He told her what they had so far, along with his speculations on the killer's motives.
Thoughtful, Miranda said, "We've never publicly focused suspicion on anyone, so the killer might not have any idea that Justin Marsh has pretty solid alibis for the other murders. But I agree with you. I think he's less interested in offering us a suspect for all the murders and much more intent on making us believe he had nothing to do with this one."
"So we pick up Marsh. Pretend we've taken the bait."
Miranda rubbed the nape of her neck, frowning. "The only question is, either we do it now, before the storm hits, and suffer Justin's undoubtedly pissed-off company for God knows how many hours — or we take our time getting back to the office and let the storm logically and obviously delay things a bit."
"If you're calling for votes, I vote for the second option."
She smiled faintly. "Yeah, me too. Are they about done in there?"
"I think so. Sharon and Peter are going to take the body to the hospital and get started on the autopsy. We'll have her car to go over, and there are a few fibers and prints to sort through, but we can do that at the office. Tony took the cat to one of your local vets for now, by the way."
"Good."
"Miranda—"
The door behind them swung open, and Sharon Edwards joined them on the porch. "We're ready to move the body," she told them briskly. "Preliminary exam shows she died of blood loss due to a stab wound to the abdomen. From what I saw, most of the blood lost ended up in the backseat of her car, so we know how he transported the body here."
"He didn't take any of the blood with him?"
"I don't think so. If he did, it wasn't much. No signs of torture, no mutilation — other than that caused by the cat, of course."
"Of course," Miranda echoed flatly. "Did you pick up anything from the scene?"
"Nothing useful. The Bible must be one Justin Marsh has carried for years, because it practically screams his name. We didn't find the murder weapon, so there was no help there. And if the killer left anything else behind, it wasn't anything I could see or sense."
"Was the time of death last night?"
Bishop was conscious of an almost overwhelming urge to keep that question from being answered. But he couldn't, of course.
Sharon nodded. "I'd say sometime between nine and midnight."
"Between nine and midnight. I see."
. . . if Liz is dead . . . if she died last night before you came to me. . . then it's all happening just It was starting to snow again.
Miranda drew a breath. "It looks like we'd better get moving. Sharon, we may end up snowed in for a couple of days, but you or Peter will call with the autopsy results?"
"As soon as we've finished."
"Thank you. Bishop, will you make sure the house is left locked, please?"
"Of course."
"I'll see you back at the office."
"Right." As he watched her return to her Jeep, all he thought of was Alex and those undiscovered, undeclared feelings; was it sheer, obstinate human nature to so often remain blind to the truth until it was too late?
Was it too late?
"Funny," Sharon said thoughtfully. "I mean, that she still calls you Bishop."
Gazing after the departing Jeep, he said slowly, "She's never called me anything else.".
SEVENTEEN
The back side of the storm hit Gladstone just before two in the afternoon, and as promised it was proving to be even more vicious than what had gone before. The wind howled like something tortured, and snow mixed with sleet angrily pelted the windows, so much of it falling and blowing around that there was little to see outside except white. White everywhere.
Miranda stood at her office window, looking out at all the white and trying not to worry about all the things she couldn't control, when someone knocked on her door at a little after four o'clock. "Come in," she said, almost adding his name.
Bishop came in and closed the door. "Brought you some coffee," he said, moving around the desk to hand her a cup.
She accepted it. "Thanks. You know, I'd heard about white hurricanes but never saw one until now."
Instead of going back around to a visitor's chair, Bishop remained where he was, sitting on the edge of her desk. "The weather reports say it'll be another hour before the worst of it is past. That means the cleanup starts tomorrow."
"Most of the cleanup. As soon as the snow slacks off, I'll have patrols out, and there'll be power crews and snow plows starting on the mess. With most of the town without power, that'll be our priority."
"How long will the generators last?"
"We have enough fuel for several days, so there shouldn't be a problem here. Same goes for the hospital and the clinic. School's been canceled for tomorrow, like all shifts at the paper mill, and I doubt many of the other businesses will even make an attempt to open."
Bishop watched her profile, very aware of their connection and even more conscious of the closed door shutting him off from what she was thinking. Or feeling, for that matter; whether deliberately or not, Miranda's mind and spirit were both so still and quiet that they offered him no clue to her emotions. "I talked to Alex a few minutes ago. You know he never opened the bottle of scotch?"
"I know. He's not the sort to drown his sorrows. He just keeps going blindly forward until he hits the wall."
"He's down in the basement digging through old files. Said he'd rather keep busy." Bishop paused. "But he's worse than walking wounded. I'd say that wall is close."
"Yes. I know. He was the same way when his wife died. Cancer. She was sick for months, but even with the time to prepare for the inevitable, he wasn't ready to let her go."
For just an instant, Bishop almost changed his mind, almost convinced himself that patience would be best. But remembering Alex's white face and numb expression drove him on. "I seem fated to always be advising other men to let go of the women they love."
"Is that what you told Alex? To let go?"
"No. But there've been other times. It was . . . easy advice to give. Rational, logical."
"But not welcome."
"No. Never welcome. Sometimes I think I said what I did to them only to remind myself. How impossible it is to let go. No matter how rational or logical it is. No matter how much time passes
and how empty you feel, or how much you ache alone at night. No matter how many times you tell yourself what a fool you are."
"So we're going to talk about this," she said.
"I think we'd better, don't you?"
Miranda turned from the window at last and looked at him with a faint smile. "You have a captive audience this time."
"Yes."
"I can't grab my sister and run away. This time."
Bishop barely felt the edge of the desk biting into his hands. "No," he agreed. "Do you want to?"
"Run away?" She lifted her cup in a little salute. "It didn't help before, did it? Nothing was resolved, it all just. . . stopped."
"That isn't an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
"Miranda, you knew I loved you."
"Yes. And you knew that wasn't the problem."
"Trust."
She nodded. "You wanted what we had together, the euphoria of it, the incredible exhilaration, but afterward the closeness disturbed you. The intimacy. Being so ... connected to another person. You didn't want to be known that well. You didn't want anyone to see or touch you that deeply. Not even me. So you closed the door."
"It wasn't always closed," he said roughly.
"Be honest, Bishop. It would have been closed even when we were in bed together if you could have figured out how to make that work. But you couldn't. Letting your guard down then was the price you paid for the thrill. And what do you think that was worth to me? How was I supposed to value a trust that was granted only reluctantly and when the barriers were torn down by passion? A trust you took back the instant you could."