“Right, sir.” She handed us already written slips of paper.
“And you two, don’t forget to come in tomorrow.”
“Right,” I said as a black BMW screeched to a stop at the edge of the road.
A slim man climbed out. His face was creased with concern as he eyed the yellow crime scene tape, the emergency vehicles, and all the people, many in uniform.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded of anyone who would listen. He caught sight of Gray and homed in on him. “Gray, what’s happening?” He strode across the barren yard toward us, though he was obviously searching for someone else. “Have you seen Dorothy? Is she all right”
My mouth fell open. Was he who I thought he was?
Sergeant Poole stepped forward. “And you are?”
The man blinked. “I’m Ken Ryder.”
My breath caught. I looked helplessly at Gray, and saw a reflection of the same discomfort and uncertainty I felt. What could he possibly say?
Ken Ryder turned back to Gray. “I was supposed to meet Dorothy here about seven to seven-thirty, but I got held up at work.” He started for the house. “Is she inside?”
Sergeant Poole put a hand on Ken Ryder’s arm. “Stay here, please, Mr. Ryder.”
Ken frowned vaguely at the sergeant but kept talking to Gray. “I called her on both her cell and the home phone, leaving a message that we’d have to come here another night.” He shrugged. “I knew I was disappointing her, but I couldn’t help it. When I got home about a half hour ago, she wasn’t there, and she’d left no note like she usually does. This is the only place she planned to go this evening, so I’m here even though I can’t imagine she’d still be here.”
He took a breath, then kept talking. Nerves? Why? Did cops make him feel guilty too?
“You know how she loves to come check on the progress of things, but it’s so dark. How can she see? There’s no electricity in the house yet.” He looked confused as he glanced at the well-lit house. “Is there?”
“Where do you work, Mr. Ryder?” Sergeant Poole asked.
“Chester County BMW. I’m sales manager.” He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out an empty key chain with a green plastic tag which had white printing on it.
“Ride with Ryder?” Poole read.
Ken Ryder nodded. “My slogan. I guess she didn’t get my message, though why she’d still be waiting for me here, I don’t know.”
His voice trailed off as he seemed to see the coroner’s van for the first time. “What’s that for?”
No one said anything though the reporter held her tape recorder out in anticipation.
“Where’s Dorothy?” This time there was a note of panic in his voice. “I want to see Dorothy.”
Just then a gurney with a body bag lying on it was lowered out the front door opening.
I watched Ken Ryder’s face as he added two and two. “That’s not—”
Gray put out a hand and clamped it on Ken’s shoulder. “Easy, Ken.”
Ken ignored him and started toward the gurney, his movements jerky. “It can’t be!”
Sergeant Poole grabbed him by the arm. “Not now, Mr. Ryder. You just stay here with me. We need to talk.” He kept a firm hold as Ken Ryder tried to pull free. He stepped between the man and the gurney. “Mr. Ryder, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Ken Ryder turned horror-stricken eyes to the sergeant. “My loss!” He swung back toward the body bag. “No. You’re mistaken. You have to be. Not Dorothy!” His face crumpled as the gurney was lifted into the coroner’s van. “Not Dorothy!”
FOUR
Gray and I walked back to the model house in silence, Sergeant Poole, Officer Schumann and the police photographer following. They wanted to see the evidence of the shot. The reporter trailed along, too. I had been right. It did hurt to walk barefooted on this stony dirt.
As I limped along, I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind of the distraught Mr. Ryder all but collapsing as they wheeled away his wife’s body. I rubbed my arms to get rid of the emotional goose bumps, but they weren’t the kind I could rub away.
Gray saw the motion, and he looked from me to my old Caravan.
“Why don’t you just go on home, Anna?” he said. “It’s been a hard night. I’m sure the sergeant wouldn’t mind if I showed him what he needs to see.”
I sighed again. “I wish I could just leave, but I’ve got to go inside. My purse. And I’ve got to finish hanging that treatment before it gets too wrinkled.”
“Okay, get your purse, but then go. It’s after eleven. You’ve got to be beat. Finish the window tomorrow.”
“I can’t. I’ve also got to pin the drapes up off the floor so the rug can be installed tomorrow.”
Gray frowned. “I’m not much of a decorator, but wouldn’t it have been easier to wait until the rug was in to hang the things?”
“The rug was originally laid yesterday, but the interior designer—”
“That would be you.”
“No, not me. The woman I work for. She took one look at the rug and screamed, ‘It’s the wrong color green! Too yellow. Too yellow. Get it out of here!’ I was hanging the treatments in the master bedroom at the time and heard the whole thing.”
“So a new rug in a different shade of green arrives tomorrow.”
“Yep, and since I don’t know what time, I have to leave everything ready tonight.”
Gray nodded. “Let me get another shirt from my gym bag, and I’ll help.” He reached behind the seat of his silver pickup, parked behind my Caravan, pulled a black nylon bag out, and rooted around until he found a gray T-shirt. He pulled it over his head.
He wrinkled his nose. “A bit ripe. I wore it to play basketball today at lunch, but at least I feel decent. I’d advise you not to get too close though.” He smiled, and in spite of the emotional intensity of the evening, my toes curled.
Oh, for goodness sakes, Anna, get a grip!
We walked to the house and went inside. We found Sergeant Poole in the living room, staring at the ceiling. I looked up, and there was a hole where the bullet had struck. I hadn’t noticed it before.
“See it, Schumann?” Poole bellowed.
Schumann’s voice floated down the stairwell. “It’s lodged in the side of a night table.”
Rather the night table than me. I walked to the Tuscan Vine draped over the slipper chair.
“Let me hold the material for you.” Gray reached out a hand. “I promise not to bleed on anything.”
“What are you doing?” Poole asked, his gaze suddenly fixed on me.
I stopped, startled, one foot on the ladder. “I need to finish hanging this treatment.”
The sergeant shook his head. “Not tonight. The crime scene guys need to go over the room first.”
Gray made a noise of distress, then held up a hand as Poole glared at him. “I understand, Sergeant, but it does make things difficult for me and for Anna.”
“They shouldn’t be too long in here. Just pictures and the removal of the slug. Oh, and scrapings of the blood for analysis. I’ll let you know when the coast is clear.”
“There’s a rug being laid tomorrow,”