questioned again,” I said. “And now their baby is a week overdue. They don’t need any more hassle.”
“Well, at least the investigators can talk to David, can’t they? Or does the twenty-first-century father now suffer labor pains, too?”
“Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised.” So, the Chief had a sense of humor, did she? We walked past South of the Border Taqueria, and the spicy aromas of fresh fish tacos drifted towards me.
Turning the corner of Main and Elm, Betsy and I stopped for a moment in front of Olde Towne Antiques before we went our separate ways. “You know,” she said, “the listing agent at the murder house”—even the Chief was calling it the murder house—“left shoe covers at the front door for anyone showing the place …”
I would have done the same thing. “Because of the polished floors and white carpeting, of course,” I said.
Betsy chuckled. “Actually Maggie,” she said, “what I wanted to tell you is, those gorgeous Ferragamos of yours were the only shoe prints the forensic people could immediately identify; your entry by way of the patio, in the master bath, and at the front door when you went to open it to let the Mullers in. Both your clients had stepped out of their shoes at the door and Amy had as well.”
My heart suddenly felt like a stone. “I hope that doesn’t make me a suspect. What about the murderer? Didn’t he leave foot prints?”
“Various imprints were found, but they still need to be analyzed. Remember, a couple of men from the cleaning crew had also walked around earlier in the day—but they didn’t have those killer stiletto heels!”
Betsy’s cell phone beeped, and she cut the conversation short, turning away from me as she answered the call.
I knew the Chief couldn’t tell me much more, and I appreciated what she did share. But of one thing I was sure: a person couldn’t kill someone in such a messy way without leaving lots of evidence behind. I waved goodbye and turned toward the office, but I was still frustrated. I still couldn’t control my obsession; I still wanted to have a role in the capture of this madman.
17
“Y’know,” I said to Andrew, “I could try to contact the Page Six reporter from the New York Post . Because of the high profile of that case, the reporter’s probably doing her own research. Hmm. Do you think maybe the husband hired someone to ‘take care of his wife?”
He turned abruptly from his apartment window, where he’d been looking down onto the lazy Sunday midtown streets. “Maggie! Let it be!”
But I just couldn’t. “You know, because of the nasty divorce and custody battle. I’ve read that a large percentage of female homicides are committed by their husbands or lovers.”
I know I’d promised Andrew that I’d stay out of the investigation, but that had been before the murder of Amy Honeywell. I knew Amy. Amy had been a colleague. Not a friend, but a professional colleague. The ante had been upped, from rape to murder, from across the river to right here in my very own town. Yes, I’d promised Andrew, but now I was torn. I was in love with him. I didn’t in any way want to jeopardize our relationship, but I felt compelled, despite that promise—and despite the warning from Chief Betsy—to do what I could behind the scenes to help put Amy’s killer behind bars. But what could that be?
We were at his apartment that sunny Sunday afternoon shortly after the funeral when I began to get restless: after all, how much making love and eating five-star leftovers could two people do? The type A in me kept nagging to get something more substantive done before I headed home. Curled up on Andrew’s tan leather chaise, wrapped in a faux mink throw, I picked up a yellow legal pad from the side table and began writing.
“What are you up to now?” he teased when he saw me wrinkling my brow in concentration.
“I’m trying to explore every possible motive that homicidal psycho could have,” I
“Well, at least the investigators can talk to David, can’t they? Or does the twenty-first-century father now suffer labor pains, too?”
“Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised.” So, the Chief had a sense of humor, did she? We walked past South of the Border Taqueria, and the spicy aromas of fresh fish tacos drifted towards me.
Turning the corner of Main and Elm, Betsy and I stopped for a moment in front of Olde Towne Antiques before we went our separate ways. “You know,” she said, “the listing agent at the murder house”—even the Chief was calling it the murder house—“left shoe covers at the front door for anyone showing the place …”
I would have done the same thing. “Because of the polished floors and white carpeting, of course,” I said.
Betsy chuckled. “Actually Maggie,” she said, “what I wanted to tell you is, those gorgeous Ferragamos of yours were the only shoe prints the forensic people could immediately identify; your entry by way of the patio, in the master bath, and at the front door when you went to open it to let the Mullers in. Both your clients had stepped out of their shoes at the door and Amy had as well.”
My heart suddenly felt like a stone. “I hope that doesn’t make me a suspect. What about the murderer? Didn’t he leave foot prints?”
“Various imprints were found, but they still need to be analyzed. Remember, a couple of men from the cleaning crew had also walked around earlier in the day—but they didn’t have those killer stiletto heels!”
Betsy’s cell phone beeped, and she cut the conversation short, turning away from me as she answered the call.
I knew the Chief couldn’t tell me much more, and I appreciated what she did share. But of one thing I was sure: a person couldn’t kill someone in such a messy way without leaving lots of evidence behind. I waved goodbye and turned toward the office, but I was still frustrated. I still couldn’t control my obsession; I still wanted to have a role in the capture of this madman.
17
“Y’know,” I said to Andrew, “I could try to contact the Page Six reporter from the New York Post . Because of the high profile of that case, the reporter’s probably doing her own research. Hmm. Do you think maybe the husband hired someone to ‘take care of his wife?”
He turned abruptly from his apartment window, where he’d been looking down onto the lazy Sunday midtown streets. “Maggie! Let it be!”
But I just couldn’t. “You know, because of the nasty divorce and custody battle. I’ve read that a large percentage of female homicides are committed by their husbands or lovers.”
I know I’d promised Andrew that I’d stay out of the investigation, but that had been before the murder of Amy Honeywell. I knew Amy. Amy had been a colleague. Not a friend, but a professional colleague. The ante had been upped, from rape to murder, from across the river to right here in my very own town. Yes, I’d promised Andrew, but now I was torn. I was in love with him. I didn’t in any way want to jeopardize our relationship, but I felt compelled, despite that promise—and despite the warning from Chief Betsy—to do what I could behind the scenes to help put Amy’s killer behind bars. But what could that be?
We were at his apartment that sunny Sunday afternoon shortly after the funeral when I began to get restless: after all, how much making love and eating five-star leftovers could two people do? The type A in me kept nagging to get something more substantive done before I headed home. Curled up on Andrew’s tan leather chaise, wrapped in a faux mink throw, I picked up a yellow legal pad from the side table and began writing.
“What are you up to now?” he teased when he saw me wrinkling my brow in concentration.
“I’m trying to explore every possible motive that homicidal psycho could have,” I
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