Chapter 11
The porch light cast a warm glow across the front steps when I parked in the driveway, and I sat in the car for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me.
As I grabbed my purse and prepared to step out, the front door opened, and Luka came charging toward me like a furry white cloud with legs. He reached me and did a few spins, his thick tail wagging so hard his entire back end moved along with it.
“I missed you too,” I said, crouching down to wrap my arms around his fluffy neck.
As I stepped into the house, I was met with the strong aromas of garlic and butter. I slipped my shoes off and walked toward the kitchen where I found Giovanni standing at the stove. He held a skillet in one hand, while the other rested on the counter beside a glass of red wine.
He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Ahh, there you are.”
“It smells amazing. What’s for dinner?”
“Pork scallopini.” He set the skillet down and walked over, pulling me into an embrace. “How was your day?”
“Eventful.”
He leaned back, studying my face. “How’s the investigation going?”
“Slow, but I may have a theory. I asked Whitlock to stop by so I can go over it with him. I hope that’s all right.”
“I never know who might be joining us when you walk through the door, so I always make sure there’s plenty of food to go around.”
Giovanni returned to the stove, lifted his glass, and took a sip of wine before pulling two more glasses from the cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator, opened it, and filled the glasses.
The doorbell rang.
“I assume that’s him,” Giovanni said.
Luka trotted alongside me as I walked to the front door and showed Whitlock inside. He stuffed his car keys into his pocket and bent down, giving Luka a playful pat. Then he straightened and looked at me.
“So,” he said with a wink. “What’s this theory that couldn’t wait until morning?”
We joined Giovanni in the kitchen, and he offered Whitlock a glass of wine, which he was happy to accept.
A few minutes later, the three of us sat at the table.
Giovanni placed the plated pork scallopini in front of us, the thin slices of pork bathed in a lemon-butter sauce that I couldn’t wait to try.
Whitlock was the first to take a bite, and he let out an appreciative hum. “Is this one of the menu options at your restaurant in New York? If it isn’t, it should be.”
“It’s a new dish we’re adding to the summer menu,” Giovanni said. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Now,” Whitlock said, pointing his fork in my direction, “let’s hear about this theory of yours.”
Giovanni lifted a finger. “Food first. Theory after.”
Whitlock laughed, and for the next twenty minutes, we steered the conversation away from homicide.
Once dinner was finished, Giovanni gathered the dishes while Whitlock poured another round of wine.
“Shall we talk in the den?” Whitlock asked.
I nodded, and a few minutes later, the three of us settled in near the fireplace.
“Have you spoken to Silas today?” I asked.
“I have. He called about an hour ago.”
“What did he say?”
“He walked me through his most recent autopsy findings.”
I took a sip of wine. “And?”
“I assume he told you the same thing he told me about the possibility the killer had lifted Wren off the floor after shooting her.”
“He did.”
“There were some droplets of blood that were inconsistent with the blood pattern around her body. Most of the blood spatter trajectory aligned with her cause of death, except for a series of droplets found in an area of the floor they shouldn’t have been.”
I set my wineglass on the table and clasped my hands together. “Earlier tonight I stopped by Mia’s house. I was looking at the framed photographs on her piano, and something struck me. Wren and Mia were so similar in looks that it would be easy for someone to mistake one for the other.”
Whitlock leaned forward. “I believe you’re leading me somewhere, and I have to say … I’m intrigued.”
“What if the killer murdered the wrong sister?”
They pondered my theory.
“Are you suggesting someone meant to kill Mia and killed Wren instead?”
“I’m suggesting it’s possible.”
“All righty. Walk me through it.”
“The killer goes to the house believing Mia is inside,” I said.
“Maybe they had no idea she was away at a conference. They see a woman who looks like her, and assuming it is her, they shoot her. After the shot, they notice something, maybe a subtle difference between the sisters, and they lift Wren off the floor to get a better look.”
“To confirm who they just killed.”
“Yep. Mia has a birthmark the size of a pea below her left ear. Wren didn’t.”
Whitlock shook his head. “That’s one hell of a theory. It’s plausible, but we’ll need to prove it.”
Giovanni turned toward me. “If what you’re saying is true, Mia could be in danger.”
I nodded. “I ran my theory by Mia earlier, and she blew it off. But there was something … a hint of worry in her eyes.”
Whitlock polished off the last of his wine and stood.
“Leaving so soon?” I asked.
“Your Aunt Laura is, ahh, waiting on me so we can … indulge—yes, indulge in the latest episode of Shrinking. She claims she’s a fan of the show, of course, but I suspect—no, I’m certain she’s always found Harrison Ford rather easy on the eyes.”
Most women would agree.
“I wanted to see you because I'm concerned about Mia’s safety,” I said. “Most killers wouldn’t risk striking again this soon. Then again, logic doesn’t always factor into murder.”
“I’ll call Foley on the way home and see if we can have a couple of our officers keep an eye on Mia’s house tonight,” Whitlock said.
“I appreciate it.”
“In the meantime, be sure to call me if anything else comes up.”
Whitlock showed himself out, and Giovanni and I took the wineglasses to the kitchen, rinsing them out in the sink. Then he wrapped his arms around me, and even though it brought me comfort, an uneasy feeling was settling in my chest.
If my theory was right, Mia had a target on her back.