in Windle, Boyes, Kepiro and Ryder, the accounting firm. She handled my business. Also, she and her husband Ken bought this house.” He nodded toward it. “In fact, it was the first sale in the development. Dorothy liked this lot because it’s on the corner and has three big trees that we left when we cleared the land.” He indicated the trees that had enabled the woman officer to put her tape up at least partway around the house. “Dorothy would stop by almost every day to see how much more work had been done.”
Sergeant Poole was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at me. I gave him a nervous smile. “Can you describe this gunman?” he asked.
My smile became real. “I can do better than that, Sergeant. I can draw him.” At the surprised looks from both him and Gray, I reached for Poole’s notebook. “I teach art.” Look, Dad, it does come in handy!
I quickly sketched the man in the red shirt while Gray held his penlight for me so I could see what I was doing. I drew the man as I first saw him behind the house, burly body moving stealthily. Then I did two head sketches, one profile, one full on. The man’s dark blond hair hung over his forehead as it had done when he pulled the stocking off. I closed my eyes for a minute, letting him come to life in my mind’s eye. I studied my drawing and quickly added a couple of strokes to the bushy mustache that sat on his upper lip like a light brown wooly caterpillar. His rather beaky nose jutted out in the profile, and strong dark eyebrows arched over his eyes. I studied the sketch, strengthened his cheekbones, then studied the sketch again.
“That’s him.” I looked at Gray, then Sergeant Poole. “I don’t know what color his eyes were. Too far away, though I got the impression of dark. As to the hair, the stocking mask may be responsible for it falling across his forehead. He had to have been sweating in it.” She handed the tablet back. “But that’s him.”
“Wonderful.” Though Poole appeared pleased to have the drawings, I guessed from his lack of reaction that he didn’t recognize the man. “This will be a great help. Now I want you both to come in tomorrow morning to give a detailed statement and make another sketch.”
I blinked. “It’ll look just the same.”
“And that will be just fine.” He turned and started back to the house.
“Does that mean we can go?” Gray called after him.
“No, you can’t go yet,” Poole’s voice floated back to us. “But it shouldn’t be much longer.”
Sighing, I turned to Gray. He was eyeing the yellow crime scene tape with distaste.
“Bad PR. And it’ll still be here on the weekend, I bet. Who wants to buy into a development where there’s been a murder?”
“Maybe it’ll bring more people because they’re curious,” I said, wanting to help. He looked so discouraged.
“Yeah, curious to look but unwilling to buy.”
“Well, this house may be hard to sell, but if the others are anything like the model, they’ll go fast, Gray. Americans like big, remember?”
On that happy note, we fell silent. I wondered how much longer we’d have to stay here, and if I was allowed to call Lucy and Meaghan. I looked at my watch. Ten-thirty. It would probably be another half hour before they began to worry seriously about me. Besides, I realized, my cell was at the model house with my purse.
Finally the sergeant returned, Officer Schumann trailing him. “Thank you for mentioning that you stepped in the blood, Miss—” He checked his notes. “—Volente. It saves us spending a lot of time trying to trace the footprints.”
I beamed, happy I’d helped, certain he’d now perceive my innocence.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take your shoe, though, just as I’ll have to take your shirt, Mr., uh, Grayson.”
“Edwards,” Gray said.
The sergeant looked at him blankly.
“It’s Grayson Edwards,” Gray said patiently. “Edwards is my last name.”
“Gotcha. I still need your shirt.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Surely you don’t think Gray—”
“Do you often suffer from nosebleeds, Mr. Edwards?” Poole was eyeing the bloody shirt again.
Gray shook his head. “Never.”
“Tell me again how this one occurred.”
“When Anna saw the man had a gun, she jumped back and her head—” With one hand he made as if to squish his nose.
The sergeant flinched. “Painful.”
Gray nodded. “Very.”
I felt bad all over again. Guilt, a woman’s most faithful companion.
Sergeant Poole held out a large plastic bag. Gray pulled his shirt off and dropped it in.
The officer turned to me. I pulled off my sandal and put it in another bag, trying not to think of the painful hike over all the little stones and rocks on the way back to the model house.
The sergeant handed the bags to Officer Schumann. “Seal these, Natalie, and tag them.” He turned to me. “Were you working alone?” He jerked a thumb toward the model home.
“Until Gray showed up.”
“When?”
“About eight o’clock or so.”
“And why were you still there at that hour?”
“I stayed at the shore an extra week with Lucy and Meaghan.”
Both men looked at me strangely.
What? Was I suddenly speaking Farsi or something? “I got behind on my sewing when I stayed that extra week, so I had to work late.”
Both men’s faces cleared, and Poole asked, “Who are Lucy and Meaghan?”
“Lucy Stoner and Meaghan Malloy. I share a house with them, and we all teach at Amhearst North. I teach art.”
“I can vouch for Miss Volente, Sergeant,” Officer Schumann said. “I believe she has taught my younger brother, Skip.”
Schumann. As in Skip Schumann? “Sure, I know Skip.” Can you say thorn in the side? “I don’t think art is his favorite subject.” I hoped I didn’t sound too sarcastic.
Officer Schumann just smiled.
“And where were you,” the sergeant asked, turning to Gray, “when she hit you in the nose?”
“I was climbing the ladder behind her.”
“The same ladder?”
Gray nodded. “It seemed a good idea at the time. Then he pulled his gun, she jumped back, and I—” He shrugged.
Sergeant Poole made more notations in his notebook. I noticed a bright blue Honda CRV pull to the curb. A woman with spiky brown hair and a determined attitude climbed out.
“The press has arrived,” Schumann muttered to Poole.
He glanced at the reporter who was bearing down on us as she pulled a small digital camera and a tape recorder from a large bag hanging over her shoulder.
“Merry Kramer.” The sergeant looked resigned but not distressed as the woman stopped in front of us. “Give me a minute, Merry, and I’ll be with you.”
“Sure, Sergeant.” The reporter gestured to the house. “Can I go in?”
“Can I stop you?” he countered.
“Well, sure you can, but I’m hoping you won’t.”
“Just stay out of everyone’s way, and don’t—”
“And don’t touch anything,” she finished for him. “I know.”