4

Short and feisty, Valerie Prescott glared at him and jutted her jaw. Mike mirrored her stance, feet apart with arms crossed, and gave an aggrieved heartfelt sigh.

He’d known when he got the call that sooner or later he’d have to deal with some high-maintenance women who—in his experience—dwelled in these upscale neighborhoods. Lucky him.

Alison Monaghan placed a restraining hand on Val’s arm. “Sit down, Val. It’s okay. Detective Barefoot is only doing his job.” She pulled a reluctant Val down to her side. “Please, Detective, I have other questions.” She gestured for him to take a seat. He lowered himself into a recliner. She flinched.

Had he unknowingly taken her husband’s favorite spot? If so, that accidental choice could work in his favor. “I understand your husband was a pilot. Did he seem troubled or concerned about anything before he left for his rotation on . . . ?”

She put a hand to her head. “Monday. He left Monday for Dallas. And no, nothing that I noticed.”

“Did he seem moody or . . . ?” His voice trailed off, suggesting nothing, suggesting everything.

She gave him a wry smile. “Frank is, I mean was, a person who experienced a great many moods, Detective. He seemed upbeat. The prospect of flying always had that effect on him.”

“Are there any other relatives we should notify?”

“No.” She sighed. “Like me, he was an only child. His parents were killed a few years ago in a hit-and-run by a drunk. They never found the driver. Ironic, I always thought.”

He leaned forward. “How so?”

She dropped her gaze, plucking at the fringe on the pillow cushion. “Frank drank too much. I was afraid one day he’d kill himself and others, too.”

Val tilted her head. “Who found Frank’s body?”

He flipped a few pages of his notebook. “A Jasper Delaine, caretaker of—”

Alison’s breath hitched. “Weathersby House.”

“Do you know this man?”

“No, but I’ve seen him at the House.” She shifted toward Val. “That’s what struck me a few moments ago when you mentioned Orchard Farm Road was the back property line for Weathersby. I hadn’t made the connection before.”

“What exactly is your connection to Weathersby, Mrs. Monaghan?”

“I volunteer there as a garden docent in the Master Gardener program once a week. And,” she added, “Frank was secretary on the Board of Directors for the non-profit preservation group that runs the historic park, Triangle Area Preservation. TAP.”

He scribbled a note. “I’ve heard of them.” Great. A whole bunch of the overprivileged to check out.

Val Prescott bit her lip. “I assume there will be an autopsy.”

He glanced at her, glad they were sitting down. “There always is with a suspicious death. Although Mr. Monaghan’s driver’s license was in his wallet, unfortunately, I’m going to need you, Mrs. Monaghan, to officially ID the body.”

What little color remained faded from her face. “You want me to go to the morgue with you?”

He shook his head and removed his phone from his jacket pocket. He scrolled to the photo the medical examiner had sent. “A photo ID of the body will be sufficient.” He extended the phone to her.

Tensing, she took the phone. “Thank you, Detective Barefoot.”

Val squeezed her arm.

Alison glanced at the photo. Her face constricted. She nodded and thrust the phone toward him. She wrapped her arms around her trembling body.

Shock? Or playacting? He steeled himself not to be a chump.

Officer Ross poked his head into the den. “Your team has arrived, sir.”