One of the azalea bushes swayed, as if brushed by something in passing. Creating a spyglass shape with my hands, I leaned forward to peer into the darkness. An animal, I thought, before my eyes discerned a distinctly human form moving away from the shrub.
I didn’t think twice. All I knew was that some stranger was poking about on my property. After slipping on a pair of sandals, I grabbed a sturdy walking stick from my umbrella stand and dashed out of my bedroom to reach the back door.
Once outside, I slowed my steps to silence my approach. A rustle of branches made me suspect that the intruder was still on the premises. Lifting the walking stick in a defensive posture, I advanced on the carriage house, determined to reveal the trespasser.
As I moved close to the azalea bushes, I heard a whooshing noise. I spun around to face the holly hedge and, startled, dropped the walking stick. But as my gaze tracked the sound, I realized it had been made by an owl, flying out of the hedge and sweeping up into the night sky.
My shoulders slumped as I exhaled a sigh of relief. I leaned over to retrieve the walking stick, only to see it slide away from my fingers. Before I could turn to see who had grabbed it from behind, the stick whistled through the air.
A blow sideswiped my head and struck my shoulder. I fell to my knees, bracing myself with my palms. Choking as the scattered leaf meal filled my mouth and nostrils, I barely registered the sound of footfalls. My attacker was fleeing the area—the reverberation of the wooden rails of my back fence confirmed it.They had leapt the fence and gotten away before I’d had a chance to catch a glimpse of them.
I sat back, spitting out fragments of twigs and leaves. Lifting and rolling my injured shoulder, I was relieved to feel it move freely. It would be sore, of course, probably excruciatingly so. But at least it seemed to be in its proper place, and unbroken.
Blinking to focus my eyes, I noticed something glinting at the base of one of the azaleas. I crawled forward to examine the object more closely and realized, with a strange sense of detachment, that it was a knife.
Not just any knife, I told myself as I recognized the handle.But the one stolen from the knife block in the kitchen.
The murder weapon.
I staggered to my feet, using the discarded walking stick to brace my trembling legs. Obviously, the intruder had not been a random trespasser. It was the murderer, returning the knife to the scene of the crime.
The knife flashed, its metal surface sparkling, when I poked it with the tip of my walking stick. Wiped clean, no doubt, along with the handle. I sniffed, identifying the scent rising from the murder weapon as a strong cleaning solution or solvent.
I backed away, my gaze still fastened on the knife. I knew I needed to alert the police, but was afraid to leave the scene in case the killer felt emboldened enough to return.
Footsteps crunched the gravel behind me. Swinging the walking stick with my good arm, I turned to face whoever had stepped up behind me.
“Whoa!” Scott held up his arms, crossed to protect his face. “What’s going on? I just walked back from having dinner onFront Street, but I swear I haven’t been drinking that much.” He grinned and dropped his arms. “No need to fight me off.”
“I thought you were the person who struck me,” I said, lowering the walking stick while tightening my grip on it. Scott had just appeared, or had he? I rubbed my eyes with the back of my free hand.
“Struck you?” Scott looked me over with concern. “Someone was here just now?”
“Yes, an intruder. I saw them from my bedroom window and came out to investigate …”
“You should’ve stayed inside and simply called the police.”
“I know, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. Anyway, when I got out here, I didn’t see anyone. Then I heard a noise and looked away for a moment, and whoever it was hit me and ran.” I rubbed my shoulder. “Nothing broken, and they missed my head, so I think I’ll be fine.”
“But still.” Scott moved closer, placing one hand on my forearm. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, but we do need to call the police.” I grimaced as the pressure of Scott’s fingers sent a fission of pain up my arm.
“Well, sure.” Scott stepped back, dropping his hand. He reached inside the inner pocket of his light jacket to extract his cell phone. “I’ll do that right now.” He punched in some numbers before looking back at me. “You really didn’t catch a glimpse of the person who hit you? Didn’t see anything that could help identify them?”
I shook my head, realizing as I did so that I wouldn’t have told him even if I had. Because there was still a possibility he was involved …
Or Jennifer Delamont, I thought, as Scott talked to the police dispatcher.Or Damian, who knows this house and grounds well enough to sneak in over the fence.
“They’re on their way,” Scott said, as he pocketed the phone. “Can I help you inside? You look like you need to sit down.”
“Yes, but we can’t yet. Not until the police arrive.” I gestured toward the bottom of the azalea bush. “The intruder left that behind.”
Scott’s eyes widened as his gaze followed my pointing finger. “Is that your missing kitchen knife?”
“Yes. And it wasn’t there before tonight, or the police would have discovered it days ago.”
“What are you saying? That the killer came back to simply drop the murder weapon at the scene?”
