When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(47)

I remain leaning against the wall of my tiny room, breathing hard. One finger for yes. Two for no. Three for maybe. And four fingers? Five?

There must be a way to communicate. There has to be a way to confess all to the blond detective who offered help. I must find it.

Because the end is coming. And name or no name, voice or no voice, I’m going to make the Bad Man pay.

Or die trying.





CHAPTER 21





D.D.





D.D. RETIRED TO HER HOTEL room to spend the rest of the evening researching brain injuries and speech impairment. She felt she’d barely fallen asleep when her phone rang.

“Wake up,” Kimberly announced.

“Huh?”

“Sheriff just called me. We got another body.”

“What?”

“The mayor’s wife. You interviewed her yesterday morning, right?”

“What time is it?”

“Just after four.”

“In the morning?”

“Meet you in the lobby in fifteen. There’s no way Martha Counsel’s death isn’t related to our investigation. Grab coffee. Get hopping. We have a long day ahead.”



* * *



—

THE SHERIFF WAS ALREADY WAITING out front when Kimberly and D.D. pulled up to the Mountain Laurel B&B. His uniform was wrinkled and D.D. would bet he’d once again spent the night in his office. He nodded somberly in greeting, then led them up the front steps.

“According to the mayor, he woke up shortly around three to an empty bed. He went looking for his wife. He called nine-one-one the moment he found her. Dispatch contacted me directly. I arrived first, secured the scene. No one has touched anything.”

The lobby was ablaze with lights as they entered. They were at least a good hour from sunrise, D.D. thought, and the inn still held the hush of middle of the night. She looked around automatically for the mayor’s “niece,” but didn’t see any sign of the girl anywhere.

Mayor Howard was sitting in the green and yellow sunroom, staring at the table blankly. He wore a white, monogrammed bathrobe and appeared to have aged a hundred years. Red-rimmed eyes, haggard expression. If he was acting, D.D. thought, then he was one of the best she’d ever seen.

As she watched, he went to take a sip of coffee. The delicate porcelain cup shook so badly, he spilled half the contents before setting it down again.

“Down the hall, third room on the right,” the sheriff instructed Kimberly and D.D. “I’ll stay with him.”

D.D. and Kimberly swapped glances, then followed his instructions. D.D. still didn’t understand what they were going to discover, but it clearly wasn’t good.

Third door on the right turned out to be the end of the hall. In the mental map D.D. was creating in her head, this room occupied the back, right corner of the historic home. Perhaps the former master bedroom, she thought, as they walked into the sweeping space.

A massive canopy bed occupied the middle of the room. And there, dangling from the top of the wooden frame, hung Martha Counsel, clad in a long white nightgown and open red silk bathrobe, her body swaying slightly from some unfelt breeze.

Neither Kimberly nor D.D. spoke a word. They entered the room. Walked around the bed.

The method of hanging appeared to be a red silk sash, probably the tie from the woman’s bathrobe. Judging by appearance, Martha had fashioned the noose around her neck, attached the other end to the wooden canopy frame, then climbed onto the king-sized bed and . . . What? Stepped off?

Had she clutched at the silk as it pulled taut? Struggled to regain a toehold on the bed to ease the strain?

D.D. moved close enough to study the woman’s hands without touching. She didn’t see a mark on them. Same with the elaborately made-up bed. The green embroidered comforter appeared perfectly smooth.

As if Martha hadn’t suffered any doubts or second thoughts. She’d simply gotten up in the middle of the night, left her husband’s side, and come here to do what she felt must be done. But why?

“There’s a note,” Kimberly murmured. She nodded toward the bedside table. D.D. crossed to where she stood.

“‘Forgive me the harm I did,’” D.D. read out loud. “‘I was selfish to live at another’s expense. God have mercy on my soul.’”

D.D. glanced at Kimberly. “Who types a suicide note?”

“Someone with bad penmanship?” Kimberly shrugged. “Or too emotional to write?”

“I don’t like it.”

“I’m not exactly thrilled either. Which is why we’ll be having the medical examiner conduct a full inquest.”

D.D. looked around the room. “No sign of a struggle,” she murmured. “And not a mark on the body. I mean, silk noose aside.”

“And the inn’s guests are still asleep in their rooms. Which would seem to indicate no loud arguments or violent disturbances.”

“Look at her neck,” D.D. said, indicating toward the body. “You can see some bruising along the edges of the bathrobe tie, consistent with hanging.”

Kimberly nodded; she looked as conflicted as D.D.

A suicide felt too neat and tidy. And yet, a cursory exam of both the room and the body didn’t reveal anything obvious to counter the notion. Sometimes the simplest explanation was the right explanation. Detectives just didn’t like it.