Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 by Scandal in Fair Haven

Don’t quit now, Craig. Think about what you saw. Think about it. Picture it.”
    He moved restively, the steel shackles clinking, but to my relief he frowned in concentration.
    Six minutes.
    “Go back to it. You’ve just walked into the kitchen. Look at the floor. Remember the floor. What did you see?”
    “The stuff was so dark against the wood. See, the kitchen’s all light golden wood, the cabinets, the floor. There was liqueur splashed on the cabinets and all over the floor by the back door. The creme de cacao bottle was on the floor. The room smelled like a bar. I leaned over and picked up the bottle and put it on the table.”
    The fly had certainly made it easy for the spider. But there was no point in scolding him now.
    “Did you step into the mess?”
    “Not then. When you come into the kitchen, our breakfast room is to the right. Straight ahead is the back door, oh, maybe fifteen feet. There are cupboards and counters and the sinks and dishwasher to the left. There’s a long built-up thing in the middle of the kitchen. Patty Kay called it a cooking island. It has cupboards above it. The ovens and the microwave are on the wall to the left as you first step inside.”
    The gourmet cook had apparently enjoyed a luxurious kitchen.
    “The liqueurs and cooking stuff were spilled all around the island.”
    I didn’t want to lead my witness, but I had to know. Four minutes to go.
    “How many footprints did you see?”
    “In the stuff on the floor?”
    “Yes.”
    Abruptly, he shook his head. “There weren’t any footprints. Just stuff, splattered.”
    No footprints at all.
    “Okay, Craig. Quick. Where did you keep that gun?”
    He flinched.
    “Look, I know you found it there—somewhere—and that you took it with you when you ran. And didn’t say anything about that little fact when we talked at the cabin. But that’s behind us. For now. Where did you keep the gun?”
    Two minutes.
    He stared at the dull green floor. “In the car pocket.”
    “The pocket of your Porsche?”
    “Yes.”
    “When did you last see it?”
    He lifted bewildered eyes. “I don’t know. I never paid any attention. This was a thing Patty Kay had. She said you couldn’t tell what might happen out on the road and she wanted each car to have a gun in it.”
    “So you found the gun. Where?”
    He stared down at his manacled hands. “In the grass. Near the playhouse. I picked it up. I didn’t know what had happened. I just saw it. I knew it shouldn’t be lying there.”
    One minute.
    It wasn’t going to be enough.
    “Why did you try to hide it?”
    His eyes shifted away from mine. His mouth folded in a stubborn line.
    “What did you wrap it in?” I persisted.
    He didn’t answer.
    Only seconds left now. I had one more vital question to ask.
    “Craig, look at me.”
    He didn’t want to, but slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his head.
    The jailer’s footsteps sounded in the hall.
    “Who would want to kill Patty Kay?”
    Something—uncertainty? fear? horror?—flickered in his eyes for just an instant. Then, violently, he shook his head. “It’s crazy! I tell you, it’s crazy. Nobody’d want to kill her.
Nobody!”
    I followed the dispatcher down the hall. Near the front entrance, I saw gold letters on a door to my right: CAPTAIN J. T. WALSH .
    I stopped and knocked.
    The dispatcher gave a little gasp. “You can’t—”
    “Of course I can.”
    “I’m supposed to—”
    Guard the portal, obviously. But the door was already opening.
    I held out my hand. “Captain Walsh, I’m Henrietta Collins. Craig Matthews’s aunt.”
    Captain Walsh was tall, dark, lean, clean-shaven, and handsome, a 1950s moviemaker’s dream of a policeman. Before Central Casting went in for real faces.
    I recognized the type, not common among police. A politico, the kind of cat who would always jump the right way. Not quite smarmy, but close.
    His handshake was just right, firm but not too firm.
    “Hello, Mrs. Collins. I hope your meeting