Detective MacDougal, a bald, six-foot-four male in his early fifties who had always reminded Maisie of a tall Yul Brynner, stood in the Marshalls’ bedroom along with Maisie and two other officers, all four staring at Lane Marshall’s dead body. She’d known MacDougal for several years, even working with him once or twice when he was young and green, long before she retired.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t call us last night instead of today,” MacDougal said.
“And say what, exactly?” Maisie said. “I thought I heard someone scream, but I didn’t know who it was or even where the sound had come from. If I had called, you wouldn’t have believed me.”
MacDougal shrugged. “May have. Never know now.”
“For all I know, the sound I heard could have been a woman in the throes of passion with her husband or lover.”
All three men attempted to keep a straight face, but failed.
“The throes of passion?” MacDougal said. “Based on the scream you described, it isn’t likely.”
Maisie crossed her arms, grinned. “For you, maybe. Not for me.”
Eyes wide, the officers exchanged glances, none of them brave enough to respond. MacDougal jerked his head toward the bedroom door, told the other officers to have a look around, see what they could find. They walked out of the room, and he directed his attention back to Maisie. “You can’t go around vandalizing houses just because you can’t contain your curiosity.”
“Throwing a brick through a door in order to rescue a crying baby isn’t vandalism; it’s being a good neighbor. Besides, if I hadn’t, who knows when Lane Marshall would have been found? And as for the baby, who knows how long she would have survived?”
“When was the last time you saw the Marshalls?”
“Yesterday afternoon. They were bringing in groceries from the car.”
He leaned back. “You live five houses away. You just happened to see them carrying groceries?”
“I happen to notice all the coming’s and going’s on my street.”
“How long have they lived here?”
“About a week.”
“When was the last time you spoke to the Marshalls?”
“I haven’t spoken to them at all. We’ve never met. I baked them a cake this morning and brought it over so I could introduce myself. And then the madness happened.”
“And you’re sure the scream you heard last night came from a woman?”
“Quite sure, yes.”
One of the other officers, a short—about five two—beefy thing reentered the room, dangling a plastic bag in the air in front of him. “We found this outside on the driveway.”
MacDougal squinted. “What is that?”
The officer shrugged. “A scarf, I think.”
Maisie nodded. “Zoey wore it as a headband. She had it on yesterday when she was carrying the groceries from the car to the house.”
MacDougal tipped his head toward Maisie. “Again, from your distance, you saw a headband on Mrs. Marshalls head?”
The fact she’d been spying on her neighbors through a pair of high-powered binoculars was evident, especially since she was nearsighted and wore glasses. Too late to hide it now. “What matters is, I saw the scarf. It’s up to you to sort out the rest.”
“Looks like there may be blood on it too,” the officer said.
“Could be her blood, could be her husband’s,” Maisie said. “Blood spatter could have transferred to the scarf when she killed her husband. Or it could be her blood, in which case you have to ask yourself why the killer killed Lane, took Zoey, and left the baby. Another possibility could be—”
MacDougal raised a brow. “Maisie.”
She placed a hand on her hip. “What?”
“Let us do the police work from here. You stay out of it. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“It makes no difference to me whether you asked me or not. You’re here, and you’re going to get it. This is my neighborhood. Maybe you’ve forgotten I was examining bodies when a career as a detective was a mere glimmer in your eye.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Have you forgotten you’re retired now?”
The second officer entered the room, thumbed at MacDougal. “There’s a lady out here asking to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say. Think she’s with this one.”
This one meaning Maisie.
Maisie followed MacDougal downstairs to the living room where Maude was sitting, cradling the infant in her arms.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Maude said. “I was just wondering if I could keep the baby until you find a relative to take her. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be in the house right now with her father upstairs the way he is and everything.”
“You can, umm, hand her off to one of my officers,” MacDougal said. “We’ll call child protective services until we can locate a family member.”
The two officers looked at each other like they were way out of their league. Maude tightened her arms around the baby, frowned.
“Actually,” Maisie said, cell phone in hand, “I’d like to call my son and see what he has to say. Perhaps an exception can be made just this once. Hmm?”
“You two need to return home,” MacDougal said. “If we have further questions, I’ll let you know. As I said before, we’ll take it from here.”
“I don’t think so,” Maisie said.
“Whether your son is the mayor or not doesn’t change the fact that there’s a protocol to follow here.”
MacDougal signaled one of the officers with a finger. The officer walked over, arms outstretched toward the baby.
Maude stood. “I’ll leave you to do your job, but the child is coming with me.”
Hands on hips, MacDougal rolled his eyes, sighed. “Fine. Whatever. Take the baby to Maisie’s house for now, but only to her house. You stay put, and the baby stays put. Don’t leave.”