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Mrs. Porter, still hovering, suggested they sit and offered coffee, which both accepted. After she’d brought in a tray, John thanked her and asked if they could speak to Natalie alone. With thinly disguised disappointment, the Porters withdrew.
Natalie took another sip of her tea. Both men had taken out the notebooks ubiquitous to police officers and held pens poised. Their expressions were still sympathetic, but also intent, razor sharp. This was their job. Natalie felt a chill at the realization. Suddenly they had ceased being friends and become detectives who, by nature, were suspicious of everyone.
Including her.
“I got home from work, parked in the driveway—”
“What time?” Detective Baxter interrupted.
She remembered looking at her watch. “5:35—I noticed before I got out of the car.”
Pens scratched on paper.
She described events: unlocking the front door—yes, she was sure it had been locked—setting down her purse on the hall table and going straight upstairs. The kitchen and living room had looked just as she’d left them that morning. She told of noticing the sewing room door open, then actually making it a couple of feet past the den before her brain accepted what her eyes had seen: a dead man in Stuart’s den. The tale of her flight felt ignominious, but she also knew she’d been sensible.
“You didn’t set foot in the den?” John McLean asked.
“No. I was afraid…” She clutched the afghan tighter against another shiver and finished softly, “Somebody might still be in the house. Besides, I could see his head. I knew he couldn’t be alive. My checking his pulse wouldn’t have done any good.”
“You didn’t recognize him?”
“I couldn’t see his face from the doorway. It never occurred to me that I might know him. I thought…” She didn’t know what she had thought. “That he must be a burglar or something.”
“Very likely.” John didn’t sound satisfied. “Two of them may have had a quarrel.”
“But why my house?” Was she asking them, or the Fates? “Stuart’s stereo is nice, I guess, and a burglar could have that big-screen TV with my compliments, but they’re both still there. I don’t know if anything was touched.”
“The scumbag might have panicked after bashing in his partner’s head and fled. Or run when he heard you opening the front door.”
“But how did he get in? And out?”
“The side door into the garage was unlocked.”
“But…” Disturbed, she looked from face to face.
“I always keep it locked. The one from the garage into the house, too. I’ve hardly set foot into the garage in weeks!”
“Neither door had very good locks.” A frown furrowed John’s forehead. “I should have replaced them for you.”
“You couldn’t possibly have predicted that anything like this would happen. Or that anybody would want to break into my house at all. Beyond his stereo system, about all Stuart had was the house and, gosh—” she waved her hand vaguely “—treasures like ten years of Field & Stream and Sports Illustrated packed in boxes. Totally intact, no issues missing.” Stuart had made a point of telling her that when he caught her about to recycle a copy of SI. He’d looked at her as if she were an idiot when she ventured to ask why he was keeping them all. “Heaven knows the house doesn’t exactly shout money,” she added now.
John grunted. “It’s a decent place in a decent neighborhood. These days, everybody has electronic equipment. Our Port Dare criminals specialize in stuff that’s easily turned over. None of them would know a piece of genuine artwork from a reproduction if it was labeled. Jewelry is always good, and I’m sure they would have hunted in your bedroom if everything had gone according to plan.”
“But the den?” Why was she arguing? She wanted murderer and victim to be common burglars, having nothing to do with her. Still… “Stuart’s computer is dated.”
“You might have had a laptop tucked away in there, a pager, an expensive calculator.” He shrugged.
“Yes. I suppose.” Now she was the one to feel dissatisfied, but it took her a moment to analyze her unhappiness with the scenario.
Why wouldn’t two burglars have immediately unplugged and taken the obviously expensive television and stereo equipment before exploring further? Her sewing machine was a fancy, electronic model that did everything but wash the dishes. Wouldn’t they have considered it worth taking? Besides… Now the discontent stirred anew.
“The cat had been napping in there.”
“What?”
She saw that she’d startled both men.
“It must not have just happened,” Natalie explained, thinking it through as she went. “I shut the door to my sewing room last night. When I got home today, that door had been open long enough for the cat to have taken a nap on the fabric I’d laid out in there. And Sasha wouldn’t have relaxed enough to take a nap in the open unless strangers were long gone. Which means I didn’t scare him away.”
Geoff Baxter looked doubtful at her logic.
John frowned thoughtfully. “The coroner hasn’t arrived yet. She’ll be able to give us a time frame.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter what time he was killed.”
The two men stirred.
“I know it does to you,” Natalie conceded. “To your investigation. But to me… Actually, I’d rather think he wasn’t still in the house when I got home. The idea that he was standing behind one of the doors, listening to me, maybe even watching…”
John half rose to his feet, then seemed to force himself to sit back down. His face was grim.
Natalie hunched inside the afghan. “That gives me the creeps,” she concluded simply.
John made a gritty sound and slapped shut his notebook. “Damn it, you’re coming home with me tonight.”
She wanted nothing more, but her pride, so important to her, insisted she protest. “I have friends I can stay with.”
“Yeah, and I’m one of ’em.” He stood. “I’ll see if I can bail out your toothbrush and drop you at home right now.”
“But I can drive.”
“No.” His pointed gaze took in her knotted fists and the shiver she couldn’t hide. “You’re in shock. Mom’s with the kids. She’ll enjoy babying you.”
Ridiculous to feel disappointed. Of course he wouldn’t stay with her. He had a murder to investigate. She knew the drill: he would probably work for twenty-four straight hours, canvassing neighbors, supervising crime scene technicians, following up on the tiniest leads. The older the trail, the less likely that a murderer would be caught, Stuart always said. Homicide cops did not drop an investigation to take the night off and pat the little woman’s shoulder.
“I…that’s nice of you, but shouldn’t you ask your mother?” Natalie had only met Ivy McLean a handful of times, the first at Stuart’s funeral. John was divorced and his two kids lived with him. His mother must be baby-sitting tonight.
Geoff cleared his throat. “You know Linda will give me hell if I don’t bring you home with me.”
Natalie doubted his wife would go that far. The two women were casual friends because of their husbands, but they had so little else in common, they’d never progressed beyond the occasional invitation to dinner.
A tiny spark of bemusement penetrated the numbness she’d wrapped around herself as snugly as the afghan. “I do have women friends who can run me a hot bath and tuck me in. Really, you don’t have to…”
John’s hard stare silenced her. “Yes. I do. I’d rather know where you are.”
Because she was a suspect in a murder investigation? The thought shook her. John couldn’t really believe even for a second that she would do something like that, could he?
“Yes. All right,” she said, sounding ungracious but too discombobulated to figure out what woman friend would actually have a spare bedroom without putting a child out. She would have to explain, too, listen to exclamations of horror, perhaps endure avid curiosity. Ivy McLean was the mother of not just one son in law enforcement, but three. She would have heard it often enough before to imagine the scene without wanting the details. Natalie didn’t like the idea of putting out a near-stranger, but if she just took a hot bath and went straight to bed, she didn’t have to be much trouble.
“What else do you need?” John asked. “Are you on any prescriptions? What about a nightgown or clothes for morning?”
Morning would be Saturday, and she wouldn’t have to work, thank heavens.
“My purse,” she said, explaining where she’d dropped it. “The middle drawer in my dresser has jeans, and T-shirts are in the one below that. I left a sweater draped over a chair in my bedroom. Nightgowns are in the top drawer.”
“Underwear?”
She could rinse out the ones she was wearing. But she’d sound so missish if she suggested that, Natalie tried to match his matter-of-fact tone. “There’s a small drawer on top next to the mirror.”
“Good enough.” John left to go fetch her things. He and Geoff had a brief discussion she couldn’t hear at the door. A moment later, Natalie heard Geoff telling the Porters he needed to ask them a few questions.
In the living room, they sat side by side on the couch, Mrs. Porter clutching her husband’s hand. She sat very straight, a dignified, tiny woman whose dark hair was whitening in streaks, her husband a tall, thin man whose color was none too good. Her eyes were bright, his dull. Natalie remembered guiltily that she’d heard something about bypass surgery a few months back. Had anybody in the neighborhood brought meals or even just expressed sympathy? Their kindness today made Natalie feel terrible about the way she’d shrugged off the casually mentioned news.
Geoff’s questions were routine. Had they seen or heard anything out of the ordinary? Cars they didn’t recognize?
Shaking her head, Mrs. Porter said, “We grocery shopped this morning, then had lunch.”
So they did actually go out.
“This afternoon Roger mowed the lawn while I deadheaded the roses. I don’t believe a car passed the entire while. Did you see one, dear?”
He frowned, giving it careful thought. “No. No, I didn’t notice one.”
“Then we lay down for a quick nap,” his wife continued. “I’d just begun thinking about putting dinner on.”
Geoff thanked them gravely and closed his notebook. Natalie carefully folded the afghan and laid it on the arm of the chair.
Standing, she smiled even as she felt the hot spurt of tears. “You’ve been so kind. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been home. Please, let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”
“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Porter stood and came to Natalie, taking her hand, hers dry but surprisingly strong. “We’ve wished we could help you since your husband died! All by yourself in that big house. You come see us anytime.” She turned a commanding gaze on the detective. “You will let us know when you catch the man who did such an awful thing, now won’t you?”
“It’ll be in the newspapers,” he promised.
“Assuming you do catch him,” she said acerbically, sounding like her sharp self for the first time tonight.
Geoff’s expression became wooden. “We’ll do our best, ma’am.”
“See that you do.” She gave Natalie’s hand a last squeeze. “Warm milk does help you sleep.”
“I’ll remember that.” Natalie was teary again as Geoff escorted her out. She must still be in shock. She wasn’t usually so emotional.
“We will catch him,” Geoff promised as they crossed the street. “Count on it.”
“I know you will.” Natalie paused on the sidewalk in front of her house and gazed at it, wondering if it would ever seem familiar and safe again. She felt again the sense of wrongness, and this time, it raised goose bumps on her skin. She rubbed her forearms.
“I only hope you arrest him soon. It’s going to give me the creeps to go home, wondering why they were in my house and whether he could get in again.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go home.” Frowning, Geoff held open the car door for her. “Until we figure out for sure what they were after.”
She liked the way he worried about her. Even if his concern, too, was for Stuart’s sake.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to develop a phobia about my own house.” Natalie sighed and climbed into the passenger seat of the dark blue car. “We’ll see how it goes.”
He nodded, as kind in his way as the Porters had been. Voice gruff, he said, “Just remember, there’s a fine line between bravery and idiocy. Don’t push yourself to do something you’re uncomfortable with.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
John McLean emerged from the house carrying her overnight bag and purse. Both she and Geoff turned their heads to watch him cut across her lawn. She liked watching him move, with the discipline and grace of an athlete, his stride purposeful and long.
What would she have thought of him if she were a normal citizen who didn’t know the investigating officers? Natalie wondered idly. Would his physical bulk and the bulge of the gun he carried in a shoulder holster have intimidated her? She certainly couldn’t have known that he had a dry sense of humor or that his eyes often held a twinkle even as his mouth remained unsmiling. Or that this cop in a dark, well-cut suit would go home most days to cook dinner for his children, help them with homework, supervise baths and tuck them in.
Her mind roved further. If she’d never met Detective John McLean, if she weren’t a widow of barely a year, could she have been attracted to him?
Jolted, Natalie uttered a small, startled sound that Geoff, mercifully, seemed not to notice. Where in heck had that idea come from? For goodness’ sake, she’d known John for several years and never once thought of him in those terms! He was Stuart’s friend. Period.
No, not period. Of course he’d become her friend, too. Why else had she needed him so desperately today?
Of course she wasn’t attracted to him. She would have noticed before now.
No, Natalie knew perfectly well what she was doing. John was an excuse, that’s all. What she was avoiding thinking about was her house, and especially what—who—lay upstairs, or of the cleaning job she’d have afterward. Would she ever be able to go upstairs again without her heart pounding? Would she be able to stroll into the den—stepping just where the body now lay—and sit down to use the computer without a frightened consciousness of where blood had soaked into the carpet?
Natalie was grateful for the distraction John provided when he stopped by the open car door. At the same time she noticed that he carried a brown paper grocery bag in his free arm, she caught the whiff.
“My bread!”
“It seemed a shame to let it go to waste.” His rare smile relaxed his face. “I doubt we’re going to lift a fingerprint from your bread machine.”
“Thank you.” Those wretched tears threatened again. If one more person was nice to her, she was going to start sobbing. Natalie took the grocery bag and wrapped her arms around it, the delicious aroma and warmth almost as comforting as a hug. She blinked hard. “John, I almost forgot poor Sasha. She’s going to be scared by all the strangers trooping through.”
“Actually, I just shut her in your sewing room.” John cleared his throat. “She was, uh, somewhat annoyed. I doubt you want her in there, but we can’t have her in the den.”
“No, that’s fine.” The fabric could be washed again before she cut it out, the pattern pieces taped. “Her litter box is in the garage.” As if they wouldn’t find it.
“And her food in the kitchen. I saw it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the cat.”
As he’d taken care of her gutters and her Christmas lights and the rotten branch from the maple tree that had splintered a ten-foot stretch of the cedar board fence that enclosed her backyard.
“You’re always so nice to me.” She sounded watery.
The two men exchanged a look.
Seemingly galvanized, John slapped the roof of the car. “Geoff, you get started here. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Then get the hell out of here.” Geoff gave her a crooked smile. “Forget the warm milk. Raid the liquor cabinet.”
She laughed through her tears as he closed her door and John got in behind the wheel.
CHAPTER TWO
