now that Olivia was gone. Had Charles murdered Olivia in a fit of rage because she’d rejected him? Had there been a lover’s spat? Had the handsome doctor killed the woman who cared for his children?
Olivia had been young and sweet and, seemingly, vulnerable. Where she’d lived, where she’d died, those things were circumstantial evidence that could make people eye Charles with suspicion.
Douglas couldn’t let that happen.
Charles had been through a lot, and it was time for him to have a little peace. Hopefully, Douglas’s visit with Merry would provide evidence, something, that would keep people from whispering and speculating. Evidence that would lead to a killer. That’s what Douglas needed, and it’s what he planned to find.
He pulled up in front of Merry’s house, eyeing the small yellow Cape Cod. White shutters. Small porch. Toys littering the front yard. Nothing unusual about that, but there’d been something in her eyes when she’d seen Keira dusting for prints. Not just grief. Fear. Stark and dark and shimmering in the depth of her chocolate brown eyes.
He opened the gate, walked into the yard. She’d cleaned things up in the year that she’d lived in the house. Cut back shrubs and trimmed the old crab apple tree. Painted the siding and trim.
Made the little house into a warm and cozy home.
But as far as Douglas knew, she never had anyone over to visit. No church socials hosted at the O’Leary place. No playgroups with mothers and kids hanging out in the little yard. Maybe she’d had Olivia over once or twice, but that seemed to be the extent of Merry’s desire to play hostess. As a matter of fact, she’d announced that things weren’t working out between them a few minutes after Douglas had suggested he pick her and Tyler up after work and take them for an evening picnic in the park.
Merry had seemed truly horrified by the idea.
Just as she’d seemed horrified by the idea of Douglas stopping by her place to conduct the interview.
Too bad.
He was about to step into her world, whether she liked it or not.
He knocked on the door. Waited. Knocked again.
The door swung open. No strawberry-haired, soft-eyed woman, though. Instead, a dark-haired, black-eyed little boy looked up at him, his deeply tanned skin flushed with excitement.
“You the police?”
“I am, but you should have asked who I was before you opened the door, pal.”
“I’m not Pal. I’m Tyler.”
“Tyler William O’Leary! What have I told you about opening the door without permission?” Merry appeared behind her son, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow, her curls pulled up in a high ponytail.
“Not to.” Tyler shifted from foot to foot, nearly bouncing with energy.
“Then why did you?”
“I saw him out the window, Mommy. He has a cool car. Just like mine. Look.” Tyler held up a toy SUV.
“It doesn’t matter what his car looks like, you shouldn’t have opened the door. Go to your room. I want you to spend some time thinking about what you’ve done.”
“I already thought about it, Mo—”
“Go.” She pointed at a steep staircase to the right of the door, and Tyler dragged his feet as he slowly walked toward it, his gaze still on Douglas.
“Quickly, young man, or you won’t get any of the cookies we made.”
He shot up the stairs after that, racing to the landing and disappearing into a room.
“He’s a cute kid,” Douglas said, more to break the sudden silence than for anything else.
“He is, but he’s a little too smart for his own good.” She brushed what looked like cocoa off her apron. Faded jeans cupped round hips and long legs, and a pink sweater hugged her curves. As always, she looked pretty and soft and very, very lovely.
She also looked scared. Worried. Nervous.
“He’s four, right?”
“Yes. Next year, he’ll be in kindergarten but for now, he just goes to preschool three days a week. Mrs. Sanderson next door has him if I’m working the other two days. He runs her ragged. He’s just so busy, and I’m worried about what will happen when he goes to school. I’m sure…” She blushed. “Sorry. You’re here to talk about Olivia. Not Tyler. I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“What is there to be nervous about?” he asked, and she hesitated, her dark gaze skittering away.
“Olivia is dead. You said she was probably murdered. Her murderer is still on the loose. Shouldn’t I be nervous?”
Maybe, but not as nervous as she looked.
“More so if you know something about why she was killed.”
“I don’t, but I’m sure you have a lot of questions to ask, anyway. I have coffee going and homemade double-chocolate cookies if you’d like some. Why don’t we go in the kitchen to talk?”
She led him into a small kitchen, and he inhaled chocolate and sugar and a subtle berry scent that he thought might be Merry’s perfume.
He tried to ignore it as he sat at a round Formica table, but the berry scent was as difficult to ignore as the person wearing it.
As impossible to ignore.
He’d been on a year-long hiatus from dating when he’d seen Merry for the first time. Tired of being set up with friends of friends of friends, tired of searching for a woman who would complete him the way his mother had completed his father, tired of the games and the stress that went with every relationship he’d been in.
Tired of it all until he’d looked into Merry’s face, seen her smile. He’d tried to ignore her, because he hadn’t wanted all those things again. The games. The stress.
But ignoring her had been impossible and one lunch together had led to another and would have led to more if she’d let it.
She hadn’t, and maybe that was what her nerves and her tension were about.
“Would you rather someone else conduct the interview?” he asked as she set a plate of cookies on the table.
“Why would I?”
“Because we’re not strangers? Because we were heading toward being more than friends?”
“We went to lunch together. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not to me, but you seem bothered by the fact that I’m here. I thought maybe that was why.” He grabbed a cookie and bit into it, waiting for her response.
It came slowly.
Very slowly.
