eyes: two big men in suits conferring with the patrol officer who had come out of the house. Both disappearing inside briefly, then reappearing. Glancing down the street, spotting the Porter’s house. She knew before the knock when they arrived on the doorstep.
Please, please, let them be friends, she prayed. Not strangers.
Most of all, she quite fiercely wanted John McLean. He’d told her of Stuart’s death, carried one corner of her husband’s coffin, scraped out the gutters on her eaves last January, painted the house this July. He was quiet, soft-spoken, solid, her bulwark. He had been Stuart’s partner and, she supposed, was watching out for her from a sense of obligation to her husband rather than from real friendship for her. Nonetheless, she couldn’t imagine what she would have done without him this past year. She wished she had told Mr. Porter to ask for him.
But Natalie knew that, even if she had thought of it, she wouldn’t have asked. She never called John, except a time or two to suggest he bring his children to dinner. Natalie refused to be the stereotype of a lonely widow, the kind of woman who needed a man at her beck and call, or at least wanted one. Her pride barely let her accept his help when he offered it.
The doorbell rang, and Mr. Porter went to let the officers in. On a rush of relief almost painful in its intensity, Natalie recognized the slow, deep voice of Stuart’s former partner before he filled the entry to the living room. At about six feet, John McLean wasn’t unusually tall, but his shoulders were broad and his build muscular. Mid-thirties, he kept his russet-brown hair short, as befitted a police officer. His face was pure male—not handsome, in fact undistinguished, she had always thought, except for compelling eyes.
“Natalie!” Gaze locking on her, he came straight across the room as if nobody else was here and crouched in front of the chair. Taking her hands, he said roughly, “You’re all right.”
“Yes.” She sounded tremulous and was embarrassed by the weakness her voice gave away. “Is whoever did it gone?”
“Afraid so.” His eyes were bluer than she’d realized. “We recognized the address from dispatch and burned rubber getting here. Who the hell got himself dead in your house?”
We. Of course he wasn’t alone. She tore her gaze from his to see another friend beyond his shoulder.
“Geoff.” She tried a smile. “I’d forgotten you two were working together.”
Perhaps ten years older than John McLean, Geoff Baxter was nearly of a height with John and perhaps a little broader, his waistline thickening and his hairline thinning. He and Stuart had been partners back in their patrol days, and had remained friends until her husband dropped dead of an unexpected heart attack at forty years old. Like John, Geoff had stayed in touch since Stuart’s death, even going so far as to offer to haul that “crap” out of the garage so she could use it. He’d wanted to install an electric opener, too, so that he wouldn’t have to worry about her.
She doubted even his darker worries had included a corpse inside her house. Natalie gave a shiver.
“You’re in shock,” John said abruptly. “I hate to ask you questions, but I have to.”
“I’m okay.” This smile was slightly more successful. “Really. I just had the daylights scared out of me.”
He squeezed her hands hard and stood, stepping back. Not only physically—he assumed an air of remoteness. “Tell us what happened.”
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
