“We talked to her already because she was at the séance.”
“You interviewed the people from the séance?”
“Well, not all of them yet, but we’re working on it. Why wouldn’t she have told us what she knew?” His na?ve question made me chuckle. I covered it with a cough.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to try to find out. I think she knows who killed Sara.” I didn’t mention I was starting to suspect Tish herself.
The bushes rustled next to us. I stood up quickly and saw Cecile kneeling on the other side. I realized our mistake—we couldn’t be seen, but we also couldn’t see out. And we could be heard.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“Oh, Clyde. Hello. I was looking for my glasses. I dropped them around here somewhere and just can’t find them.”
Tom stood up and peeked over the shrub. “Do you want some help, Mrs. Stark?”
“No!” She stood up quickly. “No, I’m not sure I dropped them here. I’m just returning to places where I might have lost them. Thanks, bye.”
She hurried off, weaving along the path toward the gate.
She had been very quiet, and I had no idea how long she’d been there. Sensing eavesdroppers would be a useful talent.
“Do you think she heard us?” Tom asked, reading my thoughts.
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
“She was at the séance, too. Mac said she didn’t add much to the séance story when he interviewed her.”
“Did she mention that Tish left her house really early on the day Sara died?”
“Not that I know of, but I haven’t seen Mac’s report yet.”
I watched Cecile’s head bob out through the gate and down the street.
“Clyde, you don’t think Tish could have killed Sara, do you?”
A cold chill crept down my spine with his question.
“No. She may not have liked Sara, but Tish isn’t a murderer. I’m sure of it.”
As I walked out of the garden with Tom, I tried to convince myself that I was right.
18
After finishing the afternoon’s work, I went to Tish’s house. Seth had left several messages on my phone to say he was waiting for me to pick him up to continue our rounds for the day. But I had other things to do.
Tish’s Tahoe sat close to the front walk. Baxter barked somewhere deep inside the house. A few kids played basketball down the street, but otherwise the neighborhood was quiet. Taking the porch steps two at a time, I raised my hand to knock when I saw the sign: READING IN PROGRESS, PLEASE WAIT.
My hand dropped to my side. I felt prickly and cold even on that muggy summer day. Shivering and rubbing my arms to warm up, I peeked in the front window. That was odd—Tish usually sat with clients in her front room, but it was empty. I checked my watch.
I knocked on the front door. There was no answer, so I knocked again and tried the knob with a growing feeling of concern. She had to be in there. Then I got a very bad feeling.
I took the key from under the mat. As I slid the key into the lock, I heard a loud pop! like a car backfiring. Instinct kicked in and I dropped to the floor of the porch. There were no cars on the street. I had heard that sound before. A gun had been fired inside the house.
From my vantage point on the porch, I spotted a forgotten spade among the bushes. Makeshift weapon in hand, I finally turned the knob after fumbling with the lock. With only a gardening tool as a weapon I slipped inside. It went against every bit of training I possessed. Baxter was barking more vigorously, and I wondered where he could be.
Keeping to the periphery of the front room, I inched toward the dining room—no one there. I kept the spade cocked like a baseball bat. Softly creeping around the edge of the door, I made my way toward the kitchen. The back door slammed. Three strides took me to the kitchen doorway. Tish was on the floor. A dark red stain had soaked her shirt and spread across her chest. I stifled a cry, scanned the room, and checked the backyard, but saw no one. Baxter’s barking had become a keening howl, and I realized he was locked in the basement.
Tish lay on her back. Her legs made quotation marks on the floor. One of her high-heel mules had slipped off and sat not far from her bare, unprotected foot. I saw the slight movement of her chest. Tish’s face was white and her eyes fluttered briefly as I said her name. Her right hand scrabbled at her chest, her left arm lay tucked under her back. She tried to talk but only wheezed.
I let the spade drop to my side and focused on breathing. I replayed other shooting injuries I had seen, including the boy from last spring. The room began to feel hot, and I leaned against the wall for a moment until the spinning sensation stopped. I had to pull myself together. I dropped the spade and knelt next to Tish on the floor.
“It’s Clyde, Tish. I’m calling for help.” Her hand sat motionless in mine as I pulled out my cell phone and called 911. I gave the address, hung up, and turned to her again. Her eyes were partly open.