I chuckled to myself as I walked up the steps to the porch. But the smile faded at the feel of a slimy crunch underfoot. I looked down and saw a mess of raw eggs splattered all over the porch.
“What the heck?” Pete said.
One well-placed egg dripped from the door handle, and a bunch of ants investigated a pile of smashed eggshells on the doorstep.
“Kids think they’re so cool,” Pete fumed.
“Maybe that’s the neighbors’ way of telling the band to settle down.” I pulled a tissue pack out of my purse and gingerly cleaned off the door handle.
“It’s not even late! They can just chill out.” He walked around the side of the house and dragged out the garden hose. “Go on in, I’ll clean up this mess.”
I didn’t argue.
Chapter Five
After a relaxing day on Sunday in which I did nothing more strenuous than transplant my new Japanese maples on either side of the front porch, I was ready for a new week. Still, I was unprepared for what I saw when I got off the bus the next morning and walked down the street to Compton Hall.
It was obvious that something was wrong. A couple of police cars sat in the circular drive, lights off but still ominous in the bright sunshine. The front door hung slightly ajar, a sin in the eyes of Ruth, who abhorred any thought of flies getting into the house. Suddenly fear gripped me—had something happened to Priscilla? Only slightly reassured by the absence of an ambulance, I hurried into the front hall.
The house was uncharacteristically quiet, with no noise of construction coming from the kitchen. Since I didn’t think Carl Harper had finished tearing out the kitchen appliances, the calm made me even more apprehensive. A man’s measured tones emanated from the living room. I paused outside the closed door, engaging in the time-honored tradition of all stately homes: listening at keyholes. I could only catch scraps of the discourse, which sounded like one person lecturing the rest of those present. I heard the phrase “blunt force trauma,” followed by “death.” Priscilla? I abandoned any effort to be discreet, and pushed open the door.
I gasped at the blur of faces gaping at me. The only one my brain registered was Priscilla, sitting quietly in her chair next to Ruth. She looked to be free of any blunt force trauma and as far away from death as usual. I ran across the room, refraining from enveloping her in a huge hug. Instead I knelt on the floor by her side and patted the gnarled hand lying on the chair arm.
She held a finger to her lips as if I were a student coming in late to class. “Officer Travis wasn’t finished, my dear.”
The tall, kindly-looking police officer stood in front of the fireplace, commanding the attention of the entire room. He looked pointedly at me. “Ms. Dembrowski.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I glanced around at the people gathered there. Carl Harper, Jamison Royce, Louise Pritchard, John Ellis, and the TV producers Cherry Stamford and Stillman Dertz joined Ruth and Priscilla.
Office Travis nodded. “To fill you in, Ms. Dembrowski, Eric Burbridge did not die of natural causes. Preliminary autopsy results indicate that he died of blunt force trauma to the back of the head. He’d been dead for a good twelve hours before his body was found on Friday morning.” He paused.
Both hands flew to my mouth. “Somebody killed him?” I croaked. “Here, in this house?”
The officer watched me closely, gauging my reaction. “Precisely.”
He didn’t get any further. Ruth stood up, leaning heavily on her gold-tipped cane. “That’s just it, isn’t it? Someone committed murder in this house.” She glared around the room. “Who?”
Travis indicated her seat. “Ma’am, please have a seat. The LSPD will get to the bottom of this.” He continued talking about the professor’s physical condition when his body was discovered, but I couldn’t make sense of his words through the roaring in my ears. I looked around the room like Ruth had, with her imperious “Who?” echoing in my brain. She thought it was one of us!
Slowly Officer Travis’s words came back into focus. “...sorry for the inconvenience, but we are now in the midst of a murder investigation.” He plucked the radio from his utility belt and spoke into it, “Ready to question the witnesses.” He replaced the radio and stood silent in front of the crowd.
I sat back on my heels, stunned. A murder investigation. That was the last thing I wanted to be in the midst of. I’d been involved in a murder investigation during the Civil War reenactment in June, when my friend Chris found the body and was suspected of being the killer. My hands went cold. I had discovered Professor Burbridge’s body. Would I be the number one suspect?
“How long a delay can we expect?” Cherry Stamford appealed to Officer Travis. “We have a very tight production schedule here.” She swept her arm to encompass Jamison Royce and Carl Harper. “These contractors are far behind schedule as it is. We cannot tolerate an extended delay.”
“I understand your concerns, but our investigation is paramount.” Officer Travis turned away, indicating the end of that conversation. He spoke quietly to a pair of police officers who entered the room, and then they began to take one or the other of us off for questioning. A young officer with dark hair and snapping black eyes led me off to the library, of all places.
“I’m Officer Maureen Franklin.” She ushered me in to the library and shut the door behind us. “And you’re Daria Dembrowski, the seamstress. I understand you found the professor...here, as a matter of fact.” She watched me closely.
“Yes.”
Officer Franklin grimaced at my curt answer, and pulled out a small notebook. “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you know the deceased?”
“I’m working on fabric arts for the remodeling of Compton Hall, so that means dresses and curtains, mostly. Professor Burbridge had done some research for me on historical curtains, and he had found some drawings of embroidered curtains. When I came in on Friday I was going to ask him for those drawings. But he was dead.” I shuddered at the thought of the professor lying huddled on the floor right in front of where I now sat. Someone had hit him on the head and killed him! He had been lying here, dead, the whole time I was rooting around the pile of Japanese maples just outside the library window on Thursday night. If I had peeked in the window, could I have saved him?
Officer Franklin’s voice pulled me back to the present. “Can you describe what you saw when you entered the room?”
“The professor was lying on the floor by the desk.” I indicated the spot by my feet. “There was some blood on his face. I didn’t see anything on the back of his head.”
“Did you touch the body?”
“No. I couldn’t see any breathing, so I guess I assumed he was dead. I called 911.”
I watched Officer Franklin taking down what I said, and then consulting another small notebook that she pulled from her pocket. A sidelong glance showed me that it was notes from my first interview with the police just after Professor Burbridge died. My heart sank at the realization that Franklin was comparing today’s answers to the ones I’d given two days ago. Was she trying to catch me out in an inconsistency, a lie? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying for a calm, matter-of-fact demeanor. I might be a murder suspect, but I wasn’t guilty, so I had nothing to hide.
Officer Franklin questioned me for over an hour, focusing on the position of the professor’s body and my actions upon finding it. She pointed to the expanse of floor at my feet and conjured up the image of the dead man so many times that I began to feel nauseous. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, but hesitated to wipe