Nancy’s call had only been twenty minutes earlier. Cara had left her home nearly immediately, since Nancy had sounded…well, excited? Scared? Cara wasn’t sure now.
Had she guessed what was about to happen to her?
No, Cara thought as tears filled her eyes. I won’t fall apart.
After all, she wasn’t actually here. This hadn’t actually happened. Her intense, dedicated friend Nancy. Nancy, the office manager who’d so angrily spilled details of her employer’s disgrace to Cara off the record after the scandal broke, wasn’t actually dead.
Get real, she instructed her mind. No defense mechanisms for Cara Hamilton. She was a realist. Nerves of steel, despite her earlier folly. A gritty, down-to-earth investigative reporter ready to do whatever it took to get a story, go wherever that story might lead her.
Yeah, but none had ever led her directly to a murder victim before….
Get to work, Hamilton, she commanded herself. Someone could arrive at any moment.
“What was it, Nancy?” she whispered, forcing herself to draw closer to the bed again. “What did you want to show me?” It had been something important. Cara was convinced of it.
She shook so hard as she surveyed the area around Nancy’s body that she had to lean on the mattress to keep from falling.
Nancy’s sheets were white with pink flowers. She had a handmade quilt on her queen-size bed. Everything was bunched about her. Gently, Cara rifled through the bed clothes but found nothing to explain Nancy’s call.
It had to have something to do with the law firm where she had worked. Of course Lambert & Church was in the process of disbanding, after what had happened before.
A siren wailed in the distance. Coming here, Cara was sure. No more time to waste.
Quickly she scanned Nancy’s bedroom. It was tidy, as usual, nothing out of place—not even any of the books on her bookshelves. Nothing that didn’t belong there.
Cara ran down the hall into the bathroom. Into the kitchen. Into the living room. She looked through the mail on the end table near Nancy’s sofa. The newspapers on top of yet more filled bookshelves. Nothing unusual. Nothing to interest a reporter.
Nothing except Nancy’s body in the bedroom….
Oh, Lord! It dawned on Cara that the killer could still have been there when she arrived. Could still be there.
No, she’d have seen him. Or her. Been attacked, too…
Cut it out, Hamilton. She forced her mind back to what was important. What had Nancy called about?
Another disquieting thought struck Cara. What if the thing wasn’t here because whoever did that to Nancy had taken it?
What if whatever it was had been the reason Nancy had been killed?
Nancy had called Cara to show her.
Cara could be responsible for Nancy’s murder.
A loud knock sounded on the front door. “Yes,” she called as she hurried in that direction.
“Sheriff’s Department,” called a muffled male voice. “Someone here called for help.”
HIS STETSON IN HIS HAND, Deputy Sheriff Mitchell Steele followed the waif who had met him, wide-eyed, at the door. As she led him down the hall of the old, converted house, her walk was brisk, sure, and the swing of her hips caused her long skirt to sway about her legs. Her curly red hair just skimmed the collar of the white blouse extending from beneath her brown vest. Despite the heat, she wore attractive boots, and a large purse hung from her left shoulder.
She’d introduced herself quickly and glanced at the name badge on his uniform shirt before turning her back and telling him to follow. Cara Hamilton.
He knew that name.
He’d only gotten a whiff of her scent, something that reminded him of a mountain spring, fresh air…
She stopped outside an open door and looked at him again. Her full lower lip, pink without a hint of lipstick, trembled, and her hazel eyes remained huge. “Nancy’s in there.” Her softly Texan voice was husky but sure.
He glanced inside, took in the scene. He immediately went to the bed and checked the victim for any sign of life.
But the answer was more than clear when he turned her over. She had been shot by a small-caliber gun. No exit wound.
He was glad when, only a moment later, he heard voices and Cara Hamilton showed a couple of fire department EMTs into the room. They took charge of the victim, and he moved out of their way. But he was certain they could try to revive her from now until tomorrow’s sunset with no success.
A shame, he thought. The victim was a young woman. She didn’t deserve to die like that.
Sticking his hat under his arm, Mitch pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called the station, quickly telling the dispatcher what he’d found and instructing her to send some deputies to secure the area and a team of forensics technicians, pronto. As he spoke, he scanned the room to determine whether the murder weapon was there and visible. He didn’t see it.
And then he looked down at the woman who stood beside him in the doorway. She watched the medics with an expression so fierce that she seemed to be willing them to save the victim’s life.
“Ms. Hamilton, I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
Her stare, as she looked up, appeared startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Was she in shock? How could she not be?
But her expression immediately narrowed. “You’re going to catch the SOB who did this, aren’t you, Deputy?”
“Yes,” he replied in all sincerity. Her question implied that she hadn’t done it. Maybe she hadn’t. But until he knew more, he could not rule her out. “I’ll need a statement from you to get started.”
She led him down the hall. When she tried to direct him into the living room, he pointed instead toward the front door. “We’ll talk outside. There’ll be less chance of contaminating the crime scene.”
“Fine.”
They stood on the porch under its light and away from railings the suspect might have touched. Mitch had already scoped out the porch’s wood deck. Despite the humidity, the day had been dry, so there was little likelihood of finding muddy footprints. No, footprints were more likely to be discovered on the ground, but only if the perpetrator stepped off the paved walkway. Had he—she?—walked right up to the front door and been let in by the victim? Or would they find evidence of a break-in—a broken window, a jimmied door, a picked lock?
“So, Ms. Hamilton, I gather you know the victim.” He removed a small notebook from a pocket and began to make notes.
“I knew her, yes.” Her voice was sad despite her ironic tone. “Her name was Nancy Wilks. We’ve been friends for years.”
“Good friends?”
“Not
