need to get some answers.”
“I understand.”
He checked his wristwatch. “It’s six twenty-five. My crime-scene guys are already working. Hopefully we’re only dealing with the one crime scene, but that’s what we’ve got to determine before we let you go back to work.”
“I know.” I rubbed my stomach where it was twisted up in knots at the possibility that there were other bodies strewn throughout the house. My mind instantly went to any number of horror movies, laying out bloody, awful scenes that couldn’t possibly be true.
“What time do the volunteers arrive?” he asked.
I blinked away the imaginary carnage. “They’ll be here at eight.”
“Are they the same group as yesterday morning?”
For a moment my mind went blank. I couldn’t recall my numerous lists of volunteer names, even though I’d practically memorized everything about this project. I blamed it on my anxiety over finding a dead body. I took a few calming breaths and was soon able to focus on the information he needed. “About half of yesterday’s group should be back today. That’s ten people, give or take a few. The rest of them are new.”
“Good. I’ll interview the returnees. I can do it right out here on the porch.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to move inside to the foyer, at least? It’s awfully cold out here.” And there I went, inserting my own opinion once again. I pointed toward the front door, glancing through the decorative wrought iron glassworks. There was the red settee and plenty of wide stairway steps in case people wanted to sit down.
“That should be fine,” Eric said. “I’ll ask Mindy—I mean Officer Payton—to do a complete search of that area first.”
I’d gone to school with Mindy Payton, so I knew who he was talking about. “Do you want me to explain to the new volunteers that the house is closed for today?”
He frowned in thought. “I’d better talk to them.”
“Okay. But don’t, you know, scare them off with your death stare.”
Eric grinned. “But that’s what I’m good at.”
Trying not to smile, I shook my head.
With the question of volunteers settled, Eric asked my father to please wait out here on the veranda.
In other words, I thought ominously, don’t leave town.
Gazing back at me, the chief said, “And I’d like you to come with me to the ballroom. I want to go over every single step you took when you first arrived this morning. And maybe, while we’re at it, you can come up with a good theory as to why you’re the one person in Lighthouse Cove who’s always encountering dead bodies.”
I shook my head, completely baffled. “It’s a mystery.”