Eight Perfect Murders(35)

“We are,” she said. “I might want to talk with the coroner, as well. It depends on what we find here in the house.”

I’d been watching the two have this conversation, but I had begun to look around the kitchen, as well. There were two shelving units above the back wall of the kitchen, probably meant for cooking supplies, or food items, but Elaine had filled them with hardcover novels. I studied the spines, a lot of Elizabeth George novels, and Anne Perry’s, two of her favorites, but there were also a few books that I’d categorize as being in the romantic suspense category, veering toward romance, something Elaine Johnson had claimed to despise.

“That would be fine,” Detective Cifelli said, then added, “So, I’m happy to stay here with both of you, help you look around. I’m equally happy to leave you the key and let you have at it, just so long as you return it back to us in the morning.”

“You don’t need to stay,” Gwen said. “You’ve done enough.”

“Great, then. I’ll leave you here, and you can swing by the police station any time in the morning.”

“Sounds good.” We both said our good-byes and watched as the detective trudged back through the snow.

Gwen turned toward me. “Ready?” she said.

“Sure. Should we have a plan of attack or just look around?”

“I thought you could focus on the books, and I’d look at everything else.”

“Sure,” I said.

We stepped through into what had probably been intended as a dining room, and Gwen found the light switch that turned on a flickering chandelier. Every surface was covered with books, most just stacked haphazardly on the floor or on the rectangular dining room table. “Maybe I’ll need some help on the books,” I said.

“You don’t need to study them, but just look for anything out of the ordinary. I’m going to head upstairs to the bedroom.”

I stayed in the dining room. It was hard to look at Elaine Johnson’s collection of mystery novels without thinking about what they were worth. She had plenty of worthless books—stacks of mass markets in questionable condition—but I quickly identified a first edition of Patricia Cornwell’s Postmortem, and one of Michael Connelly’s The Black Echo. I wondered what would happen to these books, then reminded myself that I wasn’t here on business.

“Malcolm.” It was Gwen, shouting down from the second floor.

“Hey,” I shouted back.

“Can you come up here?”

I went up the stairs, also stacked with books along the edge of each step, and found Gwen in the bedroom, staring at a pair of handcuffs, hanging from a nail. I pointed at them.

“Don’t touch anything,” Gwen quickly said. “I think we should get fingerprints.”

“There’s a handcuff on the wall in Deathtrap. It plays a crucial role in the play.”

“I know,” she said. “I watched the movie again last night. And look on the floor.”

There was a framed print—a photograph of a lighthouse—that was leaning up against the wall. “You think Charlie brought the handcuffs, took down that print, and hung them up, just so we’d be sure it was an homage to Deathtrap?”

“I do,” Gwen said, then turned to look toward the closet. “He’s hiding, probably in that closet, maybe with a mask, and then he jumps out and scares her to death.”

“It’s strange,” I said. “As far as we know it’s the first time he’s staged something to point specifically to the list.”

“It’s also the first time he’s killed someone that you knew.”

We were both standing, looking toward the closet. Gwen said, “I’ve seen enough, honestly. I just want these handcuffs photographed, and fingerprinted.”

“He probably wore gloves.”

“We won’t know until we look, but, yes, he probably wore gloves.”

I looked around the rest of the room while Gwen pulled out her phone and stared at what looked like a text message she’d just received. There was an old four-poster bed, loosely made up, and covered with a pink chenille bedspread. The hardwood floors had woven throw rugs on them that had faded over the years. The one at the foot of the bed was covered with fur.

“Did she have a pet?” I said.

“I don’t remember reading about one in the report,” Gwen said.

I tried to remember back to when Elaine Johnson used to come in to Old Devils, and I didn’t remember her ever paying attention to Nero. My guess is her sister had a dog or a cat, and she just had never cleaned the rug. In fact, nothing was clean in the house. I went and looked at a framed photograph on the wall above the bureau. The frame was white, and its top edge had turned a shiny black with all the grime. The photograph in the frame was of a family on vacation, a father in a golf shirt, a mother in a short, plaid dress and horn-rimmed glasses. There were four children, two older boys and two younger girls. They were posed in front of an enormous tree, a redwood probably, somewhere in California. I leaned in trying to pick out which one of the preadolescent girls was Elaine, but the photograph was slightly blurry, and had faded with age. I assumed, however, that Elaine was the younger of the two, the one with glasses, holding a doll by her side. She was the only child not smiling.

“Ready?” Gwen said.