Sara moans and collapses onto the backseat again. I let my body sag against the car. The cops are inside the house now, and through the big front window I can see their dark shapes receding toward the rear. They’re about to find her, see what we saw. Once again the awful image muscles its way into my mind.
A few houses down, a woman steps onto her porch and cranes her head in our direction, super curious. I feel desperate to reach Guy, to let him know what’s going on, and yet Robichaud’s warning echoes in my head.
And then I think of the girl again, the one who phoned me this morning. I distinctly remember she said Eve wanted me to come “down here,” which implied here. If she was calling from this location, wouldn’t she have seen the body?
It’s ten minutes before the cops reemerge from inside, but instead of coming back to the car, they begin to cordon off the house and yard with yellow tape stamped “Police Line Do Not Cross.” A van approaches and empties out three people who I assume, from their clothes, are crime scene personnel, and I watch them trudge into the house.
By now a crowd has gathered on the street, adults lit up with curiosity, and kids, too, a few on bikes, zipping back and forth, sometimes doing wheelies on the still-damp pavement. God, I think, it’s starting to look like a street fair; the next thing you know someone’s going to start selling funnel cake and lemonade.
Finished securing the perimeter, the patrol cops hustle back over to Sara and me and take down our addresses and phone numbers. Sara begs to know when we can leave, and they inform us that we must wait to be interviewed by detectives, who are due to arrive shortly.
It actually turns out to be just one detective, a forty-something woman with olive skin, thick brows, and short dark brown hair with a band of white running along the roots. She immediately separates us, escorting Sara to stand by one of the cop cars. I sense from the consternation on the detective’s face that the patrol cops will get a tongue-lashing for not having done this earlier. When she returns to me, she introduces herself as Detective Corcoran and explains that she will interview both of us once she’s surveyed the scene inside.
Another fifteen minutes of waiting before she reappears. She starts with Sara, I assume because she was the first on the scene, and finally, after ten interminable minutes, she returns to me.
“You doing okay?” she asks. “This has got to be tough.”
“I’m hanging in there,” I say, appreciating the sympathy. I take her through what happened, starting with my visit yesterday to inform Eve about the missing money and, of course, the call from the assistant this morning. What I don’t include is any reference to the burnt kitchen matches. I can’t imagine what that could have to do with the murder, and it seems smarter not to divulge anything too personal.
“And you saw no one else in the area, either before you went into the house or afterwards?” Corcoran asks.
“Not a soul.”
“This assistant you spoke to you. Did she give her name?”
“No, not that I recall.”
“And there was no sign of her whatsoever when you arrived?”
“None.” For the first time I wonder if she’s okay. What if the killer has done something to her, too?
Corcoran furrows her brow, clearly as confused as I am by this odd disconnect.
“Okay,” she says at last. “Thank you for your assistance. It’s important that you not share details of the crime scene with anyone. And please be aware that we may need to talk to you again.”
“Of course.” Though the patrol cops have already requested my full name and number, Corcoran asks me to write the info in her notebook. As I do, I notice that my hand is still doing a little jig.
Corcoran returns to the house, and I sigh in relief, finally free to go. Though I’m desperate to meet up with Guy, I realize I should offer Sara a ride home, but when I turn around, I see she’s gone, as is the bike. At least now I can drive straight to Guy’s office. I want to tell him the story in person rather than on the phone. As I pull away, a van from an Albany TV station jerks to a stop in the spot my car had occupied.
Halfway to the opera house, I realize that I’m going to have to call Guy after all since he works on the ground floor and the building will be locked today. I pull the car over to the curb. To my surprise he doesn’t answer his cell. In my hyped-up state, it irritates me. Why wouldn’t he have his phone on him? I try his office phone next.
Another surprise. Guy’s assistant answers, or at least I think it’s her. She says “Hello” rather than the standard weekday “Guy Carrington’s office.” I have no clue why she’s working on the weekend
“Miranda?” I say.
“Oh, Bryn, yes, it’s me. There are a few of us in today. Did you want me to find Guy for you?”
“He’s not in his office?”
“He just dashed upstairs. There’s a short rehearsal today and he wanted to speak to one of the performers about a fund-raiser he’s singing at.”
“Can you just let Guy know I’m driving over to see him? Something urgent’s come up.”
“Oh dear, anything I can help you with?”