I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there when the first officers on the scene found me huddled on the front porch steps, my arms crossed protectively over my chest.
A policewoman touched me gently on the back of my hand and, keeping constant physical contact with me, knelt down and spoke to me in a calm, even voice. “Ma’am? Did you place the 911 call? Are you Lila Wilkins?”
Her eyes were beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, like honey melting in a cup of hot tea. I saw kindness in the young woman’s face, but I also noticed the slight twitch of her fingers. She was on edge, and I guessed she was experiencing the same surge of adrenaline I’d felt tiptoeing through Luella’s house.
I wondered if this woman in blue, this girl with the honey-hued eyes, would catch her breath when she entered the back bedroom. Would she pause on the threshold and think of Sleeping Beauty? Would she wonder why the red-haired beauty lying lifeless on the bed would never wake from her slumber? Would this officer burn with anger on Luella’s behalf or become steel cold with a determination to solve the mystery behind the crime? Would she be haunted by the sight, as I was sure to be?
“Ma’am?” Her voice was soft but more persistent this time.
I swallowed, trying to moisten my throat enough to push the words out. “Yes, I called you. The woman inside is my coworker. Her name’s Luella Ardor and…” I looked away from the officer’s lovely eyes and stared up into the canopy of tree branches reaching toward the roof. “And she’s dead. Someone killed her. Someone killed her because of me.”
That was all I managed to say to the policewoman. She asked me more questions, but I had nothing more to add. I went numb while the world around me broke open into a thousand different sounds.
Radios crackled, car doors slammed, commands were shouted in and outside the house, footsteps clumped up and down the steps and across the groaning porch. I stared at the parade of policemen and technicians without seeing. The image of Luella was still burned into my mind, like a Polaroid photograph that kept developing over and over again.
At some point, a blanket was placed around my shoulders and a strong hand squeezed my arm. The pressure allowed me to return to the moment, and I looked up to find Sean gazing down at me, his face pinched with concern.
“Lila,” he murmured and pushed a metal thermos cup into my hands. “Drink this.”
I cradled the cup, welcoming the feel of its heat against my palms, and then drank. Sean had spiked black coffee with a shot of whiskey, and the bitterness surprised me, jarring me from my numb state and filling my throat and belly with a warm burn. It was exactly what I needed.
“More,” he directed, pushing the cup back to my lips.
As I complied, he watched me, his handsome, intelligent eyes intense with worry.
“I’m better now,” I assured him, feeling the whiskey’s dull fire and the comforting weight of the blanket on my shoulders drawing me forth from a state of shock.
Sean sat quietly next to me until I was ready to explain what I was doing at Luella’s house. I began by telling him about Sue Ann Grey and how she’d forever changed Marlette’s life so many years ago. I went on to describe how I’d let Luella know that I’d discovered her secret identity and how that was the last time I saw her alive. I recounted how I’d searched her office and described the bee venom websites on her Internet search history. My voice faltered as it struck me that while I was trying to find proof that she was a murderer, Luella herself was falling victim to violence. I shuddered.
Sean squeezed my hand and nodded. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, and it’s not yet conclusive,” he said, “but the coroner is fairly certain that Marlette died from anaphylactic shock brought on by bee venom, probably administered by injection. It appears from your sleuthing that Luella might have been instrumental in that.”
By the time I had reached the point in the narrative in which Bentley told me to drive to Dunston in search of Luella, two burly men wearing coveralls appeared at the front door.
“Sir,” they said, clearly addressing Sean. “We’re ready to bring her out.” They sent a fleeting glance in my direction, and their message was clear. Luella’s body was on the gurney behind them, and they were concerned about my witnessing the transfer of her sheeted form to the van marked CORONER.
A flash of a similar scene, in which Marlette’s was the body on the gurney, made me want to escape the sight of another covered form being wheeled by as I watched, feeling guilt ridden and helpless.
There was a wicker chair with a floral cushion on the side of the wraparound porch. I pointed to it and told Sean, “I’ll wait for you there.” He responded with an empathetic nod.