Gilt by Association by Karen Rose Smith

right before all the guests started arriving. It could be quite a heady experience, with the food simmering in warmers, a party atmosphere abounding. That’s why their open houses were such a success.
    Caprice passed Nikki’s van, knowing the waitstaff would be arriving soon. Pocketing the keys to her Camaro, she was surprised to see the garage door up, and Louise’s luxury sedan still parked inside. Louise had said she’d be leaving.
    Nikki emerged from the kitchen door and motioned to the back of her van. “I’m ready for the food warmers. My assistants should be here any minute to help.”
    Caprice went inside with her. “Louise’s car is still here. Have you seen her?”
    â€œNo.”
    Puzzled, Caprice quickly searched through the first floor, then called up the wide stairway. “Louise?”
    She received no answer.
    Louise had said she was going to putter in her greenhouse this morning. Caprice gardened and her mom gardened even more. She knew how easy it was to become distracted by watering, examining, sorting. Maybe Louise was still in the greenhouse and was unmindful of the time.
    â€œI’ll check the greenhouse,” she told Nikki as she passed her in the kitchen, her head deep in the refrigerator.
    Caprice hurried to the greenhouse and saw the door was almost closed, but not completely. She pushed it open, calling, “Louise?”
    There was no answer.
    When she stepped inside—
    She spotted Louise crumpled on the floor. She let out a loud “No,” ran toward the older woman, and stopped at her prone form, aghast at what she saw.
    There was blood everywhere on the earth floor . . . and what looked like three bullet holes in Louise’s chest.
    She was dead .

Chapter Four
    Fortunately, or unfortunately—it all depended on one’s point of view—Caprice was now familiar with crime scene procedure. With a lump in her throat and a knot in her stomach, with a wave of depressive sadness washing over her, she stood by a patrol car while official personnel entered information onto the crime scene log, while both the detectives and the forensics unit efficiently gathered evidence. She knew better than to move around, talk to anyone . . . or drive away. Oh, yes, she was familiar with this kind of scene.
    Detective Carstead, who had questioned her with regards to another murder last summer, approached her now.
    He said wryly, “At least you know better than to contaminate the crime scene. You didn’t touch anything in the greenhouse, did you?”
    â€œNot today,” she said solemnly.
    â€œWhat do you mean—not today?”
    Caprice explained how she knew Louise, how she’d been in the greenhouse many times, how she’d come to find the body. It was hard to think of Louise Downing that way. After all, she’d been like a favorite aunt.
    Detective Carstead jotted down notes in his small spiral notebook. Distracting herself, she wondered if detectives would ever use e-tablets. But as she watched Carstead’s broad hand, his long fingers, the pad of his thumb, she figured he’d make lots of typos trying to input information on a tablet computer and writing was probably faster.
    She glanced often at Nikki who was standing by the forensics van with Detective Jones. The tech had taken her fingerprints. They did that for everyone who’d been on the scene, for elimination purposes if for nothing else. Caprice’s were already on file with AFIS—the Automated Fingerprint Identification System—because she’d been involved in other crime scenes. Detective Jones was the one who had grilled Bella and Joe so relentlessly last summer. He didn’t even look her way. She guessed he didn’t like her very much. Detective Jones thought she was an interfering woman who should keep her nose out of police business. The problem was, when it came to protecting her friend, or her sister or brother-in-law,