by V. B. Tenery
“Do we have an ID on the victims yet?”
With a flip of his notebook the officer read his notes. “The house belongs to Arthur and Kathy Davenport. The neighbor’s husband made the identification. He didn’t think his wife was up to it.”
Matt nodded and pressed his hands into his coat pockets. The wind was bitter cold. He hunched his shoulders against the frosty blast and trudged up the driveway to the back entrance, shivering at the icy wetness that seeped under his collar.
He looked up at the overcast sky and steeled himself before entering the murder scene. Reverence filled him in the presence of violent death. Killers not only robbed their victims of life, but also of their dignity, leaving them vulnerable and exposed in the presence of indifferent strangers. It was an abomination to God.
He and his team were the victims’ advocates for justice.
Walking past the front entrance, he entered the residence through the back door. Warmth from the central heating system met him. He unbuttoned his coat and loosened his scarf, then proceeded farther inside.
The officer near the entrance handed him booties and latex gloves. “The sign-in register is on a table by the front door, Chief.”
A short hallway branched out into the vestibule and a large, open room. On the left, a wide staircase led to the second floor. The first victim lay face-down in the small corridor. He wore pajamas and a blue plaid robe. One house slipper lay on the marble tile nearby, the other still on his right foot.
The man looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, Caucasian, about average height, with one bullet hole in the back and one in his left temple. Powder burns surrounded the head wound. The shot had been fired at point blank range, probably after he fell. His position and where he lay suggested he’d attempted to run towards the front when the first bullet struck.
From the angle of the bullet wounds in the man’s body, the shots looked to have been fired from the French doors that led to the patio, but the CSI team would confirm that with exact measurements.
Matt stepped past the body and down the corridor. He met Medical Examiner Lisa Martinez hurrying through the double doors at the front entrance.
“Hey, Matt. You guys just getting here?”
“We arrived about ten minutes ago. We’ve been waiting for you to come do your thing.”
“Yeah, sorry. The roads are a mess. Took me longer than usual. We’ll get right on it so your people can get to work.”
“Is Joe coming?” Joe Wilson was county sheriff, Lisa’s fiancée, and Matt’s best friend.
She laughed. “I haven’t talked to him, but my guess is he’ll be here soon. Just try to keep him away from a major crime in his county.” She waved and joined Miles Davis near the male victim.
Matt approached the great room, where several CSU techs stood around waiting for the ME to release the crime scene to them. He stood back to take in the whole picture.
The room was huge, with high ceilings, elaborate crown molding, expensive Persian rugs, and highly-polished Italian Renaissance furnishings.
From his vantage point, a massive stone hearth came into view, embers still glowing in the ashes. A set of iron and brass tools were overturned and scattered on the tiles.
He moved farther into the area. Between a carved mahogany coffee table and plush sofa lay the second body, a woman about the same age and ethnicity as the man, with shoulder-length brown hair. She bore a striking resemblance to actress Sigourney Weaver. She wore navy fleece pajamas, and she, too, had been shot in the temple at close range. Unlike the man, there looked to be knife punctures in her chest. No defensive wounds on her hands.
It was human nature to try to defend the body against attack, even that of knives and bullets.
The stab wounds were most likely inflicted after the fatal shot. That was overkill. And it made the assault personal.
An empty, open briefcase lay on the coffee table, suggesting that the contents had been removed. The initials, AD, were engraved in gold just above the clasp. Had the killer taken everything, or had the owner died in the process of cleaning it out?
Matt left the living room and made his way upstairs to the master bedroom. The Italian Renaissance theme carried into the area, with heavy furniture and rich, dark colors of gold, red, and brown. Swag curtains of Italian silk framed a view of the backyard with an expansive outdoor room, now lost in the snow. The fragrance of sandalwood from a still-burning candle filled the space. He extinguished the flame with two fingers. The last thing they needed was for the crime scene to burn to the ground.
A bronze, enameled jewelry box lay open, its contents scattered on the rumpled duvet.
Expensive diamond bracelets, pins, and a ruby ring glittered in the overhead lighting. Was the killer looking for something in particular? If so, what? Hopefully, the family could tell them if anything was missing.
He stood by and watched the crime scene techs do their job until Davis stepped beside him.
“Mac is finishing up downstairs. Lucy just left to talk to the neighbors, Colin and Shannon Connelly. I’m going to join her. Want to come along?”
Matt glanced over at Davis and raised an eyebrow. Shannon Connelly found the body? The Connellys were good friends, although he’d never been to their home. “I’ll tag along, I know the couple. Did our people find any of the casings?”
Davis nodded. “A 9mm shell was lodged in a cushion; probably a missed shot at the woman, from the angle. Looked like she tried to evade the bullet, and it hit the sofa. Now all we need is a gun to match it to.”
“Any thoughts on the empty briefcase?”
“Mac found tiny burned pieces of paper in the fireplace. Nothing we could identify. May have been Mr. Davenport or the killer. We need to find out if he was carrying anything important in the case when he died.”
They wended their way back downstairs and Davis motioned to the CSU chief, signaling that he and Matt were leaving.
“We have positive ID on the victims as the Davenports?” Matt asked.
Davis wound his scarf around his neck and buttoned his overcoat. “Yeah, Colin Connelly made a visual identification, and the contents of both wallets were dumped on the floor, driver’s license, money, and credit cards. It’s the Davenports all right.”
“Did Lisa give us a window on the time of death?”
Davis nodded. “Tentatively, from four to seven this morning. They hadn’t been dead long when the neighbor discovered the body.”
Davis turned up his coat collar as they stepped out into the blustery winter wind. “Whatever the motive, it certainly wasn’t robbery.”
CHAPTER 3
The Connelly Home
Twin Falls, Texas
Glen Haven Court ended in a cul de sac, with four homes on oversized wooded lots. The Connelly residence sat directly across from the Davenports, with the same wrought-iron fence and circular drive, but with Mediterranean architectural arches.
By the time Matt and Davis tramped across the slick street, Shannon Connelly had the door open. She enveloped Matt in a long hug. “Hey, handsome; I didn’t know you guys were home. You didn’t waste any time getting back into the saddle.”
“Unfortunately, murderers don’t make appointments.” He returned the hug then shrugged out of his coat.
Davis moved farther into the room and closed the door behind him.
Outside of his wife, Shannon Connelly was one of the most attractive women Matt knew. Always fashionably dressed in clothes that flattered her plus-size figure, every strand of her shoulder length, frosted hair in place, and gray eyes that always sparkled with mischief. Today, the sparkle was noticeably diminished.
“I’m sorry you had to come out on this one, Matt,” she said. “I’m having trouble accepting they’re gone. Art and Kathy were good people, great friends, and hospitable neighbors. They’d planned to retire next year. It’s unbelievable that something like this could happen to them. Thank God, Taylor wasn’t at home or she . . .”
�
�Who’s Taylor?” Matt asked.
“Their twelve-year-old daughter.” Shannon shivered and ushered them into the kitchen.
Detective Turner leaned against the bar, with a steaming cup in her hand, chatting with Colin. He stood at the island in a frilly red apron, his masculinity unthreatened by the feminine garb.
The older man paused from making sandwiches and greeted Matt with a wave. “Grab a bite and a cup of coffee, Matt. Shannon’s had me working all morning, thinking you guys could use some food since most restaurants and fast-food joints will be closed.”
“Thanks, Colin, maybe later. Right now, we need to talk to you and Shannon, if you can break away.”
Matt and the two detectives followed Shannon into the den.
“It’ll be quiet in here.” She offered them a seat and sat next to the hearth’s glowing fire. Colin trekked along behind her, untying the apron as he went, then chose to stand next to her chair.
The two detectives took the sofa across from Shannon; Matt opted to lean against the wall near the doorway.
Turner took the lead, and positioned a recorder on a nearby end table. “Okay if I record this?”
“Sure,” Shannon said.
Turner switched on the machine, gave the date, and those present. “Tell us what happened.”
Shannon reached for Colin’s hand, and then took a deep breath. “The Davenports’ dog, Sugar, scratched on our door about eight this morning.” She nodded at the white bulldog curled up by the hearth. “We let her in, and Colin noticed she had blood on her paws.”
She dropped her hands into her lap and laced her fingers, knuckles white, then ran through the steps that led to the discovery of Kathy Davenport’s body.
“Did you see anyone or strange cars in the neighborhood?” Lucy asked.
“No, but that’s to be expected in this weather. People stay inside.”
“Did you or Colin hear anything unusual last night or this morning?”
Shannon hesitated. “You can take this with a grain of salt, but I thought I saw someone move away from the Davenports’ driveway about seven. I dismissed it at the time, since I wasn’t wearing my contacts, but I didn’t hear anything.”
“Any possibility you could identify who you saw?” Lucy asked.
“No. As I said, I wasn’t even sure of what, if anything, I saw. It was snowing heavily and still dark outside.”
“How about you, Colin?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t see or hear anything until Sugar made her appearance. I called their daughter, Claire; she’s a vice president at my bank. I hope that’s okay. I thought they should know. Claire’s on her way here. The Davenports had three daughters; Claire, Eden, and Taylor. Claire said she’d notify Eden. Taylor won’t be home until tonight.”
“That’s fine; we’ll need to talk to them anyway,” Lucy said.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. “That’s probably Claire now,” Colin said and hurried to answer the summons.
Claire Davenport and her sister, Eden Russell, arrived with Jack McKinnon. Claire looked too young to be a banker, and beautiful enough to star in her own television series. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, tall and slim with blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She wore country-club casual, designer slacks, cashmere layered sweaters, and an expensive overcoat. WASP breeding was etched into her classic profile. She took a seat on the white leather sofa.
Eden Russell was her sister’s equal in every way, an outdoorsy type, with a thick blonde mane, the perfect model for a Town and Country magazine cover. Eden, obviously the younger, wore jeans, a fleece-lined jacket, and boots. She took a seat in a matching chair across from her sister.
Jack strolled over to Matt and shook his hand. They’d met last year during a murder investigation. Tall and muscular, lean-built rather than bulky, his unruly dark hair was wind-tossed and his square-jawed face wore the slight facial hair favored by young men his age. It gave him a rugged look, reinforced by jeans and a heavy Northface jacket.
Jack nodded at Eden. “She was at my place when Claire called. I came along to offer whatever support I could. The roads are too bad for someone not used to driving in icy weather.”
A low moan sounded from Claire Davenport. The banker dropped her head in her hands. “You’re sure they’re both…dead?”
Matt leaned forward and watched the woman’s face. “I’m very sorry. The ID is positive. There’s no question.”
“How?” Claire asked, a pained grimace on her face.
It bothered Matt that he wasn’t watching this daughter with compassion, but as a possible suspect. Over time, he had learned to thrust sympathy aside and observe next of kin with a cop’s instinct, watching for false grief and insincerity.
Family members were always suspects until proven otherwise. So far, Claire’s grief seemed genuine. “There are things we can’t share about the crime scene, but the cause of death appears to be gunshot wounds. The coroner’s verdict will be the final word. You can get a copy later in the week if you wish.”
“I can’t believe this happened to them. I spoke to Mom last night.” Claire shook her head repeatedly, tears pooling in her blue eyes.
“What time did you speak to your mother?” Matt asked.
She glanced up at him. “Around nine...nine-thirty. Do you have any idea who—no, of course not. It’s too early.”
“Do you know of anyone who might want your parents dead?” Matt asked.
“No, no one. This is impossible…” She lowered her head into her hands again.
Matt turned his attention to Eden. “Did you speak to either of them last evening?”
She shook her head, no obvious signs of sorrow, but people handled grief in different ways.
“Can we see them?” Claire asked.
“It’s a crime scene. Only police personnel are allowed inside. And I don’t think that’s how you want to remember your parents. When you feel up to it, we’ll need to ask you both some more questions. Someone will call in a day or so to set up and interview.”
“Of course,” Claire said, and then turned to Colin. “I need to get home and let Win know.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “And I’ll have to tell Taylor.” She sat back down. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Do you want me to tell her? Or call your pastor?” Colin asked, his voice gentle.
“I’ll call our pastor. He’ll know how to handle it.” She gazed up at Colin. “Thanks for the offer, and for calling me.”
She rose and gazed at Jack McKinnon, a steely glint in her eyes. The skin tightened around her jaw, and she waited a beat before she spoke. “I’ll take Eden home with me, McKinnon. She doesn’t need to be alone. And there are family matters—arrangements we have to discuss.”
McKinnon, heir to the Grayson fortune, could buy and sell Claire Davenport fifty times over, but he was nouveau riche, the son of a gardener. Therefore, apparently in Claire Davenport’s mind, socially inferior.
Jack ignored the slur. “Of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Shannon entered the room with a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She spoke to Claire. “Won’t you and Eden stay and have a bite with us?”
“I-I couldn’t,” she said. “But thanks, Shannon.”
Eden left her chair and crossed the room to Jack’s side. She placed a light kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for bringing me. I’ll call you.”
Colin gave Claire a hug. “Take as much time from work as you need to handle your affairs. There’s nothing at the bank that can’t wait. I’ll be in touch.”
When they had gone, Shannon joined Matt and ran her arm through his. “Glad you’re back. You look tanned and rested.”
“It was a wonderful two weeks. But it’s good to be home, despite the sad business across the street.”
Colin gave a somber nod. “It’s a shame. They were a fine couple.”
Matt took a seat by Jack at the island, and handed him a mug filled with hot coffee. “As a wise man
once told me, you can’t inherit or buy class.”
Jack gave Matt a faint grin. “I don’t let Claire Davenport get to me. She’s a snob of the first order, and Eden isn’t much better. Taylor’s a good kid, but her sisters think their blue blood makes them superior to us mere mortals.”
“Blue blood?” Matt asked.
“Yeah. Judge Bittermann is their aunt, and they also have a renowned heart surgeon in the family tree.”
“Then you’re not serious about Eden?” Matt asked.
“Far from it. She called yesterday and invited herself over. Her two boys were at their dad’s in Oklahoma City. When the weather turned bad, she invited herself to spend the night. It’s not like I don’t have room for house guests. I could put the Cowboys up for the weekend.”
Matt chuckled. “I guess you could at that. Who’s Win?”
“Winston James Charles Seymour.” Jack grinned. “He’s Claire’s significant other. Minor English royalty of some kind.”
When the crime scene cleared for the day, Matt’s officers and detectives trooped into the kitchen, followed by Sheriff Joe Wilson. Word must have spread about the food.
Shannon had been right. All the drive-through places and restaurants never opened, or closed early due to the weather conditions. His hungry crew dove into the impromptu spread like a pride of hungry lions.
She and Joe Wilson stepped up behind Matt. Shannon put an arm around Jack’s neck. “Since Sara took Matt off the market, you are now the state’s most eligible bachelor.”
Jack wrinkled his brow. “Don’t spread that around. I have enough problems without advertising.”
Joe Wilson scowled at her. “What does that make me, chopped liver?”
She slapped his shoulder. “No, Wilson, you’re number two because you’re spoken for.”
Joe grinned down at her. “You have a silver tongue, Shannon Connelly, but you have severely bruised my ego.”
“You’ll survive.” She winked at him then lured Jack into helping her bring in more food from the kitchen.
Joe took the stool Jack vacated. “I didn’t expect to see you here. When did you and Sara get home?”