The Double Exposure Murder

Chapter Four

Chapter FourI

sat on the short stone wall alongside the patio, the police having declared the table and chairs off-limits until the furniture had been dusted for fingerprints. I stroked Yogi’s soft fur and watched members of Garland’s police force and ambulance corps troop around the yard and in and out of the house. Though my sweet dog soothed my nerves, the shock of my horrible discovery had not yet worn off. My hands trembled, my legs felt like they were made of jelly, and an ache had settled in my stomach. The probing questions, first from Detective Eileen Murphy and then a sheriff’s deputy, had exacerbated my agitation. The pair were inside now, probably comparing their notes of my account.

I observed the activity around me and marveled at how serene the backyard had been minutes earlier. “Not the morning I thought we’d have,” I murmured to Yogi. I scratched behind his ears and kissed his head.

He reciprocated with an affectionate lick across my cheek.

Eileen emerged from the house. “You can leave now, Robyn.”

“I’m not a suspect?” My question was blunt but not bold.

Eileen had been my classmate through twelve years of Catholic school; together, we survived strict nuns, plaid uniforms, and the tuna cheese casserole served on Lenten Fridays in Sacred Heart High School’s cafeteria. We received excellent college preparation. What to do in case of a murder, not so much. For me, anyway.

“Of course not. However, don’t let this guy leave town.” Eileen leaned over and rubbed Yogi’s head. “Are you okay to drive?” The mirth that had flashed in her gray eyes transformed into a compassionate look.

“Yeah.”

Something caught Eileen’s attention; I followed her gaze and saw a man dressed in black trousers and a short-sleeved cotton shirt come into the yard. “There’s the medical examiner. Remember to come down to the station this afternoon to sign your statement.” She pulled her sunglasses from where they rested atop her pixie-cut auburn hair and slid them on her nose.

“I will.”

Eileen and the man exchanged nods, and she walked with him to the shed. I stood, made sure my legs were steady, and gave Yogi’s leash a gentle tug. “Let’s go, buddy.”

Several police vehicles and an ambulance filled the street in front of the house. Glad my car wasn’t blocked in, I hurried to make my getaway.

A woman’s voice called from the house across the street. “Is everything okay?”

I shaded my eyes from the sun’s glare with my hand and spotted two women on the porch. While they hurried down the steps, Yogi and I crossed the street. I met the women halfway down the path between the driveway and the house.

“Is Brooke all right?” the older of the two, who appeared to be in her seventies, asked.

I wished I had on my sunglasses to cover the sudden pool of tears in my eyes. “No.” I paused to steady my voice. “Brooke died this morning.”

The women displayed the universal signs of shock: gasps, a hand pressed against a cheek, exclamations of sorrow.

“That can’t be true!” the younger woman, a petite brunette who looked to be in her forties, cried. “You’re sure she’s dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry to say I’m certain.”

The woman was apologetic. “A stupid question.”

“Not at all. I don’t want to believe it, either.”

“What happened?” The sun glinted off the older woman’s blonde hair and highlighted its silver streaks.

“The police don’t yet know.”

“Was it a natural death or . . . ?”

The brunette filled in my loss for words. “Brooke was murdered?”

My nod inspired a collective invocation to heaven. “Did either of you notice if Brooke had any visitors this morning?”

Both shook their heads.

“I was in my garden from seven-thirty to around ten.” The older woman gestured toward her backyard.

The brunette’s eyes glistened with tears. “My family lives next door to Olive’s house. Well, Brooke and Jessica’s house. My son left for his job at Gessner’s before seven, and I went out around eight-thirty to run errands. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I got back around ten-fifteen. My husband took the dogs to the dog park and ran his own errands. Richie should be home soon.”

“Any unusual noises? Loud voices? Did you hear anything?”

Again, the pair responded in the negative.

“How did you know Brooke?” the brunette asked.

In turns, we introduced ourselves, and I told them of my photography assignment.

Trudy, the older woman, clicked her tongue. “This is tragic. Another loss in the family so soon after Olive’s passing.”

“Heartbreaking.” Dee Wheeler, the brunette, wiped a tear from her cheek. “Brooke was getting married next month.” She looked over to her driveway, where a man was climbing out of a blue SUV. “Richie!”

Richie opened the rear door of the SUV, and Chief and Major jumped onto the driveway. He grabbed the leashes attached to the dogs’ collars and, with several puzzled looks at the police cruisers parked in the street, joined us across the street.

I tightened my hold on Yogi’s lead and pulled him against my leg so he wouldn’t do what collies were famous for: nip at human and animal ankles and heels. When Richie and the shepherds reached us, the three dogs sniffed each other, but there were no growls or snarls, no teeth bared, no taste-testing of the paws or other body parts.

“What’s going on, Dee?”

“Brooke was killed in Olive’s backyard.”

Richie let out an expletive. Though a typical curse word, Richie’s soft utterance did hold a sympathetic tone. He dragged his fingers through his thinning, fair hair and then scratched at the stubble on his unshaven face. A blue T-shirt that bore the logo of a local craft beer pub covered his wiry frame.

Dee quizzed him. “What time did you go out? Did you see anyone over at the house? Anyone strange in the neighborhood?”

“No. I didn’t see anyone. I left soon after you did. What happened to her?” Richie moved his gaze from his wife to me. “Who are you?”

“This is Brooke’s friend, Robyn Cavanagh. She found Brooke.”

“Did you see Brooke before you left?” I asked Richie.

“No.”

“Was her car in the driveway?”

“I don’t know. You can’t see the carport from our driveway.” Richie gestured across the street to Olive’s carport, which was on the opposite side of 16 Clover from the Wheelers’ house.

Clover Lane curved and became Magnolia Street a few yards from the foot of Olive’s graveled driveway; a wide band of trees separated her house from the nearest neighbor on Magnolia.

A police officer emerged from Olive’s house and crossed Clover Lane. “I suppose this officer wants to ask you some questions.” I thanked the group and, to avoid the policeman, walked down the lawn rather than the driveway.

Yogi was in my car’s back seat and I was about to climb into the driver’s seat when one of Eileen’s plainclothes colleagues walked through Brooke’s side yard, a camera in his hand.

I looked at the bag holding my camera and photography equipment and felt an ache in my stomach. With my Olympus, I had photographed a charming home and the engagement photos of a beautiful young woman. The detective had just filled a memory card with shots of the same person and setting, but of a darker scene and mood. I much preferred the hopefulness and serenity in my photos to the violence and despair in his frames.