The Double Exposure Murder

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeI

awoke Saturday to a day already filled with sunshine and topped by a calm sky dotted with white clouds. My dog, Yogi, a two-year-old mix of border collie and Shetland sheepdog, whom I adopted from the local animal shelter, shook himself awake the second my feet touched my bedroom’s hardwood floor. After I showered and ate breakfast, I hooked Yogi’s leash on his collar, and we charged outside for round one of our daily exercises. My house on Lyons Lane was a half-mile from Hudson Road; the short distance made my hometown’s main thoroughfare a common destination for my dog and me.

My house’s proximity to Garland’s business district was a convenience for my accounting career too. Many of the shop owners on Hudson Road were clients; I could use a pedometer to measure my business travel. Well, almost all my mileage. I had several clients in neighboring towns and kept track of the distance I traveled when I visited them, but the mileage and amount I could deduct for the expense was negligible.

Self-employment meant every day was a delightful combination of Work from Home/Take Your Dog to Work/Casual Dress Day. Apart from the professional attire I wore to client meetings, my dress code was casual: shorts or jeans, sneakers or slippers, sweatshirts, or T-shirts. Since I’d made the dramatic shift in my career six years earlier, I enjoyed a better quality of life.

After I graduated from college, I worked for a public accounting firm in Manhattan for three years, followed by fifteen years in a publishing house’s business department. On good days, the sixty-mile bus ride from Orange County to Manhattan took ninety minutes. I left home at six every morning and usually didn’t get home in the evening until after seven. Life was a tiring grind. I could have moved closer to the city, to one of its five boroughs, or a suburb, but I didn’t want to move away from my family and Garland. After months of consideration and planning, I finally made the decision to be my own boss, make my own hours, eat lunch every day at my kitchen table, and take a nap in the middle of the day if I darned well pleased. Six years in and I didn’t have one regret.

When Yogi and I reached Hudson Road, we stopped on the corner for a water break. I took a couple of sips from my water bottle and Yogi a few laps from the collapsible bowl I carried for his refreshment.

I gazed down Garland’s “main drag.” The town had undergone a revitalization a short time before I’d made my career change. The reinvention began when NYC residents, attracted by Garland’s perch on the Hudson River, hiking trails, and semi-rural nature, bought small, affordable houses in the area for weekend and holiday visits, though some purchased larger homes, moved to Garland, and made the daily commute that had been the bane of my existence. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, new shops opened to serve our new fellow Garlandites: coffee shops, restaurants, antique sellers, a community art gallery, an independent bookstore, a small inn, and three bed-and-breakfast establishments.

Some long-time residents didn’t appreciate the town’s growth and new appeal, but I liked it. Yes, several of the new business owners were my clients, so I benefited financially from Garland’s success. I also enjoyed the bustle and energy of the new kids in town. They offered a taste of what I’d left behind when I vacated my Manhattan career; it was a small yet satisfying bite.

Not only did I have accounting clients along Hudson Road, but the street’s buildings and landscaping inspired me and had helped develop my photographic eye. On my computer, I had dozens of photos of Hudson Road and other Garland locales, divided into folders according to season. My hometown proved the perfect photo subject.

Yogi and I walked down Hudson and were passing the Chase bank when the door swung open and a man rushed out. He and I collided, and the impact’s force almost knocked me into and over Yogi.

The man grabbed my elbow and steadied me. “I’m sorry.” The goateed guy ran his fingers through his dark hair and slicked back the locks that swept over his forehead. He shoved the wallet in his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and hustled down the sidewalk and around the corner.

I reached down and patted Yogi’s flank. “Someone’s off to the races this morning.”

Yogi and I arrived at 16 Clover Lane a couple of minutes before 10:30. Brooke’s Ford Focus was parked in the carport.

Brooke didn’t respond to the first ring of the doorbell. I pressed the button again and waited a few seconds. The front door was open several inches, so I called to Brooke through the screen door. When she still didn’t answer, I assumed she was either in the bathroom or the backyard. I opened the screen door and entered the house, Yogi at my heels. The door to the powder room was open, and Brooke wasn’t in any of the first-floor rooms.

“Brooke! It’s Robyn.” I yelled up the staircase opposite the front door. I listened for a few seconds then headed into the kitchen. “Let’s go out back.”

The mystery deepened when I didn’t find Brooke on the patio. More possibilities ran through my mind. Brooke could be on a stroll around the block or in a neighbor’s house for a quick visit.

I called Brooke’s cell; when it went to voice mail, I ended the call without leaving a message. I’d text her, but before I started the message, a breeze blew open the shed door. The creaky door closed with a soft thud; then, another puff of wind urged it open again.

I spotted a can of paint on the ground outside the shed. “I should’ve known Brooke would fix the shed.”

Curious about the paint color Brooke had selected, I crossed the yard and bent over the paint can. I thought Brooke might have selected sunny yellow to match the house, but she had purchased a dark green shade. New paint brushes and a drip pan lay on the grass next to the can. Did she plan to enlist me to help with the shed’s facelift?

The shed’s door creaked open and closed a third time. I moved to secure the door shut, but first I peeked inside and experienced an adrenaline rush like I’d never had. Fighting a growing sense of panic, I wrapped a length of the leash around my hand and pulled Yogi away from the supine form on the shed’s floor.

I took a second look at the still figure, clad in cut-off jeans and a white tank top. “Brooke!”

Brooke’s mouth was open, and her eyes stared at the roof. Her nose was bloodied, and scratch marks stretched from her shoulders to her wrists. Her collarbone jutted out at a sickening angle.

I pushed back the door and told Yogi to lie down, making him a makeshift door stop. He obeyed and watched me check Brooke for a pulse and breath.

It was a futile attempt, I knew, but a necessary one.

I stepped into the doorway and called 9-1-1, my glance fixed on the steel-blade shovel on the ground next to Brooke’s body. A sour taste of my breakfast rose in my throat. I swallowed hard and said a silent prayer I wouldn’t puke and contaminate the crime scene.

“Come on, Yogi.”

We walked to the front of the house and waited at the end of the driveway for the police and paramedics.