“She’s down below, at the base of the steps,” I told them as I flung open the door. “I couldn’t find a pulse but...”
“Okay, take a seat inside,” one of them said. “The police should be here any minute.”
I didn’t like being banished indoors, but I needed to let the paramedics do their job. I watched as the two descended below, striving to hear their exchange. But their words were indistinguishable beneath the sound of the wind. I backed into the house and collapsed into an armchair next to a wood-burning stove, facing the patio.
I could smell the apple pie still, the scent mixed now with traces of wood smoke seeping from the stove next to me. Alice must have sat in this chair so many times, I realized—reading, savoring the view, talking with her husband when he was still alive.
My gaze fell on several framed photos on a small wooden end table. There was one of Alice leaning into a beaming, husky, gray-haired man, who must have been her late husband. And another photo of Alice, this time in her familiar car coat and linking arms with her son, Ben, whose picture she had showed me over dinner. I choked back tears.
I knew I needed to sit tight and not touch anything in the house, but I scanned the room with my eyes, looking for any sign of disturbance. The space was slightly rumpled in spots—a messy pile of books and a stack ofPost Stars near the foot of the armchair; a mohair throw tossed haphazardlyon the sofa; a vase full of mostly wilted flowers, but nothing suggesting an altercation.
On the far side of the room, an open doorway led to the screened-in porch. Though it was dark in there, I could make out the silhouettes of objects on the table, like a distant city skyline. There were wine and water glasses. And hurricane lamps. Alice had set the table for dinner.
I looked quickly back to the living space. There was no sign, I realized, of Alice’s laptop. Maybe she used a home office upstairs. But no, she’d said on the phone that she was working at her table. I bent at the waist, leaning forward, and glanced toward the dining area. The only thing on it was a coffee mug.
If Alicehaddetermined the killer’s identity and he’d come here to silence her, he would have, of course, wanted her laptop. That’s where she’d found the clue, after all.
A movement outside grabbed my attention. One of the EMTs was ascending the steps, speaking on his phone. I dashed back outside.
“Is she—?” I said, my voice pleading.
He placed a hand over the phone and shook his head, his expression somber. “I’m afraid she’s dead. An autopsy will have to determine the exact cause.”
I felt shell-shocked, unable to fully process the truth, though I’d had little doubt of it. I turned to see two uniformed officers, one a middle-aged male, the other a younger female. They were both with the state police.
“Please, miss, you need to wait inside,” the female cop commanded.
I retreated back into the living area, observing as the EMT conferred with the officers. The male cop descended to the dock with the EMT while the woman joined me inside. She chose the chair directly across from me and pulled out a pen and notebook.
She asked me to take her through what had happened. After explaining that I was a journalist friend of Alice’s, I spit out a quick recap of my experience tonight and then answered a round of questions—what time exactly had I arrived, had I noticed any sign of anyone besides hearing the footsteps, did the victim have any next of kin that I knew of?
This cop was aware, of course, that I might be responsible for Alice’s death. Maybe we’d quarreled on the patio and things had turned ugly, leading to an overwrought moment when I’d given my so-called friend a fateful shove down the stairs. I couldn’t let her become bogged down with that scenario.
“Can you ask that Sheriff Killian come by here tonight as soon as possible? It’s very important that I speak to him about Ms. Hatfield’s death.”
The request seemed to take her aback.
“Sheriff Killian? The state police are perfectly equipped to handle this.”
“Killian is overseeing the investigation into Shannon Blaine’s murder, and I believe Alice’s death is tied to it.”
She nodded after a moment, her curiosity clearly aroused. “Let me check to see if that’s possible.”
She went outside and spoke to the other state police officer, who’d come back up the steps, and they were joined soon byreinforcements: a man who, based on his bag, appeared to be with the coroner’s office, and members of the state police crime scene crew. A minute later, a guy of about seventy entered the house through the kitchen and charged into the room where I sat.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Where’s Alice?”
“Are you a friend?”
“A neighbor. I live up the road and saw the ambulance.”
“I’m so sorry, but Alice is dead.”
“Dear God, no.” He swept both hands through his hair. “How?”
“I think she was attacked. So I’m sure the police will want to speak with you in case you saw anything.”
“Attacked?Are you saying it was a burglary?”
