“Are you in the same car?”
“Give me a break. I’m in a white van marked CHESTNUT CARPET SERVICE,” he huffed. “I’m not a rookie at this. I’m a big boy, you know.”
Totally inappropriate ‘big boy’ visions filled my mind, and I answered with a too-husky, “I know.”
Then I heard Dylan’s soft, amused laughter coming through the cell.
Way to go, Dix. I cleared my throat. “I’m going to head over to the Weatherby House now.”
Dylan sobered. “I’ll keep watch. Keep your cell on, all right?”
“I will.”
A pause. I could hear him drawing a breath. “Call me as soon as you can.”
The line went dead, and I looked at the cell a moment before I plunked it into my pocket. I started the Hyundai, and drove the short distance to the Weatherby house.
I parked alongside the road. Not quite in front of the Weatherby house as to say I was at the Weatherby house, but close enough that I looked like I might be at the Weatherby house. I glanced at the white van and the form of Dylan sitting in it.
Ducking under the black umbrella that Mrs. Presley had provided, I tugged the real estate sign from the back seat of the car and headed toward the house.
Awkward. The sign was heavier than it looked. I tucked it under my arm but was careful not to hold it against the expensive blazer Mrs. P had gotten for me. I imagined Bert Cartsell for a moment slinging the sucker around — sign in one hand, hefty sledge hammer in the other to pound the post into the ground.
But I wasn’t going to pound it into the ground.
I stepped carefully over the flowerbed, and leaned the sign up against the house. That would hopefully ward off any nosy neighbors who spied me this early morning. And I had every intention of being gone by the time Ned Weatherby returned, sign safely stashed in Mrs. P’s car as I sped back to the Underhill. Hopefully, with the information I sought.
Whatever the hell that turned out to be.
Okay, sign placed. Now I had to go into full real estate lady mode.
I stood back and took a businesslike look at the windows, and then further back to examine the roof (it had windows; it had a roof … good, good). Very quickly, I poked at the flowers. I rapped my knuckles on the siding in a few places — this seemed efficient. In fact, I rapped my knuckles along the entire length of the house. In fact I rapped my knuckles right around the corner of that house. Then I made a mad dash to the back of it.
Yes, I was good with locks, but not so good that I would chance spending a few awkward minutes trying to pick the front door lock in broad daylight. A back door would do just fine.
I was in luck. Which, I realized as I mentally high-fived myself, was a change for me these days.
Not only was there a back door, but there was a sliding glass patio door, and I bit down on the ‘bingo’ I wanted to shout. As long as the security bar wasn’t down….
The security bar wasn’t down.
Things were starting to go my way — the rainy day, Ned leaving on time, the easy access to the house. I quickly jimmied the lock. Easily. No alarm, just as Dylan had told me. No barking dogs. No surprises waiting on the other side.
Just smooth sailing from here on out.
I might have known better.
Chapter 16
You know, I would have made a lousy real estate agent. As you will have figured out by now, I’m not exactly a people person. But I must have looked passably convincing as a realtor. I stepped inside the Weatherby mansion (thank you, easy-to-open sliding door) and no alarms and whistles blared. No sirens came roaring down Ashfield Drive, summoned by suspicious neighbors. Mentally, I gave myself a pat on the back at my transformation skills.
Okay, yeah, I wouldn’t pass for Bert Cartsell, but hopefully no one would read the pilfered sign that closely. Or if they did, they’d probably assume I was an office underling sent to do the boss’s bidding.
Now, as long as old Bert himself didn’t drive by….
I glanced around the study. It was an eerie feeling being in the room — the very room — where Jennifer Weatherby had been murdered. It’s not that I felt the presence of her ghost, or a tingling up my spine or a rise in the hairs on the back of my neck. It was just that not so long ago, this room had been full of life, until, in one violent instant, it had been turned into a scene of death. Not that there was any lingering physical evidence of the crime. The bio-cleanup crew had been in and erased all trace. But it still felt like a murder scene. Especially in the quiet of the closed-off room.
And even though it had been an imposter who’d been in my office that day, I still felt I owed the real Jennifer something. Still felt for the victim in this crime. And if I didn’t catch her murderer, no one would.
Now, that was a scary thought.
Of course, the police tape had long since come down. The forensics team had done their work. Every fabric and fiber would have been examined; every surface would have been dusted for prints and — if I knew Dickhead — dusted again. And when the police finished processing the room, the cleaners had moved in and restored everything to its former state. Still, the place felt just as totally off limits as though yellow barrier tape still screamed CRIME SCENE — DO NOT ENTER. The double doors on the opposite side of the room from which I entered were closed firmly and the drapes were drawn. Dust didn’t lay heavy on the furniture yet, but a few motes swirled in a thin steam of sunlight that came through a slight parting of the drapes. Other indicators around the room attested to the loss of life. Memories of Jennifer were everywhere — a scarf carefully folded on a chair in the corner, a pair of sunglasses on top of the well-stacked bookcase. No wonder Ned had chosen to keep this room closed off.
Of course, I had every confidence Detective Head would have already searched this room thoroughly. But I also had every confidence that we were looking for different things.
In fact, I was growing more confident of this by the minute.
+++
Of course my heart was racing. Not in a holy-shit-I’d-better-get-outta-here racing, nor a kid-at-Christmas racing. But more of an I’m-getting-warmer racing. I knew it; I just freakin’ knew there was something here. Kind of reminded me of that game we played when we were kids, where one person would hide an object and the other would direct her to it by leading with degrees of you’re getting hotter-warmer-colder-freezing. This room definitely gave me hot vibes. So hot in fact, I doffed my red blazer and set it (neatly, with visions of a finger-wagging Mrs. Presley) on the first chair by the door from which I just entered.
This had been Jennifer’s room. Her sanctuary. The walls were femininely decorated. The carpeting was a rosy pink. It was cozy and comfortable feeling. Gracious.
My eyes swept past the beautiful Tiffany lamps in each corner. And then over the rows of bookshelves that spanned an entire wall of the room, stacked tightly and neatly with hardcover books. Fiction titles mostly, with a few nonfiction thrown in. I looked past the black leather club chair that sat in front of the giant office-style mahogany desk, past the coordinating leather office chair on the business side of the desk. And directly behind that chair, larger than life, hung the wedding picture of Ned and Jennifer Weatherby. He had been a dashing young man in a tailored tuxedo, while she looked almost consumed by the white gown she wore. The veil, the gloves, and oh, Lord, the pearls that seemed to snug just a bit too tightly around her neck. My heart dipped. Even on her wedding day, Jennifer had looked so out of place.