Chapter Two
Her name was Libby Newman and she was never found even though police suspected murder. They investigated her ex-husband for a while but couldn’t get enough evidence either physical or circumstantial to arrest him, let alone come to the conclusion that it was an actual crime. No body, no evidence of a struggle at the house, no leads.
And, the only thing Claire had was a lingering suspicion that Libby was murdered. There were footprints leading from the house, two sets. One set obviously belonged to a woman. The other set was larger and likely belonged to a man, but were never matched to a suspect’s shoes. They led to a dead end…literally. A power station close to Libby’s house was where the trail stopped. There was a cement walkway in front of the station and the prints ended there.
Of course, Claire took impressions of the shoe prints, but they didn’t have any discriminating marks on them that would give her a lead.
The smaller ones were identified as Libby’s through a search of her closet and a relative’s accounting of what was missing. The clothes she had on and her tennis shoes were the only items gone from the house.
The other set was compared to the ex-husband’s shoes and no match was found even though they were the same size. The shoes themselves were identified as size ten, typical average male size, common brand favored by many males, adults and youths, nothing distinguishing except that they were obviously new shoes, no unique tread on the soles. The person she went with knew enough not to use old shoes that might have a wear pattern on them.
Stores in the surrounding area were checked to see if anyone recognized the husband as buying shoes recently, but no one did. And, since he traveled a lot, he could have purchased them in any number of places.
But the shoes were not the only reason that Claire suspected Libby was murdered.
Someone went to a lot of trouble just to kidnap her. And…if she disappeared on her own, why hasn’t she shown up in the last four years? Why wouldn’t she contact her family, if only to tell them she was okay?
Since then, no one had spotted Libby or found a body matching her description. Claire had a feeling that the ex-husband knew more than he was telling.
But Mr. Newman talked with the other officer working the case and he gave him a solid alibi.
* * * * *
Trent Newman was a trucker and his company had records to back up his assertion that he was on the road, fifty miles from Libby’s house, when she disappeared.
There were no domestic disturbance or abuse allegations from the marriage, no history of violence in what was known of his past. A few ex-girlfriends were interviewed but no one had dated him long enough to know him that well, even though some hinted that he seemed ‘possessive’ during the short time they were together. He always wanted to monopolize their time and sulked when they were not available.
The only thing Claire had to go on was a hunch. She just knew that Trent Newman had something to do with his ex-wife’s disappearance, and she also suspected that he had killed her, but she didn’t have the evidence to prove it.
* * * * *
“Well, enough of this!” Claire said, attempting to break her train of thought.
She jumped up from the couch, walked into the kitchen, and went over her plans for the day, while absentmindedly washing out her coffee cup and placing it in the dishwasher. She intended to spend time at the computer, writing.
Claire had always enjoyed writing, and since she started working for the state police, she had kept a journal and records of all of her cases. When she took early retirement, her secret desire was to write novels based on her experiences as a state policewoman.
As she walked into the front bedroom that doubled as her office, she thought about the fact that writing was a form of therapy for her, but it also kept her mind active and attuned to police work. For the first time since she made the decision to retire, she experienced a twinge of regret.
“Maybe I should have stayed on,” Claire spoke aloud as she sat down at the computer.
No, she thought. I was ready. I was beginning to feel the burnout so many policemen and women experience after years and years of taking care of victims, using restraint in the face of perpetrators, seeing the violence and never understanding why humans do such inhumane things to each other. I just need to write, because I can write about the ugly part of police work without having to feel it.
Snickering, she said, “Who am I trying to kid!”
She pressed the button to start the computer, and, while it brought up where she had left off, Claire looked outside to see if any more birds were at the feeder. She had intentionally placed her computer in this room so she could enjoy the nature outside, but instead, her eyes moved across the yard to the spot where she had seen the blowing snow. Leaning forward to focus in on the area, what she saw made her flinch.
There is something there! Something red!
Claire pressed up against the computer to get as close to the window as she could.
It looks like blood!
She continued to peer out the window at the bright red dotting the snow and grunted in disgust at herself, realizing she wasn’t going to get any writing done until she found out what it was.
Finally she stood up and stomped into the living room, pausing only long enough to grab her winter boots on the floor beside the front door.
She hastily shoved her feet into the boots and went out on the porch to get a better look.
It’s blood, she realized, moving down the full length of the porch, clutching the railing and leaning over to see the red drops in the snow more clearly.
Must be an animal, she decided. I bet a deer was injured and walked through the yard, dripping blood onto the snow. That has to be it!
Claire had seen bucks, does, and their fawns in her yard just about every morning since moving here. Her neighbors across the street had a salt block and her yard was a natural pathway for the deer to get to their food source.
I’ll have to ask Kate and Myra if they noticed any injured deer or blood drops in their yard.
Kate Lines and Myra Collier were two elderly ladies who lived across the street and they loved to bird watch and feed the animals.
Maybe they noticed the blood too.
Claire continued to stare at the droplets…no form, no shape or symbol, just specks of blood, red against the white, hypnotizing in their mystery.
Chapter Three
Disturbed by the blood in her front yard, but stymied as to why it was there, Claire forced herself to return to her computer and begin writing.
She had already decided to use the story of Libby Newman as the basis for her first novel, but as she started to put down the details, she found herself returning to the blood in the snow. It almost felt as if the drops were connected to Libby in some way.
That’s silly, she thought. My mind’s on her and that’s why I’m feeling this way.
She plodded on with the writing, but had to stop several times as she found herself going over the details of the case, and the reasons why she found it so fascinating in the first place.
* * * * *
Four years ago when Libby Newman disappeared, she and her husband, Trent, had been divorced for a year. There