by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 16
You know, I would have made a lousy real estate agent. As you will have figured out by now, I’m not exactly a people person. But I must have looked passably convincing as a realtor. I stepped inside the Weatherby mansion (thank you, easy-to-open sliding door) and no alarms and whistles blared. No sirens came roaring down Ashfield Drive, summoned by suspicious neighbors. Mentally, I gave myself a pat on the back at my transformation skills.
Okay, yeah, I wouldn’t pass for Bert Cartsell, but hopefully no one would read the pilfered sign that closely. Or if they did, they’d probably assume I was an office underling sent to do the boss’s bidding.
Now, as long as old Bert himself didn’t drive by...
I glanced around the study. It was an eerie feeling being in the room—the very room—where Jennifer Weatherby had been murdered. It’s not that I felt the presence of her ghost, or a tingling up my spine or a rise in the hairs on the back of my neck. It was just that not so long ago, this room had been full of life, until, in one violent instant, it had been turned into a scene of death. Not that there was any lingering physical evidence of the crime. The bio-cleanup crew had been in and erased all trace. But it still felt like a murder scene. Especially in the quiet of the closed-off room.
And even though it had been an imposter who’d been in my office that day, I still felt I owed the real Jennifer something. Still felt for the victim in this crime. And if I didn’t catch her murderer, no one would.
Now, that was a scary thought.
Of course, the police tape had long since come down. The forensics team had done their work. Every fabric and fiber would have been examined; every surface would have been dusted for prints and—if I knew Dickhead—dusted again. And when the police finished processing the room, the cleaners had moved in and restored everything to its former state. Still, the place felt just as totally off limits as though yellow barrier tape still screamed CRIME SCENE—DO NOT ENTER. The double doors on the opposite side of the room from which I entered were closed firmly and the drapes were drawn. Dust didn’t lay heavy on the furniture yet, but a few motes swirled in a thin steam of sunlight that came through a slight parting of the drapes. Other indicators around the room attested to the loss of life. Memories of Jennifer were everywhere—a scarf carefully folded on a chair in the corner, a pair of sunglasses on top of the well-stacked bookcase. No wonder Ned had chosen to keep this room closed off.
Of course, I had every confidence Detective Head would have already searched this room thoroughly. But I also had every confidence that we were looking for different things.
In fact, I was growing more confident of this by the minute.