His Partner's Wife

Mrs. Porter, still hovering, suggested they sit and offered coffee, which both accepted. After she’d brought in a tray, John thanked her and asked if they could speak to Natalie alone. With thinly disguised disappointment, the Porters withdrew.

Natalie took another sip of her tea. Both men had taken out the notebooks ubiquitous to police officers and held pens poised. Their expressions were still sympathetic, but also intent, razor sharp. This was their job. Natalie felt a chill at the realization. Suddenly they had ceased being friends and become detectives who, by nature, were suspicious of everyone.

Including her.

“I got home from work, parked in the driveway—”

“What time?” Detective Baxter interrupted.

She remembered looking at her watch. “5:35—I noticed before I got out of the car.”

Pens scratched on paper.

She described events: unlocking the front door—yes, she was sure it had been locked—setting down her purse on the hall table and going straight upstairs. The kitchen and living room had looked just as she’d left them that morning. She told of noticing the sewing room door open, then actually making it a couple of feet past the den before her brain accepted what her eyes had seen: a dead man in Stuart’s den. The tale of her flight felt ignominious, but she also knew she’d been sensible.

“You didn’t set foot in the den?” John McLean asked.

“No. I was afraid…” She clutched the afghan tighter against another shiver and finished softly, “Somebody might still be in the house. Besides, I could see his head. I knew he couldn’t be alive. My checking his pulse wouldn’t have done any good.”

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“I couldn’t see his face from the doorway. It never occurred to me that I might know him. I thought…” She didn’t know what she had thought. “That he must be a burglar or something.”

“Very likely.” John didn’t sound satisfied. “Two of them may have had a quarrel.”

“But why my house?” Was she asking them, or the Fates? “Stuart’s stereo is nice, I guess, and a burglar could have that big-screen TV with my compliments, but they’re both still there. I don’t know if anything was touched.”

“The scumbag might have panicked after bashing in his partner’s head and fled. Or run when he heard you opening the front door.”

“But how did he get in? And out?”

“The side door into the garage was unlocked.”

“But…” Disturbed, she looked from face to face.

“I always keep it locked. The one from the garage into the house, too. I’ve hardly set foot into the garage in weeks!”

“Neither door had very good locks.” A frown furrowed John’s forehead. “I should have replaced them for you.”

“You couldn’t possibly have predicted that anything like this would happen. Or that anybody would want to break into my house at all. Beyond his stereo system, about all Stuart had was the house and, gosh—” she waved her hand vaguely “—treasures like ten years of Field & Stream and Sports Illustrated packed in boxes. Totally intact, no issues missing.” Stuart had made a point of telling her that when he caught her about to recycle a copy of SI. He’d looked at her as if she were an idiot when she ventured to ask why he was keeping them all. “Heaven knows the house doesn’t exactly shout money,” she added now.

John grunted. “It’s a decent place in a decent neighborhood. These days, everybody has electronic equipment. Our Port Dare criminals specialize in stuff that’s easily turned over. None of them would know a piece of genuine artwork from a reproduction if it was labeled. Jewelry is always good, and I’m sure they would have hunted in your bedroom if everything had gone according to plan.”

“But the den?” Why was she arguing? She wanted murderer and victim to be common burglars, having nothing to do with her. Still… “Stuart’s computer is dated.”

“You might have had a laptop tucked away in there, a pager, an expensive calculator.” He shrugged.

“Yes. I suppose.” Now she was the one to feel dissatisfied, but it took her a moment to analyze her unhappiness with the scenario.

Why wouldn’t two burglars have immediately unplugged and taken the obviously expensive television and stereo equipment before exploring further? Her sewing machine was a fancy, electronic model that did everything but wash the dishes. Wouldn’t they have considered it worth taking? Besides… Now the discontent stirred anew.

“The cat had been napping in there.”

“What?”

She saw that she’d startled both men.

“It must not have just happened,” Natalie explained, thinking it through as she went. “I shut the door to my sewing room last night. When I got home today, that door had been open long enough for the cat to have taken a nap on the fabric I’d laid out in there. And Sasha wouldn’t have relaxed enough to take a nap in the open unless strangers were long gone. Which means I didn’t scare him away.”

Geoff Baxter looked doubtful at her logic.

John frowned thoughtfully. “The coroner hasn’t arrived yet. She’ll be able to give us a time frame.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter what time he was killed.”

The two men stirred.

“I know it does to you,” Natalie conceded. “To your investigation. But to me… Actually, I’d rather think he wasn’t still in the house when I got home. The idea that he was standing behind one of the doors, listening to me, maybe even watching…”

John half rose to his feet, then seemed to force himself to sit back down. His face was grim.

Natalie hunched inside the afghan. “That gives me the creeps,” she concluded simply.

John made a gritty sound and slapped shut his notebook. “Damn it, you’re coming home with me tonight.”

She wanted nothing more, but her pride, so important to her, insisted she protest. “I have friends I can stay with.”

“Yeah, and I’m one of ’em.” He stood. “I’ll see if I can bail out your toothbrush and drop you at home right now.”

“But I can drive.”

“No.” His pointed gaze took in her knotted fists and the shiver she couldn’t hide. “You’re in shock. Mom’s with the kids. She’ll enjoy babying you.”

Ridiculous to feel disappointed. Of course he wouldn’t stay with her. He had a murder to investigate. She knew the drill: he would probably work for twenty-four straight hours, canvassing neighbors, supervising crime scene technicians, following up on the tiniest leads. The older the trail, the less likely that a murderer would be caught, Stuart always said. Homicide cops did not drop an investigation to take the night off and pat the little woman’s shoulder.

“I…that’s nice of you, but shouldn’t you ask your mother?” Natalie had only met Ivy McLean a handful of times, the first at Stuart’s funeral. John was divorced and his two kids lived with him. His mother must be baby-sitting tonight.

Geoff cleared his throat. “You know Linda will give me hell if I don’t bring you home with me.”

Natalie doubted his wife would go that far. The two women were casual friends because of their husbands, but they had so little else in common, they’d never progressed beyond the occasional invitation to dinner.

A tiny spark of bemusement penetrated the numbness she’d wrapped around herself as snugly as the afghan. “I do have women friends who can run me a hot bath and tuck me in. Really, you don’t have to…”

John’s hard stare silenced her. “Yes. I do. I’d rather know where you are.”

Because she was a suspect in a murder investigation? The thought shook her. John couldn’t really believe even for a second that she would do something like that, could he?

“Yes. All right,” she said, sounding ungracious but too discombobulated to figure out what woman friend would actually have a spare bedroom without putting a child out. She would have to explain, too, listen to exclamations of horror, perhaps endure avid curiosity. Ivy McLean was the mother of not just one son in law enforcement, but three. She would have heard it often enough before to imagine the scene without wanting the details. Natalie didn’t like the idea of putting out a near-stranger, but if she just took a hot bath and went straight to bed, she didn’t have to be much trouble.