“But the photos,” Gertie protested.
“I’ll grab my laptop and load them,” I said. “We can go through everything right here in the living room.”
I spent some time getting Gertie’s ankle wrapped well, then Ida Belle propped it up on a pillow and secured the ice pack around it. I snagged my laptop from the kitchen, hooked up the camera, and downloaded the pictures. It took me fifteen minutes to delete all the duplicates and unusable shots, but eventually, I had it down to fifteen good shots that we could review. I perched on one arm of the recliner, Ida Belle on the other, and started the show.
“Here’s the ground,” I said. “From a distance and then close up.”
We all peered at the shot. “If you look here,” I said and pointed to the loose dirt directly in front of the trellis, “you can make out footprints.”
“I see them,” Gertie said, getting excited. “That’s a big foot, isn’t it?”
Ida Belle nodded. “Definitely made by a man.”
“Or Beulah,” I said.
“True,” Ida Belle agreed, “but I don’t like her for this.”
“Me either,” I said and flipped to the next shots. “Here is a shot of the trellis and you can see where it leads from the ground right up to the bedroom window. Here’s a close-up of the bottom part.”
Ida Belle and Gertie leaned in and studied the picture. “Do you see that?” Ida Belle asked and pointed to a section of leaves that were starting to curl on the ends.
Gertie nodded. “That’s where he went up. He damaged some of the vine and it’s dying.”
I took a closer look. “Isn’t that more on the other side?”
“Looks like it,” Gertie said. “Maybe when he came down?”
“But he didn’t come down the trellis,” Ida Belle said. “He ran down the stairs, remember?”
I moved to the next photo, which showed a close-up of the other side of the trellis. “This side looks more curled than the other,” I said, “and it’s already a shade or two lighter.” I frowned and switched back to the close-up of the ground.
“What are you thinking?” Ida Belle asked.
“There are several impressions on the ground,” I said, “but this one appears to be a tiny bit deeper, although it’s hard to tell from this angle.”
“What would that mean?” Gertie asked.
“Either it was made by someone heavier wearing the same brand of shoes, or he made it by jumping off the trellis when he got close to the ground, creating a deeper impression than if he had stepped off.”
“But he didn’t come down that way,” Ida Belle repeated.
“That time,” I said, “but what if that wasn’t his first time up the trellis?”
Gertie’s eyes widened. “You think he was spying on her? A Peeping Tom thing?”
I shook my head. “I think it’s far more simple than that. I think he was scouting the area to ensure that when opportunity arose, the situation was conducive to his plan. Basically, he was doing reconnaissance.”
Ida Belle nodded. “So he tested the trellis to make sure it would hold his weight and that there weren’t any weak spots on it.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Gertie’s eyes widened. “But that means he’s been watching her for some time. He knew which window was the master bedroom, and he must have been somewhere nearby waiting for Gail to be at home and go to bed before Nolan.” She shuddered. “That’s creepy.”
“And very premeditated,” I said.
“He certainly won’t be able to claim the ‘fit of passion’ defense,” Ida Belle said.
“How old do you think that first bit of damage to the vines is?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t put it at more than two or three days older at the most,” Gertie said, “or it would be a lot more obvious.”
Ida Belle agreed. “Marie told me Gail was out of town two nights before the murder.”
“Then that’s probably when he did his scouting,” I said. “Less chance of being seen or heard with only Nolan in the house.”
Ida Belle frowned. “This is what I don’t understand. If we assume Gail figured out who the catfish was, why didn’t she go to the police as soon as she got back to Sinful?”
“Maybe she didn’t know for sure,” I said. “It might have only been suspicion at that point. Or maybe she thought she knew but had no proof.”
“And remember,” Gertie said, “if she went to the police, then she’d have to admit that she’d been having an affair.” She sighed. “It’s all so sordid, using people’s emotions to steal from them. Drugs, gunrunning, and the like I kind of understand because for the middleman, it’s impersonal. But what kind of person can do this over and over again?”
“A sociopath,” Ida Belle said. “Someone without a conscience.”
I nodded. “And unfortunately, it’s not as easy to spot them as one might think.”