Louisa turns to answer the bell, but she hesitates at the sunroom doors. “Perhaps you should wait here, Kevin,” she says to the Kydd.
He nods.
“Kevin?” I repeat, gaping at him.
“It is my name,” he says.
I leave him standing shoeless in the sunroom and follow Louisa’s blue satin sashay toward the persistent chimes of the doorbell. My stomach is already knotted, but the knots develop knots of their own when I see that she’s headed toward the kitchen door. It’s a Cape Codder who’s come to call, a local, and whoever it is has given up on the doorbell and has started knocking. Hard.
Louisa’s kitchen door has a dead bolt at eye level, but apparently it isn’t engaged. The persistent knocks of the visitor push the door partially open as we approach. Louisa gets to it ahead of me and pulls it open the rest of the way. Her polite smile suggests it’s Avon calling. “Can I help you?” she says.
“Mrs. Rawlings?”
I freeze. I know that voice. It’s Tommy Fitzpatrick, Chatham’s Chief of Police.
“Yes,” Louisa replies. “That’s me.”
“You’re under arrest,” he says, “for the murder of your husband, Herbert Andrew Rawlings.”
CHAPTER 14
Tommy Fitzpatrick looks only slightly surprised when I step into the doorway beside Louisa. He stands on the deck, warrant in hand, Detective Lieutenant Mitch Walker at his side. They’re the same height, and in the glare of the morning sunshine they look like uniformed negatives of each other: the Chief fair-skinned and strawberry blond; Mitch Walker swarthy and dark-haired. The Chief’s car sits in the driveway, engine running and lights swirling. Two cruisers idle behind it, a pair of troopers in each.
Mitch Walker recites Miranda warnings at Louisa and the Chief volunteers the warrant to me. I take it, though I know I needn’t bother. Tommy Fitzpatrick does it right—always. He wouldn’t have come here this morning unless one of his minions had jumped through all the proper procedural hoops beforehand. And my involvement in the case has nothing to do with it. Tommy would do it right even if the accused were pro se, representing herself.
Louisa’s smile has vanished. She turns away from Mitch Walker, ignores his monologue. Her dark, moist eyes dart from the Chief to me, panic beginning to set in. “There must be some misunderstanding,” she says, leaning into the doorknob with one hand, fingering her slender throat with the other. Her voice is raspy, barely more than a whisper.
No one answers. Instead, Tommy Fitzpatrick faces me. “Taylor Peterson hauled the body in at about four this morning,” he says, “with his first codfish catch of the day.”
Louisa gasps and I put my hands up, signaling her to be quiet. She covers her mouth with a fist.
“Peterson phoned the station,” the Chief continues. “We met him at the Fish Pier a few hours ago.”
I nod. Taylor Peterson is an old friend of mine. We went through grade school and high school together. He’s a fifth-generation Chathamite, a quiet man whose family has always made its living at sea. I wonder if any of his ancestors ever hauled in a comparable catch.
The Chief takes a deep breath. “We had plenty of company,” he says, “even at that hour. The Coast Guard boarded and a crew from the ME’s office was waiting; they did the post right away.”
My throat closes. A postmortem posthaste. Only the DA can make that happen. Geraldine Schilling must think she’s looking at a real one. And when Geraldine sees a real one, she sinks her teeth in like a pit bull. No doubt the ugly details are spelled out in the warrant I’m holding, but I don’t read it. Not yet.
The Chief still faces me, but he tilts his head toward Louisa. “I’m guessing your client would like to get dressed before we go.”
I nod again.
The Chief turns and signals to the first cruiser in the driveway and a petite female officer emerges from the passenger side. We stand mute until she joins us—even Mitch Walker has finally fallen silent—and then the Chief arches his pale eyebrows at me. He’s asking if I’d like to be the one to tell my client she’ll have company while she dresses. If not, he’ll do it for me.
“Louisa,” I tell her, “Officer…”
I know this cop’s name but it escapes me at the moment, so I check the narrow silver badge on the pocket of her long-sleeved navy blue shirt. Young. It’s hard to believe I forgot that one. She looks like she’s about twelve. “Officer Young will go with you and stay in the room while you change. It’s standard procedure.”
Louisa sizes up the freckle-faced policewoman and then turns her wide eyes back to me. Her expression says I must be joking. Little does she know. In the world of indignities that awaits her, this one is minuscule.
“Just do it,” I tell her. “Go get dressed. And keep your mouth shut.”
The Chief signals to the idling cruisers once more and, simultaneously, they cut their engines. Officer Young’s partner steps out from the driver’s side of the first car, two more male uniforms from the second. I check the last page of the warrant as they cross the deck and approach the kitchen door. I find what I knew I would find: they have judicial authority to search the premises.
I step back so they can enter. The Chief and Mitch Walker come inside first, the trio of uniforms in single file behind them. The last one in deposits an evidence crate just inside the door and each officer takes a pair of gloves, a fistful of bags, and a black marker from it. With a silent gesture, the Chief directs each of them to a different section of the house. I check their name tags to refresh my memory as they receive their assignments: Stahley to the second floor; Glover to the foyer and living room; Holt to the sunroom and kitchen.
The sunroom.
Officer Holt’s hand is on the doorknob before I can speak. Not that I have a damned thing worth saying anyhow. He opens the door, then stops cold. He sends a surprised glance over his shoulder to the Chief, the faintest hint of a smile coming to his lips, and then stares into the sunroom again.
“Working,” the Kydd mumbles from inside. “I’m, uh, working here.”
If the place weren’t crawling with cops, I’d strangle the Kydd now instead of later.
Tommy Fitzpatrick crosses the length of the kitchen and stands behind Officer Holt. Mitch Walker follows.
The Kydd clears his throat. “Gentlemen,” he says, as if he’d been expecting them.
All three of them nod at him. “Mr. Kydd,” they say, almost in unison.
The Kydd emerges from the sunroom, careful not to brush against Officer Holt as he slips past. “I was, uh, working in there,” he says again.
All three cops take him in from head to toe: his stubbled chin; his beltless pants; his bare feet.
Now it’s my turn to clear my throat. I tap the warrant I’m holding when the Kydd looks my way.
“Ah,” he says, as if the universe makes sense to him now. “I can, uh, finish up later.” He gestures toward the sunroom as if he’s trying to sell the place. “Please,” he says to Officer Holt, “go right ahead. I’ll just, um…”
He looks over at me and I glare back.
“I’ll just wait right here. That’s what I’ll do.”
That’s what he’ll do, all right. I head back toward the kitchen door and out to the deck, leaving the Kydd to deal with law enforcement on his own.
Tommy Fitzpatrick is right behind me. I figure since Officer Holt is searching the sunroom, Mitch Walker must be enjoying a little private time with the Kydd. Mitch probably hasn’t had this much fun in years. I remind myself again to strangle the Kydd as soon as time permits.
The Chief leans on the deck railing beside me, both of us looking out at the crashing waves. Winds are brisk today, seas rough. “Have you read it?” he asks.