“Colson Delacourt. I…I live across the street. 733 Willow.”
Sirens sounded, and footsteps pounded. Two uniforms appeared. “Detective?” one of them asked, his brows rising as he observed the crime scene.
“Yeah. Secure the scene and begin canvassing for anyone who saw or heard anything.”
Two EMTs ran inside, and Harper pointed a finger at Colson. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m not finished with you.” He directed his next words to the medics. “She’s been stabbed in the side. I put pressure on it, but I have no idea how long she could’ve been lying here.”
“Less than an hour and a half,” Delacourt called out. “I left her here then. Unharmed,” he added hastily at Harper’s scowl.
They loaded the woman onto the stretcher and took her out. CSU had arrived, and he called over Bruce Stoger, whom he’d worked with often.
“Elderly lady. Dust the whole place for fingerprints—I haven’t even made it upstairs. And get the knife to forensics.” With his toe, he pointed to the bloody piece of evidence.
“You got it, Harper. Man…” Stoger grimaced in disgust. “What kind of fuckin’ sicko hurts a little old lady? What the hell’s the matter with people?” Still shaking his head, Stoger pulled out an evidence bag and secured the knife.
“When you find out, let me know,” he responded and returned to Delacourt. “So, Mr. Delacourt, let’s start over. You just happened to be making apple pies with Ms. Johnson. A very domestic scene. You don’t work?”
A flush rose over his face. “I work from home. And yes, I help Millie out with groceries, things that need fixing at the house. It was raining earlier, and her arthritis was bothering her, so I offered to cut the apples and measure the ingredients.”
“A regular Boy Scout.” He smirked, and Delacourt turned a brighter red.
“Millie was a nice lady.”
“Was?” Harper frowned. “She’s still alive.”
“Oh, yeah, I know. I mean is.” Flustered, he ran his hands through his hair.
“You’re very nervous, Mr. Delacourt. Are you all right?”
“No,” he snapped at Harper. “I just saw someone I care about lying bloody on the floor. How am I supposed to feel?”
That gave Harper a nice segue to ask his questions. “I don’t know. Let’s talk about that. You were at Perk Me Up this morning, weren’t you?”
Surprise widened Delacourt’s big blue eyes. “Y-yes.” He blushed, and Harper knew Delacourt remembered seeing him.
Harper checked the notes he took from the coffee klatch. “You were overheard describing in extremely graphic detail the murder of a Millie Johnson by either striking her over the head or stabbing and dismembering her.” He leveled a stare at Delacourt. Bile rose in Harper’s throat at the thought of someone doing that to someone as helpless as the frail eighty-year-old he found on the floor. It reminded him why he was so wildly protective of his brother, who was as powerless as Ms. Johnson.
“Wait, no. I can explain that,” Delacourt insisted.
“I’m all ears. It’s got to be a good one, seeing how everything you predicted a couple of hours earlier came gruesomely true.” He pushed his face close to Delacourt, who flinched. “There’s nothing I like better than putting away scumbags like you.”
“I didn’t do it. I swear.” Sweat poured down his face, and he blinked rapidly.
“They all say that. But I’m going to bet your fingerprints are the only ones on the knife. What’s the matter, Delacourt? You run out of money for your drug habit? Owe the bookies? What would make a big, tough guy like you push a knife into a sweet little old lady?”
“I didn’t. I swear,” Delacourt cried out. “It wasn’t me.”
“Harper?” Nolan called out.
“In the kitchen. The back of the house.” He waited until his partner arrived. “The vic is on route to the hospital. Meet Mr. Colson Delacourt. Neighbor, apple-pie maker, and potential murderer.”
“I didn’t do it,” Delacourt yelled, desperate and pleading.
Nolan’s brows drew together. “Colson Delacourt, the author?”
“Yes, yes that’s me,” he nodded, relief evident in his voice.
“Harper, this is Colson—”
