“Off? Off how?” Brows lifted, Jackie eyes pop open.
“Oh, I don’t know. It was probably nothing.” I’m dying to elaborate but need their unbiased opinion of their daughter’s last days.
Karl shakes his head and lowers his gaze to his mug. “He was a lying, cheating sack of turds.”
“Honey, no, don’t.” Tears roll down Jackie’s face. “
Mr. Papadopoulos kisses her wet cheek, turns toward me, and leans across the table. “We already told the police but they did nothing. Maybe you can help.”
He takes a deep breath. “As God is my witness, I am certain that bastard pushed her down the stairs.”
Despite my racing heart, I steady my voice and clench my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. “What did the autopsy reveal?”
The man’s face reddens and his thick, gray brows crease. “Not a damn thing but Deputy Abbot stopped by earlier. He said the sheriff is calling in a specialist from the university. I don’t know what changed his mind but we’re holding off on the burial.”
“Why? Was Jeff at home when it happened?” Cole and Al must’ve investigated but I don’t want to take anything for granted.
“He wasworking late.”Jackie air quotes the last two words.
“Did anyone corroborate his alibi?” I can’t believe he’d be so bold as to push his wife down the stairs and expect to get away with it.
Eyes closed, Karl pauses and exhales through his teeth. “His grad assistant did. I think her name is Alisha. She claimed theygraded paperstogether in his office until she left around ten. That leaves plenty of time unaccounted for.”
We talk for a few moments more and despite their claims, they have no real evidence.
So, standing, I put on my coat and hug them both. “I feel Stacy watching over us. For sure, you’ll be together again.”
As we walk to the door, a pang of guilt assails me. “I’m so, so sorry for upsetting you. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call.”
“We will dear and thank you.” Mrs. Papadopoulos waves goodbye leaving me more determined than ever to prove my friend’s death was not some freakish accident.
Back at home, I push the button and start my SOS meeting. Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, and Sam Spade populate the three top squares. Agatha Christie, Alex Cross, and Alice Clement rest on the bottom.
The border lights up around my image, the teenage sleuth. “Thanks for coming. I really need your help.”
“What have you learned so far?” Agatha’s past insights have led me to believe she’s a famous mystery writer.
“Well, I just got back from speaking with Stacy’s parents. They think the husband was both physically and mentally abusive. I also met with a county deputy last night. He insisted she fell down the stairs. However, he must’ve had second thoughts because they delayed the interment and are calling in a specialist from UVM. Sorry, by that, I mean, University of Vermont.”
“Did they check her nails?” Alex’s deep voice rattles my headset.
“What about her scalp? Were hairs missing?” Agatha pipes up and everyone starts talking at once.
I take as many notes as I can while shouting over the din. “Hold on, hold on. One at a time. Tell me what you think I should do next?”
We talk for a while longer but the bottom line is clear. I need evidence and to get it, I’ll have to visit the crime scene. By the time we finish talking, a plan has taken root in my mind. Resolved, I slip into my thigh-high boots and fuzzy white coat.
Because the funeral has already started, I slide in the back pew. The more people talk about Stacy, the more I wish I’d kept in touch. She was funny, outgoing, and was actively involved in the food bank.
In contrast, my internal eulogy sounds lame.Here lies Danielle, a gifted programmer, coffee lover, and loner.
After the service, I follow the line of cars to a two-story brick building. Parking half a mile away, I knock on the door, and a woman lets me into the living room where logs smolder in a miniature fireplace. Passing the one lounge chair, I squeeze around the guests and enter a dining room with just enough room for table and chairs.
Jeff, a thin tall man with a receding hairline speaks with a group of young people in the kitchen.
After shaking his lettuce-leaf grip, I resist the urge to wipe my hands, and smile. “I’m Danni. Stacy and I were good friends in high school.”
“Thanks for coming.” He lets go, shows me his back, and laughs at an off-color joke told by one of the students.
