3

Mike cleared his throat. “Your husband was found dead in the early hours of this morning in his parked car.”

“At the airport?”

He shook his head. “No. Where Orchard Farm Road dead ends.”

“I’m not sure where that’s located.”

Mike pursed his lips. “A few miles from the airport. It’s a rural road used mainly by the NC State University Vet School in their research.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, where the cows graze not far from I-440. But why was Frank there?”

Mike cocked his head. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I don’t have a clue. The road is between the airport and our home, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “But you have no idea what he was doing out there?”

Mrs. Monaghan avoided his gaze. “How was my husband killed, Detective Barefoot?”

His eyes narrowed. She’d evaded his question. There was something she hadn’t told him yet.

The corner of his lips flattened. “He was shot with a small caliber pistol, a .22. Do you, or did he, own any guns?”

She stiffened. “Absolutely not.”

But she leaned against the back of the sofa, appearing relieved about this line of questioning. She definitely didn’t want to talk about what Frank had been doing on that isolated stretch of road.

He returned to his original query. “What was Frank Monaghan doing out there on Orchard Farm Road?”

“What time was he killed, Detective Barefoot?”

His jaw clenched. Tapping his pen against the notepad, he waited. Silence unnerved most people into telling things they wouldn’t normally say to fill the void.

But stoic, she stared at him. Then apparently reaching some inner decision, she announced, “I’m sure you consider me, as his wife, your primary suspect at this point, Detective Barefoot.”

Seeing his upraised eyebrows at her bluntness, she continued. “One only has to watch the nightly news to understand how often it is the spouse.”

Most people upon realizing they were suspects in a murder investigation reacted in either fury or fear. Alison Monaghan, however, was as frigid and remote as the icicles that hung from his grandfather’s barn in winter.

Too cool?

His eyes bored into her. “Describe the current state of your marriage to me, Mrs. Monaghan.”

“I did not kill my husband, Detective.” She glanced toward the staircase. “I need to be with my children. They love—” Her breath caught and she lowered her eyes. “They loved their father.”

“And you did not?”

She raised her eyes to meet his own. For the first time, he saw a pool of unshed tears well in her eyes. Regrets?

Or, remorse?

“No,” she whispered. “Not for a long time.”

He fought to maintain his professional objectivity. If this woman was lying, well, she was the best little actress he’d ever come across in ten years of law enforcement. What was it about her that got to him? She wasn’t knockout gorgeous by any means. Attractive, but average in his opinion.

Was it her vulnerability? The air of emotional fragility like a taut bowstring? Or was she, too, a liar like most of her gender? Nobody got to him. He’d worked hard to ensure his walls were high and unbreachable. He fiddled with his pen.

Swallowing, she attempted to regain control over her emotions. “I want to help you, Sergeant, in any way I possibly can. If by eliminating me as a suspect, it can speed you on to other lines of inquiry, I will do nothing to stand in your way. Unlike silly fictional heroines, I believe full disclosure saves time.”

Alison Monaghan placed both hands upon her well-clad knees. “Frank never made it home.” She glanced at him. “It was not necessarily unusual for Frank not to return home right away after completing his flight rotation. He had . . .” she paused, “other interests.”

“Other women?”

Her mouth tightened. “Yes.”

Mike straightened. “Go on.”

“After dinner, the children were in bed, and he still hadn’t arrived. I decided to wait for him and I waited here,” her arm sweeping across the sofa, “where I could see him pull in the driveway and hear the garage door open.”

“Did you usually wait for him?”

She sighed. “No. Usually, I went to bed. Frank always came home eventually, but it would’ve been too humiliat—” Her mouth pulled downward.

“Why last night?”

“I’d suspected for some time Frank was having an affair. Yesterday, I accidentally found proof, and I was determined to confront him.” She shrugged. “I know that gives me a great motive for murdering him, but I fell asleep on the couch while waiting for him and had just woken to realize he didn’t come home at all, when you arrived.”

The rumpled hair and appearance. The shoes beside the sofa. Perfectly logical explanations.

If they were true.

She rose, fishing a photo from her pocket. “This is what I found when I was cleaning out the closets. The photo was in the pocket of the same raincoat he’s wearing in the picture.”

He took it, catching again a whiff of her lavender fragrance, and examined the image. “Hard to tell who the woman is.”

“I want a copy of the photograph.”

He wrinkled his brow. “Why?”

“Frank operated in a small, tightly knit social circle. I probably know this woman. I think over the years there were others. To finally answer your question about what Frank was doing out on Orchard Farm Road instead of coming home? I don’t know for sure, but I could venture to guess it was part of some preplanned . . .” She struggled for the right word. “Rendezvous.”

“The raincoat you mentioned? Could I take it with me for analysis?”

“I’m not doing a good job in clearing myself. After I put dinner in the oven, I took it and the other winter coats to the cleaners’ yesterday afternoon. I was in shock after discovering the photo. And yes,” noting the questioning look on Mike’s face, “angry as well.”

“That’s a shame. The lady might have left DNA behind. I mean . . .” He flushed.

She leaned forward. “I lost most of my illusions about Frank years ago. I have my receipts from the grocery and dry cleaners I can show you. The children were home after three for the rest of the night.”

“But after they went to bed?”

“I see where you’re going. I could have left them alone and slipped out. But I didn’t. Oh,” she blinked. “Isn’t there some test for gunpowder you could do on me?”

He tried to hide his amusement. “You read a lot of mystery novels, Mrs. Monaghan?”

For the first time, her tightly gripped facial muscles relaxed long enough for one small fleeting smile. “I do, as a matter of fact.”

“Real-life crime isn’t like novels or television. But you are correct. There is a gunpowder residue test I’d like to perform on you and your wardrobe.”

She waved her hand. “Test away, Detective. And don’t worry about a search warrant, if you even need one. Feel free to search everything.”

“You’re sure I have your permission?” No case would be thrown out of court on a technicality. Not on his watch. “You will need to sign forms to that effect.”

Ross coughed and jerked his head toward the foyer. The children had crept back to the landing on the staircase.

“Of course.” She pivoted toward the entrance. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to my children.”

He cautioned, “We will need to talk more extensively soon.”

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she looked at her children, huddled against the wall, their arms about each other. Taking a deep breath, she placed one hand on the railing and one foot on the first step.

Officer Ross appeared at her side. “Is there any one we should call for you, ma’am?”

Without turning around, she started up the stairs. “Valerie Prescott. I’ll call her myself. Just give us a few moments.”

He joined Ross at the foot of the stairs. They watched as she kicked off her shoes to sit cross-legged in front of the children. Opening her arms, both children released each other and scooted over to her embrace.

“Why?” the girl sobbed over and over.

At the sight of her children’s grief, Alison Monaghan shuddered as tears cloaked her voice. “Someone killed your father.” She tilted her head toward the policemen. “They’re going to find out who did it.”

He prayed her words were true. He almost smiled. How his granny would’ve loved to see him pray.

“And we’re going to do everything we can to help them because no one, no one,” Alison Monaghan repeated, “had the right to take your father’s life.”

Holding her children close, one in each arm, she gave him and Officer Ross a hard look before continuing. “Whatever we learn, never, ever forget how much your father loved you both.”

He and Officer Ross turned away, giving the family some privacy. He outlined for Ross the procedural steps to take next. And as he did so, he sincerely hoped the mother would be cleared soon and the real killer apprehended.

Unless Alison Monaghan had killed her husband. Time and the evidence would tell.

A muscle jumped in his cheek. It galled him to realize he wished somehow the Monaghans—all of them—could be spared the soon-to-be public revelations about Frank Monaghan’s dirty little secrets.

He ran a weary hand over his head. Sometimes, he hated his job.

It was all Val could do to restrain herself to the speed limit in the twenty minutes it took her to journey from the Prescott home in Cary to Alison’s home inside Raleigh’s beltline. Steering into Alison’s long driveway, she skidded to a stop in her haste.

Getting out of the car, she noted the blue and white patrol car parked at the curb in front of the Monaghan house. Racing up the front walkway, she was about to seize the door handle when a patrolman opened the door. He stood, immovable, halting her headlong flight into the house.

“I’m Valerie Prescott.” Her breathing sounded like she’d just finished running a race.

Nodding, the officer ushered her into the house. “They’re in the family room. Do you know the way?”

Val tried to quiet her rapidly beating heart. “Like my own.” The officer allowed her to proceed while remaining at his station by the front door. She noticed a plainclothes officer in the front room. His back to her as he spoke on his cell phone, he angled at the sound of her passing.

She caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired, barrel-chested man with a small black cell phone pressed alongside a square, iron jaw. His hair, clipped short on the sides and back, was like the state troopers. His eyes—an unusual silver-gray—gave nothing away, neither warmth nor dislike. Trying to ignore him, she hurried past.

God, help me know what to say.

With great foreboding, she found Alison, Justin, and Claire huddled together like refugees in a storm with an afghan about their shoulders on the couch. Justin saw her first and, flinging back the cover, ran into her arms. Claire was the next to follow.

She gazed over their heads to where Alison sat with shoulders slumped, looking defeated. “Ali?”

Alison raised her eyes. “He was shot at the end of Orchard Farm Road.”

Val frowned. “Isn’t that the back of the Weathersby property?”

Something flickered in Alison’s eyes before—like a sliding elevator door shuttering her face—physical and emotional fatigue reclaimed her.

Claire broke from Val’s embrace. “The detective is going to search the house. I could tell from his voice he thinks Mom killed Daddy.”

“What?” Fear hit Val. “He can’t do that without a warrant.”

Alison shook her head. “I gave my permission, Val. I have nothing to hide. I don’t want anything to stand in the way of apprehending the villain who has done this.”

She took a deep breath and tried to think. What damage had Alison already done? “Wait a minute, Alison. You’ve got to think rationally. We need to call Reese. Don’t say anything else to the police before my brother gets here.”

Alison shook her head again. “I’m not guilty, Val. The police always suspect the spouse first. It’s practically routine. I do not need a lawyer.”

“Listen to me. You’ve got to think of the children and your future. The cops are by virtue of a homicide investigation adver—” She tripped over the unfamiliar word she’d often heard her attorney brother use, “adversarial opponents right now.”

“That’s good advice your friend is giving you, Mrs. Monaghan.”

Startled, she let go of the children and whirled to find the detective in the doorway. A deep cleft in his chin, he was a mountain of a man, not easily trifled with. His cheekbones strongly chiseled and prominently high, his nose a trifle bent. Although his skin was as light as her own, she fancied there was a trace of the Native American in him. Maybe Cherokee, if he’d been born to North Carolina’s mountain region.

She was not about to let him railroad her dearest friend. Anxious not to disrespect his position of authority in front of the children, she determined to get them occupied. She had a few questions of her own for this detective.

Val swiveled to Claire. “Your mom and I need you to get dressed and make breakfast and coffee for everyone. We must keep up our strength and,” glancing over her shoulder, “I’m sure the officers would appreciate something strong and hot as well.”

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not hungry.”

“Me either.” Justin’s declaration was unusual for a boy his age, but not surprising given the circumstances.

“We’ve got a long few days ahead of us. I don’t want you or your mom to collapse. Please, children. I know you don’t feel like it, but it does help your heart a little, if we can keep our hands busy.”

Both children looked over to their mother sitting motionless and silent. She nodded to them and, dragging their feet up the back stairs off the kitchen, Claire and Justin returned to their bedrooms to change. She planted herself—feet apart—in front of Alison. With her arms crossed, she faced the stone-faced detective, ready to do battle.