to the group of officers he had been speaking with before I arrived.
Nathan and I walked over to the body lying on the floor of the library. Circling several times, we finally stopped at the best vantage point to study the scene.
“I don’t believe it,” I whispered to Nathan. “That’s Stacey Jordan. I just met her this morning. She worked for Randolph . . . at his gallery.”
“Then what was she doing here?” he asked.
“She also worked part time with some expert, restoring this place. What a shame. She was such a sweet kid.”
Stacey was lying on her side. Unlike the professional clothing she’d worn earlier, now she was dressed in a pair ofjeans, old tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt that had some sort of sorority symbol on the front.
Nathan squatted down to get a closer look and I joined him. “She was hit from behind,” he observed. “More than once I’d guess, from the severity of the wound on the back of her head.”
“Which means she was either taken by surprise or running away from her attacker. And from the size and shape of the wound, it was a blunt object.” I glanced around.
The large room was lined with bookcases on three sides. Every other one was filled with a collection of some sort. There were small porcelain vases, crystal figurines, music boxes, and half a dozen Faberge eggs—and also a lot of dead space where I guessed pieces were scheduled to be placed. The books had been covered with cloths. “It could have been something in this very room.”
Nathan cocked his head, leaning closer, frustrated that he wasn’t able to touch the body. “What do you make of those scratches on her arms?” he asked.
“Postmortem . . . they have to be, from the lack of blood surrounding them. I’d say whoever did this was an amateur and probably scratched poor Stacey while they were trying to move her. See the blood on the back of her shirt? She was hit from behind and would have fallen forward. Blood on the back of her shirt means she was turned over and dragged.”
“I’m impressed,” Nathan said. “So who do you think looks good for this?”
“Well, the most obvious suspects would be the two men who have access to the building: Randolph Pierce and the Frenchman . . . what was his name? Give me a minute . . . Antoine Rousseau. That’s it.”
“Seems logical,” Nathan said. “Are you going to tell Bostwick?”
“Come on,” I said, standing up and brushing off my jeans. “Do you really think he gives a damn what I think?” I looked over at the chief, and when he saw me, he turned his back.
“Most definitely not,” Nathan said.
“Then I say we leave the police work to the police.”
Nathan looked shocked. “So you’re just going to walk away?”
“Hell no,” I said. “We’re going to solve this crime and make that smartass eat his words.”
“Atta girl,” Nathan said.
***
By the time I got home, the Internet was buzzing with news of Stacey Jordan’s murder. I sat up reading postings from casual acquaintances to ex-boyfriends, all shocked to hear about her death. From what I could gather, her only sin had been falling behind on several student loans. She was well liked and didn’t have any enemies . . . well, none that anyone knew about.
Grabbing a pad and pen, I made a list for the morning:
1. Call Randolph Pierce. Set up meeting and get Rousseau’s number.
2. Meet Rousseau.
3. Find out who found the body and who called 9-1-1.
I knew all my questions wouldn’t be answered tomorrow, but I was eager to get started. Although I wasn’t the least bit sleepy, I forced myself to go to bed so that morning would come more quickly.
Chapter Nine
This time, I was up before anyone else in the house. I watched the local news on the small TV in the kitchen while making breakfast. Pierce Gallery wouldn’t be open this early, and it was a good thing I didn’t know Randolph’s cell or home number, because I would have called him. So I fried bacon,
Nathan and I walked over to the body lying on the floor of the library. Circling several times, we finally stopped at the best vantage point to study the scene.
“I don’t believe it,” I whispered to Nathan. “That’s Stacey Jordan. I just met her this morning. She worked for Randolph . . . at his gallery.”
“Then what was she doing here?” he asked.
“She also worked part time with some expert, restoring this place. What a shame. She was such a sweet kid.”
Stacey was lying on her side. Unlike the professional clothing she’d worn earlier, now she was dressed in a pair ofjeans, old tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt that had some sort of sorority symbol on the front.
Nathan squatted down to get a closer look and I joined him. “She was hit from behind,” he observed. “More than once I’d guess, from the severity of the wound on the back of her head.”
“Which means she was either taken by surprise or running away from her attacker. And from the size and shape of the wound, it was a blunt object.” I glanced around.
The large room was lined with bookcases on three sides. Every other one was filled with a collection of some sort. There were small porcelain vases, crystal figurines, music boxes, and half a dozen Faberge eggs—and also a lot of dead space where I guessed pieces were scheduled to be placed. The books had been covered with cloths. “It could have been something in this very room.”
Nathan cocked his head, leaning closer, frustrated that he wasn’t able to touch the body. “What do you make of those scratches on her arms?” he asked.
“Postmortem . . . they have to be, from the lack of blood surrounding them. I’d say whoever did this was an amateur and probably scratched poor Stacey while they were trying to move her. See the blood on the back of her shirt? She was hit from behind and would have fallen forward. Blood on the back of her shirt means she was turned over and dragged.”
“I’m impressed,” Nathan said. “So who do you think looks good for this?”
“Well, the most obvious suspects would be the two men who have access to the building: Randolph Pierce and the Frenchman . . . what was his name? Give me a minute . . . Antoine Rousseau. That’s it.”
“Seems logical,” Nathan said. “Are you going to tell Bostwick?”
“Come on,” I said, standing up and brushing off my jeans. “Do you really think he gives a damn what I think?” I looked over at the chief, and when he saw me, he turned his back.
“Most definitely not,” Nathan said.
“Then I say we leave the police work to the police.”
Nathan looked shocked. “So you’re just going to walk away?”
“Hell no,” I said. “We’re going to solve this crime and make that smartass eat his words.”
“Atta girl,” Nathan said.
***
By the time I got home, the Internet was buzzing with news of Stacey Jordan’s murder. I sat up reading postings from casual acquaintances to ex-boyfriends, all shocked to hear about her death. From what I could gather, her only sin had been falling behind on several student loans. She was well liked and didn’t have any enemies . . . well, none that anyone knew about.
Grabbing a pad and pen, I made a list for the morning:
1. Call Randolph Pierce. Set up meeting and get Rousseau’s number.
2. Meet Rousseau.
3. Find out who found the body and who called 9-1-1.
I knew all my questions wouldn’t be answered tomorrow, but I was eager to get started. Although I wasn’t the least bit sleepy, I forced myself to go to bed so that morning would come more quickly.
Chapter Nine
This time, I was up before anyone else in the house. I watched the local news on the small TV in the kitchen while making breakfast. Pierce Gallery wouldn’t be open this early, and it was a good thing I didn’t know Randolph’s cell or home number, because I would have called him. So I fried bacon,
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