Cindy nodded.
While Cindy limped off in what I assumed would be the direction of the dining room, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. Nothing seemed out of place in the master bedroom and bath.
Across a narrow hallway were two smaller bedrooms. If the unmade bed was any indication, Gail appeared to be using the larger of the two rooms. I opened her closet. Since I wasn't familiar with Gail's wardrobe, it was hard to tell if anything was missing, but every hanger had something hanging on it.
In the bathroom, a towel had been draped to dry over the shower curtain rod, as if Gail planned to reuse it. A makeup bag yawned open on top of the toilet tank, and a toothbrush stood at attention in a cup on the bathroom sink. The bristles were still wet.
If Gail were on her way to Las Vegas, I hoped she took a lot of cash, but not for gambling. She'd need to buy some new clothes and a toothbrush once she got there.
I checked the remaining bedroom, but like the master bedroom, it appeared untouched, so I trotted back downstairs and joined Cindy in the kitchen. I found her standing at the sink, her back to me. The odor of burnt coffee hung in the air.
"Phew! That smells awful!"
"Pot boiled dry. Probably forgot to turn it off before she left." Cindy had filled the coffeepot with soapy water and was swirling it around. "Did you find anything upstairs?"
"Nope. Guess I was worried over nothing."
While Cindy took a Brillo pad to the pot, I glanced around the kitchen. With the exception of a mug and spoon sitting out on the polished granite countertop next to the fridge, Gail's kitchen was practically spotless.
"Is this it?" I asked.
Cindy ripped two sheets of paper towel off the roll, spread them out on the counter and inverted the coffeepot over them to drain. "Yup. Except for a little laundry room in the back. Judy Fraser used to put together flower arrangements on a table back there, but Gail fixed it up real nice for her computer."
"Was Gail on the computer a lot?"
"God, yes. She buys and sells antique jewelry on eBay." Cindy's brows scrunched together. "Didn't you know?"
Nitro saved me the embarrassment of having to admit I didn't know about Gail's jewelry business when the cat suddenly appeared, meowing pitifully. She trotted over to Cindy and rubbed against her ankles.
"You hungry, Nitro, baby? Poor kitty." Cindy opened a cupboard next to the sink and pulled out a plastic canister of dried cat food. She dumped a half scoop of kibble into Nitro's bowl, then grinned up at me. "She's a regular P-I-G!"
Something about the cat was bothering me. "Did you let Nitro in?" I asked.
"She's got a cat flap," Cindy explained.
"Duh," I said.
Cindy replaced the cat food canister. "Yeah, Gail's always complaining about how slow the dial access is. She's getting cable real soon." Cindy swept the mug and spoon into the sink. "We can check out the laundry room if you want." Clearly, Cindy thought it would be a complete waste of time.
"Let's," I said. "Just to make sure."
I followed Cindy down a narrow hallway, past a powder room no larger than a phone booth. At the end of the hallway was a swinging door, like on a Wild West saloon. Cindy pushed through the door, faltered, and took a step backward. Her hands flew to her face and a horrible keening sound-half scream, half moan-leaked out from between her fingers.
It had to be bad news.
I elbowed Cindy aside and stepped into the room.
It was worse, far worse, than anything I could have imagined.
Gail Parrish lay on her left side on the white tile floor, curled into a fetal position. Next to her was an overturned chair.
I couldn't pretend Gail had merely fainted. Under her body, a pool of blood had spread, running downhill on one side until it disappeared under the washing machine. On the other, where a filing cabinet and a table leg met the floor, the blood had formed a puddle. Small white boxes and cotton squares seemed to be floating like tiny boats on the incarnadine sea, and the floor all about was littered with computer printouts, bubble wrap, padded mailers, and packing tape, as if someone had made a clean sweep of the tabletop. The whole obscene pool was beginning to darken and dry at the edges.
Gail had to be dead. Nobody could lose that much blood and survive.
"Call 911!" I screamed. "Now!"
I knelt down and pressed my fingers to the vein in Gail's neck, praying for a pulse. Nothing moved under my fingers, and Gail's neck was rigid and cold. Her face was turned to one side so that her hair fell softly over her cheek. Instinctively, I reached out and smoothed it back behind her ear, like I might have done for a sleeping child, but regretted the gesture at once. Beneath that curtain of lustrous, mahogany hair, Gail's eyes stared, vacant and unseeing.
My head swam alarmingly, and I fell back against a table leg, my blood pounding in my ears so loudly that it nearly drowned out Cindy's moaning. Breathe in, breathe out! Gradually, as I got my breathing under control, I realized that the moaning was coming from deep within my own throat, not Cindy's. Poor, poor Gail! What had she done to deserve this?
By then I was practically huddled under the table, but from that vantage point I could see the cause of all the blood: a small, round hole near Gail's left breast. I'd never seen a gunshot wound before, but I was certain that was what it was. If what I'd seen on TV was any indication, a small hole meant a small caliber bullet, probably at close range.
I glanced around quickly, but didn't see a gun. That didn't mean there wasn't a gun; it could very well be hidden under the mess of printouts and bubble wrap, but I knew better than to muck about with a crime scene any more than was necessary in order to give aid to the victim. Not that there was anything I or the paramedics could do to help save Gail now.
Except for the whine of an attic fan, the house was oddly silent. I'd almost forgotten about Cindy. "Have you called 911?" I yelled again.
Cindy's answer was a wail and the sound of painful retching coming from the powder room. I'd have to make the call myself. I found my purse where it had fallen to the floor, pulled out my cell phone and punched 911.
The 911 operator was a pro: calming me down, soliciting details, and issuing instructions all at the same time. Once she had determined that Gail's assailant was no longer in the house, she said, "Don't move, don't touch anything. The police are on their way."
Don't move. I wouldn't, couldn't, leave my friend.
Too stunned to cry, I sat on the floor next to her, knees drawn up and pressing into my chin.
Don't touch anything. Who's to know? I thought. I reached out and took Gail's ice cold hand in mine, almost believing that if I held it tightly enough, rubbed it briskly enough, I might coax some warmth back into those frozen fingers.
Was all this my fault? Had Gail been killed because of something she was going to tell me? Did somebody intend to silence her… forever?
A tear ran hotly down my cheek. Then another. And another.
"Ma'am? Ma'am?"
Who the hell was that? It took me a moment to realize that the operator was still on the line, trying to get my attention through the cell phone pressed to my ear.
"Yes? I'm here."
"The police are turning into your street right now," she said.
"Uhhhhhh," I managed. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the table leg, willing the nightmare away.
"They're on the porch now," she advised. "The next knock you hear will be Officer Tracey."
I turned my head toward the swinging doors, imagining Officer Tracey moseying through, strong, silent, and dependable, like Gary Cooper in High Noon.
But Tracey didn't knock, he buzzed, and at the front, not the laundry room door. The raucous sound seemed a vulgar intrusion in the otherwise respectful silence of the house. It must have taken Cindy by surprise, too, because she screamed an interminable, bloodcurdling, Friday the 13th kind of scream. Even today, it haunts my dreams.