“Birdie!”
Helen Boyd glanced in the rearview mirror first to her two-year-old son, then out the side window to the row of crows sitting on the electrical wire.
“Lots of birds,” she agreed. “Those are crows. Crows are always black.” Helen had the passing thought that in some cultures, they were considered bad luck. Or was that ravens?
Jacob tried to shape the word, which came out sounding more like “cow.”
“Crow,” she repeated. “Like ‘row, row, row your boat,’ only it’s c-row.”
He giggled. “K-k-krow.”
“Yes.” She laughed. “And we’re home!” Thank heavens; her feet were killing her, and she was starved. The day had been so busy, she’d never had a chance to stop for lunch. And, ugh, this was only Tuesday.
Home was a small rental house with an even smaller detached garage that held the lawn mower, a rolling tool chest belonging to the landlord, and some boxes and furniture that might have been left by previous tenants. There was no room for a car, so she parked in the driveway.
Helen climbed out stiffly, her attention caught for a brief moment by bright sails on the Columbia River. Her view was barely a sliver, but that was better than nothing. This was June, but the day seemed way too chilly for anyone to want to go windsailing. Whoever was out there was sure dedicated to the sport, she’d learned. The winds channeled through the Columbia Gorge were one of the biggest draws of the small towns strung along the banks of the river east of Portland.
She circled around to release Jacob from his car seat and swing him up in her arms, using her hip to bump the door closed. “Hamburgers for dinner tonight,” she told him.
“Hot dogs!” he shouted.
She planted a big kiss on top of his head. “Hamburgers.”
He loved to argue. “Hot dogs.”
“Hamburgers.” After letting them in the front door, she set him down, staying crouched beside him for a minute. “Do you have to go potty?” He still wore a diaper at night but was doing pretty well using the toilet during the day.
“Uh-uh,” he declared.
“Hmm.” Tempted to kick off her heels right now, Helen decided to make it to the bedroom first. Set a good example. Or maybe she should dump them straight in the trash. There was a good reason they’d been on clearance. Knowing Jacob would follow her, she started for the hall—and came to an abrupt stop, staring into the kitchen.
What on earth was that?
Her heart thudded hard. Jacob, fortunately, was clambering up onto the sofa. She took a tentative step, then another, disbelief and fear clawing inside her chest.
It was a high-heeled shoe sitting all by itself that had first puzzled her. She had on the only pair of black pumps she owned. But then...then she saw the woman who lay sprawled on the kitchen floor.
Fingers pressed to her mouth, Helen tiptoed closer. Dark hair fanned over the lifeless face, but Helen could see enough...including the hideous dent in the woman’s head.
“Oh, no, oh, no.” Helen backed away.
From just behind her, Jacob said, “Mommy?”
Whirling, Helen snatched him up and pressed his face to her shoulder. Then she ran for the front door, pausing only to grab her purse on the way.
* * *
“THAT THE HOMEOWNER?” Detective Seth Renner glanced toward the car parked somewhat crookedly at the curb in front of the house.
The uniformed officer followed his gaze. “Don’t know if she owns it or rents, but that’s her. Name’s Helen Boyd. She’s got a two-year-old in the car.”
Easy to imagine how quickly she’d fled the house when she discovered a dead woman on her kitchen floor. Unless, of course, she’d had something to do with the death, but he wasn’t ready to speculate yet.
Instead, he signed the log the responding officer had started, bent to put on disposable shoe covers and stepped into the house. Scanning the living room, he saw evidence that a toddler lived here: a small plastic wagon piled with building blocks, a tidy pile of simple wooden puzzles on the fireplace hearth and a crib-size comforter crumpled at one end of the sofa. Built-in shelving to each side of the fireplace held books, including a good-size collection of children’s picture books. Coffee table with rounded edges. Foam had been fitted to cover the sharp edges of the brick hearth. TV. If not for the books, the room would have been stark.
Because there was no art, he realized. Maybe this was a rental, and the woman didn’t feel like she could put holes in the walls. Although, he’d have expected to see framed photos or something decorative on the mantel.
He shook his head slightly and moved on to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to study the body and then work outward to the surroundings.
No indication of a struggle. His first guess was that the victim had been in the kitchen, heard something and started to turn, only to be stunned by the single blow. Dead from that moment, she’d dropped to the floor. Finally going forward to crouch beside her, he did note a dirty mark on her white blouse. It didn’t go with her businesslike attire: fitted blouse, blazer, black pencil skirt, heels and hose. A shiny black handbag sat on the small kitchen table, a smartphone beside it. Had the killer kicked her once she was down?
He snapped on latex gloves and gingerly reached in the handbag for a wallet, opening it to see the license in a clear plastic sleeve. Photo looked like a match to him. Seth studied it. Andrea Sloan, brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six, thirty-six years old, organ donor.
Too late for that.
He let the wallet fall back into the purse, looking instead at the woman’s face, slack in death.
Why had Andrea Sloan been killed? And why here, in another woman’s house? Unless she was a close friend, sister, something like that to the owner-renter who’d discovered her?
Still gazing down at the body, he called for a crime scene unit from the Oregon State Police, then walked through the rest of the house. It was immaculately clean and uncluttered. Apparently, the kid didn’t go to bed without putting away his toys, and Mom or Dad—was there a dad?—didn’t toss dirty clothes over the single chair in the slightly larger bedroom that held a full-size bed, bedside table with a lamp and clock, and a dresser. No art here, either, no photos. Curious, he nudged open the sliding closet door to find it less than a third full. Several pairs of shoes lined up in a neat row on the floor, some unexciting dresses, blazers, skirts and slacks on hangers. Nothing that appeared to belong to a man.
The bathroom was shared with the kid. Nothing suggested a man lived here, either. A toothbrush holder and two toothbrushes sat alone on an otherwise pristine counter.
Pretty clearly, the residents consisted of a single mother and child.
Time to talk to the woman.
Going back outside, he shed the shoe covers and followed the narrow concrete walkway to the sidewalk and the car, a Ford Focus he guessed to be at least ten years old, possibly a lot more than that. He opened the front passenger-side door and bent to look in.
“Ms. Boyd? I’m Detective Seth Renner. I need to talk to you. Is there someplace—” A small boy poked his head between the seats.
“Boo!”
Seth pretended to jump, suppressing a grin. “And who are you?”
“I’m Jacob,” the boy declared.