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“Yeah, but the question is whose blood?”
He trained the beam overhead, and a woman’s pale hand appeared, flung out over the opening. Gray and I looked at each other in dismay, knowing that where there was a hand, there was a body attached.
And the drip, drip, drip of the blood continued.
THREE
“We’ve got to get up there!” I cried. “Maybe she’s still alive.” Though remembering the man with the gun, gloves and mask, I doubted it.
Already, Gray had grabbed the ladder lying on the kitchen floor and after extending it, leaned it against the opening at the end nearest the front door, away from the hand. He climbed quickly, and when he stepped off onto the second floor, I started up. I swallowed frequently, terrified of what I was about see.
Help us, Lord, if we can help her. And help me to hold myself together.
I found Gray on his knees beside the body of a woman wearing shorts and a yellow knit top. She lay on her stomach with her head slightly turned, one arm flung over her head, the other curled at her side. If it weren’t for the pool of blood that spread from her head across the plywood subfloor to the opening where it dripped, she might have been sleeping.
Gray had his fingers on her carotid artery, seeking a pulse. He looked at me and shook his head.
“Did you try her wrist?” I swallowed several more times against the sights and smells. And to think, I’d always prided myself on my cast-iron stomach.
He nodded. “Nothing there either.”
“Maybe we should turn her over to check some more?”
Gray stood. “No. We’d be tampering with a murder scene if we did.”
I shuddered. Murder scene! Shades of CSI. Lord, I teach intermediate school. I don’t do murder.
Gray and I climbed down the ladder in silence. In the front hall Gray placed our second call to 911. The mention of blood and a body brought help much more quickly than a report of a departed masked man. Officers descended, lights flashing, radios squawking, climbing from several cars. Even though Gray stated clearly that the woman was dead, an ambulance was part of the full response team as was a fire engine, even though there was no fire.
“She’s on the second floor,” Gray said. “Right by the stairwell opening. We left the ladder we used in place for you.”
The EMTs headed to the house immediately, equipment in hand. Two policemen followed. Other officers checked the grounds of not only the Ryders’ house but nearby sites. Two others, one an older officer clearly in charge, the other a young woman, stopped to talk to Gray and me.
“I’m Sergeant William Poole, and this is Officer Natalie Schumann.” He peered at Gray with interest. “What’s that all over your shirt?”
“Nosebleed.”
I felt the officers’ skepticism. Somewhere I had read the axiom that the police always assumed everyone lied to them. So many people did, even over foolish things, that the blanket reaction was to paint everyone with the same brush.
It made me nervous to think they might not believe Gray or me. “Really,” I said. “I saw it. The nosebleed, that is, not the crime. In fact I caused it.” I put my hand to the still tender back of my head. “The nosebleed, I mean.”
Sergeant Poole acknowledged my comment with a nod. “Did either of you touch anything near the victim?”
“Nothing except her wrist and neck to check for a pulse,” Gray said.
“Nothing except the toe of my shoe.” I held out my foot. “It got in the puddle of blood in the downstairs hall before I knew it was there. I—I didn’t see it in the dark.”
The sergeant nodded. “Schumann, get their personal information.” He didn’t say, “Keep an eye on them,” but I thought he might as well have, given his demeanor. He started for the house, then turned back. “Please don’t leave. I’ll need to talk with you more later.”
I looked at Gray as Officer Schumann pulled out her notebook. “Do you think we’re suspects?” I whispered.
“Of course you’re not suspects,” Officer Schumann said with the sly lift of an eyebrow. “You don’t have to worry about that until you’re Mirandized.”
“What?” I stared at her. Was Schumann going to whip out a little card and start reading, “You have the right to remain silent….”
Officer Schumann put up a hand. “Just a little police humor. You are not suspects.”
I clearly heard yet hanging in the air.
With professional efficiency, Officer Schumann took our names and addresses, work information and reasons for being at the murder site. “Now let’s move over here and stay out of the way,” she said, not impolitely. “And don’t talk about the crime.”
“Where’s Sipowitz?” I muttered to Gray as we watched another female officer in uniform begin to string yellow crime scene tape by winding a strip around the large oak that sat near the edge of the Ryders’ corner property. Unrolling tape as she went, she had just disappeared around back when a truck arrived with high-intensity lights that were lifted by ropes and pulled through window openings to illuminate the second-floor interior. Frequent flashes of light indicated pictures being taken of the victim and the crime scene. “I want Sipowitz.”
“Two problems,” Gray said, deciding to sit while he waited. He dropped down, resting his arms on his raised knees. “This isn’t NYPD Blue, and this is real life.”
The real life part was underscored as the coroner arrived in his black van.
I sat beside Gray, legs bent, knees tucked under my chin, arms wrapped around my shins, watching the procession of people going in and out of the house. The female officer with the crime scene tape appeared on the far side of the yard, looking vainly for something to attach her tape to. Finally she set the tape down, walked to a pile of building refuse two houses away and rooted, her flashlight beam leading the way. She returned with two boards, one of which she began trying to force into the dry, pebbly dirt, using the second as a hammer.
Sergeant Poole jumped out of the house and walked over to us. He stood with his back to the house and pulled out a notebook. Automatically Gray and I stood, facing him. Officer Schumann left to help the yellow tape officer with her hammering.
How clever, I thought as I told myself I wasn’t nervous. Our faces are lit by the spill from the house. He can see our expressions, watch for any lies that way. Not that we have anything to lie about. At least I don’t. And I wouldn’t lie anyway, being a Christian and all.
“Let’s begin with you telling me why you’re here tonight,” Poole said, his voice mildly curious. He looked at Gray.
“I’m the contractor on Freedom’s Chase,” Gray said. “Grayson Edwards.”
“The downtown guy?”
“The downtown guy. I was getting ready to go home around seven-thirty, eight, when I realized that Anna was still here, working in the model house. Since we’ve had some thefts recently—”
Poole went on alert. “What kind of thefts? Have you reported them?”
“Just lumber, nails, stuff like that. And no, I haven’t reported them. They weren’t significant enough to involve you, just bothersome, not even enough for an insurance claim. Anyway, I wanted to be certain everyone was gone before I left. I went to the model house to see how much longer she’d be.”
“And what were you doing there so late?” Poole looked at me.
“I was hanging window treatments,” I said. “The model opens on Saturday, and I’ve got to get everything finished before then.”
The sergeant nodded. “Did either of you see the victim arrive?”
I shook my head, as did Gray.
“What happened to bring you from the model to this house?” The sergeant’s pen was poised to take down our answer. “By the way, I’ll want you to come in tomorrow to give a more complete statement.”
“Okay,” I said, and told Sergeant Poole about standing on the ladder and watching the man with the gun.
“You saw him clearly?” Poole asked, his craggy face intent.
I nodded. “And he saw me. He shot at me. That’s when I hit Gray in the nose and made him bleed.”
Poole stared. “He shot at you.”
“But that was after he took off the stocking mask and the gloves.”
“We called it in,” Gray said. “911.”
“So even though a man with a gun shot at you, a man who had been wearing a mask and gloves, you came over here where you’d seen him and just happened to find the victim.”
It was hard to see Sergeant Poole’s face because of the way he stood, but I was pretty sure that if I could, I’d see disbelief. And put the way he put it, our actions did sound the height of folly. Well, we weren’t cops. We were just regular people who didn’t have much experience with gunmen. At least I didn’t, and I doubted Gray did. So we’d taken what probably looked like a foolish risk, like someone who came home to find his house robbed and went from room to room before the police arrived, just to be certain the burglar was gone.
“We heard him drive away,” Gray explained. “We figured it was safe.”
“And it took us a few minutes to mop Gray up,” I added.
Gray slid his hands into his jeans pockets. “There was no way I could leave Freedom’s Chase until I was certain everything was all right over here.”
“I came along because I wasn’t going to stay in the house alone, not with that bullet hole in the window.” I shivered at the memory.
Sergeant Poole grunted. “Point out the window.”
I looked toward the model house. “You can’t see it from here. You have to be out back.”
The sergeant started for the backyard, and we followed. When we rounded the corner of the house, I pointed.
“See? Right up there.”
Poole studied the window, the top third of it visible. “So you were standing on a ladder, hanging curtains—”
“Window treatments,” I corrected.
“—when you saw this man twice. Then you decided to come over here to be certain he hadn’t done anything to damage the property.”
Gray nodded. “That’s when we found Dorothy.”
“So you recognized the victim?”
Gray rubbed a hand over his face, wincing when he hit his nose. I winced with him. “Dorothy Ryder,” he said softly.
“And you knew her because?” Poole asked.
“Two reasons. Dorothy was a partner in Windle, Boyes, Kepiro and Ryder, the accounting firm. She handled my business. Also, she and her husband Ken bought this house.” He nodded toward it. “In fact, it was the first sale in the development. Dorothy liked this lot because it’s on the corner and has three big trees that we left when we cleared the land.” He indicated the trees that had enabled the woman officer to put her tape up at least partway around the house. “Dorothy would stop by almost every day to see how much more work had been done.”
Sergeant Poole was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at me. I gave him a nervous smile. “Can you describe this gunman?” he asked.
My smile became real. “I can do better than that, Sergeant. I can draw him.” At the surprised looks from both him and Gray, I reached for Poole’s notebook. “I teach art.” Look, Dad, it does come in handy!
I quickly sketched the man in the red shirt while Gray held his penlight for me so I could see what I was doing. I drew the man as I first saw him behind the house, burly body moving stealthily. Then I did two head sketches, one profile, one full on. The man’s dark blond hair hung over his forehead as it had done when he pulled the stocking off. I closed my eyes for a minute, letting him come to life in my mind’s eye. I studied my drawing and quickly added a couple of strokes to the bushy mustache that sat on his upper lip like a light brown wooly caterpillar. His rather beaky nose jutted out in the profile, and strong dark eyebrows arched over his eyes. I studied the sketch, strengthened his cheekbones, then studied the sketch again.
“That’s him.” I looked at Gray, then Sergeant Poole. “I don’t know what color his eyes were. Too far away, though I got the impression of dark. As to the hair, the stocking mask may be responsible for it falling across his forehead. He had to have been sweating in it.” She handed the tablet back. “But that’s him.”
“Wonderful.” Though Poole appeared pleased to have the drawings, I guessed from his lack of reaction that he didn’t recognize the man. “This will be a great help. Now I want you both to come in tomorrow morning to give a detailed statement and make another sketch.”
I blinked. “It’ll look just the same.”
“And that will be just fine.” He turned and started back to the house.
“Does that mean we can go?” Gray called after him.
“No, you can’t go yet,” Poole’s voice floated back to us. “But it shouldn’t be much longer.”
Sighing, I turned to Gray. He was eyeing the yellow crime scene tape with distaste.
“Bad PR. And it’ll still be here on the weekend, I bet. Who wants to buy into a development where there’s been a murder?”
“Maybe it’ll bring more people because they’re curious,” I said, wanting to help. He looked so discouraged.
“Yeah, curious to look but unwilling to buy.”
“Well, this house may be hard to sell, but if the others are anything like the model, they’ll go fast, Gray. Americans like big, remember?”
On that happy note, we fell silent. I wondered how much longer we’d have to stay here, and if I was allowed to call Lucy and Meaghan. I looked at my watch. Ten-thirty. It would probably be another half hour before they began to worry seriously about me. Besides, I realized, my cell was at the model house with my purse.
Finally the sergeant returned, Officer Schumann trailing him. “Thank you for mentioning that you stepped in the blood, Miss—” He checked his notes. “—Volente. It saves us spending a lot of time trying to trace the footprints.”
I beamed, happy I’d helped, certain he’d now perceive my innocence.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take your shoe, though, just as I’ll have to take your shirt, Mr., uh, Grayson.”
“Edwards,” Gray said.
The sergeant looked at him blankly.
“It’s Grayson Edwards,” Gray said patiently. “Edwards is my last name.”
“Gotcha. I still need your shirt.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Surely you don’t think Gray—”
“Do you often suffer from nosebleeds, Mr. Edwards?” Poole was eyeing the bloody shirt again.
Gray shook his head. “Never.”
“Tell me again how this one occurred.”
“When Anna saw the man had a gun, she jumped back and her head—” With one hand he made as if to squish his nose.
The sergeant flinched. “Painful.”
