Death's Door. Meryl Sawyer
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PAUL TANNER WAITED in the Porsche as Madison pulled into the driveway of the Fisher Island home where she was house-sitting. She still had the golden retriever with her. He shut off the air-conditioning and got out of the car. His leg hadn’t quite healed and it was stiff from being in the small enclosure for so long. Madison’s head swung in his direction, a puzzled expression on her pretty face.
Paul had known she would be surprised to see him. No doubt she was wondering why he was here and how he’d gotten into an enclave famous for its exclusivity. The small island was linked to the mainland only by ferry service. He’d driven off the boat with a gaggle of Rollses and Bentleys. Parking valets washed the salt spray off the overpriced cars while uniformed guards checked visitors’ credentials. He’d flashed his badge and implied this was official business even though his mission didn’t have a damn thing to do with the murder.
Madison opened her car door and tugged on Aspen’s leash. It took the dog a minute to gauge the distance from the driver’s seat to the ground. His eye problem must really be bothering him.
“How’s his eye infection?” Paul asked as he walked up to them.
“The vet gave him drops.” It was evident the used-carsalesman’s smile Paul was practicing on her wasn’t working. She beelined to the front door. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“What about?” She rammed her key into the lock of the Mediterranean-style villa. “I’ve already given the police a statement. Now I have to plan a funeral. Erin doesn’t have anyone else to do it.”
“If you’ll give me a minute—”
She spun around to face him with a look that could have frozen lava. She was exhausted, grief stricken, and probably wanted to curl up somewhere to cry. Her shoulders unexpectedly sagged and he could almost feel the fight go out of her. His entire body tensed with the urge to reach out and put his arm around her, but he resisted.
He didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home and heard Madison’s five-alarm scream followed by anguished, keening cries like those of an animal caught in a trap. He’d seen several pictures of her in the file his father had given him. Nothing had prepared him for the woman he’d found when he’d rushed through the back door. She’d been on the verge of debilitating hysteria—who could blame her?—but she’d fought him with more courage than most guys he’d taken down.
He hadn’t gotten a good look at her until they were outside. Then a mind-numbing attack of…of what? Aw, hell. He might as well be honest with himself. A jolt of sexual awareness had shot through him, despite the inappropriate time and place. There was something undeniably appealing about that storm of blond hair and those baby blues. He’d instantly wanted to help her. This from a man who was about as sentimental as Attila the Hun. Okay, so a lot more than help had crossed his mind. But he’d tamped those thoughts down and reminded himself that this was business.
He had no illusions about his profession. Homicide—his usual line of work when he wasn’t temporarily sidelined and helping out his father—occurred at all hours, night and day. A detective couldn’t hope for much in terms of a private life—a lesson he’d already learned. You took women where you found them and walked away. Romancing a woman like Madison Connelly wasn’t in the cards.
“Sorry,” she said now in a tight, pinched voice. “You were great this morning. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to thank you. I appreciate the way you helped me.”
He nodded, noticing she hadn’t yet asked him why he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home. Undoubtedly she was too shaken by finding her friend dead to make the connection. “Glad I was there. No wonder you weren’t thinking clearly. You had a great shock.” He reached around her and shoved the door open. “Let’s go inside and talk for a minute.”
The air conditioner was on and ceiling fans with paddles shaped like palm fronds circulated the cool air in the semicircular living room with walls entirely of glass. The house faced the ocean and the faint tang of salt air drifted through the room even though he didn’t spot any open doors or windows. The area he could see was bigger than his entire apartment.
She bent over and unhooked Aspen’s leash. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
He hesitated, reluctant to hit her with this immediately and trying to decide the best way to break the news. Hell, he’d had plenty of time to think while he’d been waiting for Madison. He’d prepared enough bullshit to bury Fisher Island, but being face-to-face with her was different.
Something cold gripped his gut. Why me? he asked himself. He should have convinced his father to send someone else. He would have if he’d known he was going to find himself at the scene of a brutal murder beside a knockout blonde who didn’t deserve to be clobbered with another problem right now.
“The police think I have something to do with Erin’s murder, don’t they?”
“Why do you say that?” His was voice guarded now, her question surprising him.
“They took my fingerprints, then kept grilling me, asking the same questions over and over and over.”
“Was there something you didn’t tell them? Something they were fishing for?”
“No,” she replied just a little too quickly.
What wasn’t she revealing? he wondered. Paul had taken a careful look at the scene and he’d been at Madison’s side within seconds after she discovered the body. He knew she hadn’t killed her best friend.
“Do you have any idea what happened? They won’t tell me anything.” She sank down onto the sofa, the retriever at her feet.
“It’s not my case,” he replied, set to sidestep her questions, but her pleading eyes got to him. Then he decided gaining Madison’s trust might help him when he delivered his news. “This is off-the-record, okay? You didn’t hear it from me.”
She measured him with those melt-your-heart baby blues. “All right. Tell me.”
“From the looks of the crime scene, the killer caught the vic—your friend—taking a bath. He threw the blow-dryer into the tub.”
“Oh Lord, no!” She slapped her hand over her mouth, then sucked in a stabilizing breath. “It’s a wonder she wasn’t electrocuted.” Her eyes went empty for a moment, then she asked, “Aren’t blow-dryers fitted with a gizmo that makes them shut off if they’re in water? Seems to me that I read something about it.”
“She received a shock before the dryer quit. That’s why her knee was so swollen, but she managed to get out of the tub.”
“Oh my God. Poor Erin.” Madison gasped and he could see her struggle anew to comprehend the violent and brutal death. She didn’t know the half of it; she hadn’t seen the bathroom. “Do you have any idea…how long she fought?”
“Several minutes at least. Long enough for blood to keep pumping and the knee to swell.”
“Once the heart stops beating the body shuts down, right?” she asked, and he nodded. It took her a minute to add, “Erin must have been terrified.”
Paul couldn’t disagree. “Throwing a blow-dryer is the kind of thing a woman would do.”
“Why? Couldn’t a man have done it?”
“Absolutely, but a killer’s method can often tell us about his or her identity. For example, women use guns at times, but if someone is killed with a less direct method like poisoning or lethal drug doses, the responsible party is usually a woman.”
“But Erin was strangled. That hardly counts as less than direct. The police should be looking for a man. Ninety-three percent of all murders are committed by men.”
That stopped him cold. She was correct. He knew she and her ex had developed a wildly successful online trivia game.