On a whim Maggie looked inside the small refrigerator, but it didn’t seem to be missing a black wire shelf. It held a pony keg, shiny and secure and—she shook the entire unit—apparently empty. The fridge had probably been unplugged now that the season for outdoor parties had faded, but Maggie wondered why the owner would leave it outside. But then she didn’t have a garage and would have needed help to lug the thing inside or down to a basement, or maybe Diane Cragin simply hadn’t gotten around to it. Diane Cragin had been very busy and spent a great deal of time out of town, because Diane Cragin was a sitting U.S. senator, R–Ohio.
And that meant, Riley informed her as if Maggie hadn’t already figured that out for herself, that this case was going to be a snafu of epic proportions.
“She had enemies?” Maggie asked.
“She’s a politician. Would you like enemies listed alphabetically or in order of importance?”
He seemed to have paid more attention to politics than either Jack or Maggie, so he filled them in on what he could as the ME investigator, and Maggie examined the body. Diane Cragin had been the duly elected senator from Ohio for twelve years.
Diane Cragin had been campaigning on the usual issues of bringing jobs back to the rust belt and cleaning up food stamp requirements, didn’t hire any tax-free domestic help, didn’t sleep with her interns, and hadn’t created any major scandals that Riley could remember, but . . .
Maggie looked up as the ME investigator removed the senator’s shoes. “But?”
“A Cleveland guy has been running for her seat, Green. He’s head of economic development or something like that. It’s been a pretty nasty campaign—par for the course these days—and he’s accused her of taking kickbacks, promising Ohio one thing and then flying to DC to agitate for the complete opposite, being paid under the table to lobby for the pharmaceuticals with the large hospitals, trading jobs for votes, basically all the same things she accuses him of doing. Politics as usual, in other words.”
“You’re a cynic,” Maggie said.
“Impossible not to be these days.”
Riley told her the unhappy man standing outside the courtyard had been Cragin’s assigned Secret Service agent for this week. He had dropped her off still breathing the night before and had told anyone who would listen that escorting her only as far as the courtyard had been standard procedure for a senator who put a premium on her privacy and, after two terms in office, was accustomed to getting her own way. She had earned a reputation as an uncooperative client, and it got worse during stressful periods—such as these crazy days before Tuesday’s election. So he had left her alive and inside the gate the night before, then saw the body that morning and had to break the gate door to get in.
“Is that it?” Riley asked Maggie.
“That’s it.” A scorch mark along the bottom of the woman’s right foot had burned through her nylons and peeled a small amount of skin, with only a single round burn on the sole of the shoe.
The ME investigator, a young woman with dark skin and dimples, told them, “It doesn’t take much, especially with AC power. Hey, bird,” she said to the dove in the tree, which had been heaving its heavy sighs nonstop, “knock it off.”
Sudden silence, save for the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
“We’ll see if she had any medical conditions that made her more vulnerable. Do we have doctor information?”
“Not yet. We haven’t been inside or done any notifications,” Riley said.
“She’s wearing nylons,” the investigator said, as if she found this more perplexing than using a screen door as a murder weapon. Nylons and pantyhose had been out of style for years. Women now left their legs bare, cutting industry sales by more than half until nylons were rebranded as lingerie or “sheer tights.” Or worn by older women like Diane Cragin, who wished to wear skirts without exposing every age spot, scar, and mole to the public, always so harsh on women’s looks once they passed twenty-five or so.
“It’s gotten chilly,” Maggie pointed out.
The investigator, who had yet to see an age spot mar her perfect skin, shrugged and put Tyvek bags over the late senator’s hands, pulling the drawstring tight to keep them from slipping off. The manicured fingernails would be scraped for trace evidence, not that anyone expected to find it—there had clearly not been a struggle or physical confrontation. She and Maggie turned the body to one side, but nothing waited underneath it except more dead leaves.
“That’s it, then,” the investigator said, pulling off her latex gloves with a definite snap as the body snatchers moved in to load up the earthly remains of Diane Cragin. “You have a fun Halloween? I wanted to wear my sexy vampire costume all last Wednesday, but my supervisor said such frivolity wouldn’t be in good taste.”
Maggie said, “That’s a pity. One does hate to see a good sexy vampire costume go to waste. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I dressed for Halloween.”
“That’s sad,” the investigator said, and Maggie agreed that, yes, it was. But her life had changed that year, and perhaps such frivolity was no longer in good taste. Either that or she no longer had the taste for it.
She went to photograph the interior of the house with Jack and Riley.
Uniformed officers, armed with guns and the usual strict instructions not to touch anything (except doorknobs, as needed), had used the dead woman’s keys to go inside and “clear” the house. The knob and keyed deadbolt had been securely latched. No one waited there, not family members, pets, or the killer. So the detectives walked behind Maggie as she entered, camera at the ready, hoping that Senator Cragin had left them some clue as to who had wanted her dead.
The bird started up again.
Chapter 2
The house had been built one hundred years before but lovingly preserved, and kept clean if not neat. The wool carpets were barely worn, the heavy windows sparkled, and the hardwood floors gleamed despite minor scars. It smelled of dust and ammonia and stale takeout. The entryway presented them with a staircase, a pristine living or sitting room on the right, and a cluttered office/dining room/reception area on the left. Maggie clicked a few overall shots of the pristine side, then ignored it to turn to the messy office. Cardboard boxes held printed brochures with Diane Cragin’s face prominently displayed above the phrase BRINGING JOBS BACK TO OHIO, and Maggie took a moment to study what her victim had looked like when alive. Not really much different than she did when dead, it seemed, though happier, with blond hair and blue eyes and the figure of a middle-aged woman who watched her weight. She formed the perfect, neutral picture of a strong and competent woman. Only her smile kept her from appearing generic: a wide, almost impish grin, as if she knew something that no one else did and had every intention of keeping it that way.
The dining table, which served as a desk or perhaps merely a staging area, also held myriad papers, newspapers, and a list of voting precincts and their captains. Maggie said, “There’s a lot here about polls.”
Riley poked one with a finger. “‘Getting out the likes campaign.’ What does that mean?”
“Facebook,” she told him.
“Ye gods. Hydrocarbon forecast?”
Jack said, “EPA business.”
Riley continued. “Here’s ‘Green hammer points.’ Not green as in environmental, green as in Joe Green. If they’re running against each other, that makes him suspect number one, but isn’t that too . . . what’s the word?”
“Cliché?” Maggie