Page 7 of Midnight Secrets

The moment he spoke, things clicked in my brain. “You.” I stood up.

He frowned. “Yes? I’m Detective Quartermaine.”

“You’re the man from this morning.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My dog. You helped me catch her.” It might have been too dark this morning for me to get more than a general impression of his handsome face, but I would know that voice anywhere. It was like gravel over whiskey. That little bit of rasp turned an everyday baritone into something I would no doubt hear in my sleep every night for the foreseeable future.

His eyes widened. “You’re the hot-pink slipper lady?”

A blush roared to life, and I was sure I was red to the roots of my hair. Of course, he would remember my attire.

I straightened to my full height and pretended not to notice the heat flaming on my face. “I am.” I held out a hand. “Claire Holmes. I found Mrs. Hammond.”

“Right.” His large palm enveloped mine for a quick shake. “What were you doing here, Ms. Holmes?”

“I’m a realtor. The Hammonds contracted me to sell their house. I was here with my stager, Lynne Young, to get it ready for listing.” I gestured to Lynne, who still sat in her van, then shoved my hands into my pockets.

Quartermaine glanced at the van, then back to me. “Okay. Walk me through what happened. What time did you arrive?” He took a notepad from his pants pocket and a pen from the collar of his shirt.

“Oh, um, about eight-fifteen, I think. Maybe a few minutes after. I was running behind because—well, you know why.”

“Your dog?”

I nodded.

“All right. What happened after you arrived? Was Ms. Young already here?”

“Yes. She said she only beat me by a couple minutes.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary before you went in?”

“No. We walked up the drive and went to the front door.” I motioned to the house. “I unlocked it with my key, and we went in.”

“The front door was locked?”

“I can’t say one hundred percent. I didn’t check it before I put the key in. But it was closed. Unlike the French doors off the living room. They were open.”

He nodded once and wrote something in his notebook. “What did you do after you discovered the door open?”

“We’ve had that rash of break-ins lately, so Lynne and I decided to split up to see if anything was missing. She checked downstairs while I went up.”

One dark eyebrow winged upward. “You just decided to traipse through what could be a crime scene? Why didn’t you call the police the moment you saw the open door?”

I bristled at his chiding tone. I wasn’t an idiot. Or a child. “We thought it was possible the wind blew the door open. The weather here isn’t exactly calm.”

“Were there leaves or dirt on the floor near the door?”

I frowned. “What? Why would you ask that? Do you think the killer brought that in on his shoes?”

“Uh, no. If the door blew in from the weather, it stands to reason leaves and dirt would blow in too. Even with the snow we’ve had, stuff still floats around.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” I gave a nervous laugh, quickly cutting it off. “Sorry. I’m a little out of sorts.” Finding dead bodies would do that to a person. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I didn’t want to trouble the police if nothing was missing and there were no other signs of an intruder. I’d have just relocked the door and gone about staging as planned.”

The tiny frown that had been present almost since he walked up intensified. “You wouldn’t have called the police?”

I shook my head. “It’s not the first French door I’ve seen blow open. I’ve had it happen while I’m standing in the room. The frames shift and they don’t latch properly anymore. Sometimes not even if they’re locked. I would have assumed that’s what happened here.”

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