In front of me, a sliding glass door led outside to a covered patio and a fenced backyard that sloped down to the lagoon. The police report indicated the door had been open a few inches the day the Terrells died.
I walked into the kitchen, noting the location of sink, stove, refrigerator, and pantry. I saw a laundry room, where a washer and dryer crouched in semidarkness.
The breakfast nook was at the back of the kitchen, an alcove containing a round table and four chairs. Between the breakfast nook and the patio door was a bare space where the crime-scene photos showed a tall ficus in a terra cotta pot. The floor tile was slightly discolored where the plant had stood.
I set my purse on the counter between the kitchen and family room and dug out a tape measure and a rough sketch I’d drawn. The police report indicated the bodies of Claude and Martha Terrell were found lying diagonally in the middle of the kitchen, with their feet toward the plant. Claude lay on his left side, right arm resting on his hip. Martha lay on her back, to Claude’s right. The autopsy report said there had been a large bruise on the back of Martha’s head. Had she gotten it when she fell? But her head wasn’t near a counter.
I measured distances, noting the information on my sketch. Then I lay down in the space where the Terrells had died, arranging my body in an approximation of the position of Claude’s body. I gazed at my own right hand, imagining my fingers wrapped around the grip of a gun. Then I looked down the length of my legs, placing the gun on the floor beyond my feet, thinking that if either Claude or Martha had fired the weapon, it seemed to me the gun would have fallen near their bodies. So how did the gun wind up under the table in the breakfast nook, which was near the entrance to the laundry room?
I stared at the sliding glass door that had been open when the housecleaner found the bodies. Maybe that initial theory of an intruder wasn’t so far off the mark. Murder-suicide didn’t feel right, particularly without a note. Of course, suicides don’t always leave notes that lay out their reasons in neat and tidy prose.
My hunch was murder. If I was right, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make the Terrells’ deaths look like murder-suicide. So why wasn’t there a note, to scotch all my reasonable doubt? What if the killer hadn’t finished setting up the scene? What if the housecleaner’s arrival had interrupted the killer? How had Martha gotten that bruise on the back of her head?
I got to my feet, set the tape measure on the sketch, then walked to the laundry room, where another door led outside. It had revealed no sign of forced entry or fingerprints the day the Terrells had died. I glanced out the small glass window and saw a concrete-covered side yard, hidden from the street by a gate at the front of the house. Arrayed against the fence were garbage cans and recycling bins.
Just then I heard voices. Someone had entered the house. A man and two women walked into the kitchen. “Who are you?” the man demanded. “What are you doing here?”
I looked him over. His petulant expression was his own. His curly dark hair and brown eyes were mirrored in the young woman on his right. In fact, they looked so similar they might have been twins. Claude’s adult children, Eric and Erin Terrell, I guessed, and the second woman was Eric’s wife, Lisa.
“Jeri Howard,” I said, offering my hand. “I work for the insurance company.”
Eric Terrell ignored my hand and didn’t bother introducing his two companions. “So when is the insurance company going to quit stalling and pay the insurance money?”
I shrugged. “You’ll have to discuss that with Mr. Wilcoxin.”
“We have discussed it with him, and the lawyers.” Erin looked exasperated as she tossed her brunette curls. “Discussed it ad nauseum.”
“Then you know there’s a question about who died first.”
Eric snorted in derision. “That’s just a stall. The insurance company wants to hang on to the money.”
“There’s no question in my mind who died first,” Erin declared. “That bitch killed my father, then killed herself.”
“Really? Why would she do that?”
“It’s no secret that my father was planning to divorce her,” Erin said.
That was news to me. News to Wilcoxin, too. He’d described the Terrells as a “happy, loving couple.” I hadn’t seen any mention of a pending breakup in the police report, either. That’s the kind of question a cop would — or should — ask.
“Daddy wanted out of the marriage,” Erin continued. “Martha didn’t want to lose all of Daddy’s money — they had a prenup, of course — so she killed him. Then she turned the gun on herself. She would have saved us all a lot of trouble if she’d left a note.”
“I thought Mrs. Terrell had her own money,” I said.
Eric’s contemptuous expression let me know exactly what he thought of that. His sister shook her head. “Martha had some money. Certainly not much compared to my father’s net worth.”
“It seems I was misled about Mrs. Terrell’s net worth,” I said. “Why did your father want out of the marriage?”
Erin shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“He confided in you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then how did you know they were having problems? And that your father wanted a divorce?”
Erin made a little face. “Well, my brother...”
“My father confided in me,” Eric said sharply. “Look, Ms... whatever your name is... I don’t know what business this is of yours.”
“My name is Jeri Howard, Mr. Terrell. I work for the insurance company. Anything regarding the company’s investigation into your parents’ deaths is my business.”
“She wasn’t my parent.” Erin’s voice turned snippy. “My mother is very much alive, thank you.”
Lisa had been watching me. She looked as though she’d like to change the subject, so she did. “You haven’t said what you’re doing here, Ms. Howard. I thought the insurance investigation was done.”
Two could play that game. “Mr. Wilcoxin asked me to take a look at the scene. Why are the three of you here? I understood the heirs had already removed personal items, and all valuables are in storage.”
Eric scowled at me but said nothing as Lisa reached for his arm. Erin said, “I’m looking for something that belonged to my father. Just a little trinket. Not important to anyone else but me. Or my brother. It wasn’t in my father’s things that we took earlier, so we thought we’d come over and see if we could find it.”
I’d already looked through the rest of the house. I knew how empty it was. But I’d play along — for the time being.
“Have a look around. I’ll finish up in here.” Exasperated looks passed between Erin and Eric. Lisa, however, was staring at the counter, at the tape measure and the sketch I’d drawn.
They went upstairs. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the patio. A redwood fence, about six feet high, separated the Terrells’ property from the house behind it. To my left, a tall privet hedge hid the house next-door. On my right, the backyard sloped gently down to the lagoon, where several ducks paddled on the water. Across the lagoon, houses of more recent vintage were grouped around a cul-de-sac. Several homes had docks, some with boats.
I walked toward the lagoon, where a little rocky beach provided a landing, surrounded by overgrown bushes. Now I could see the house across the street from the Terrells’ place, a big two-story Victorian. Any one of the upstairs front windows would have provided an excellent view of the Terrells’ house and yard, but the police report said none of the neighbors had been home when the Terrells died.