Chapter 11
“Is this how you found her?” Reed asked as he stared down at the broken body of Mavis Greenlee.
Her husband, Archer, stood near the open front door of their mansion. In a polo shirt and pressed khakis, the tall man was huddled against the sidelight of the massive double doors. Archer could do nothing more than nod, his gaze glued to the crumpled mass that had been his wife.
Blood had pooled on the marble floor beneath Mavis’s blond head, a wide puncture wound at her neck, legs splayed upward on the stairs, one of her arms at an impossible angle, no doubt broken.
Probably in several places. On the fifth step, a small pink pistol rested, and there appeared to be a bullet hole in the ceiling, right next to a massive chandelier.
The foyer itself was crawling with EMTs and police, the walls reflecting the blue and red flashes from the police vehicles parked in the wide, circular drive outside.
“You didn’t move her?” Reed asked.
“No, no, should I have?” Archer’s big eyes rounded, and he was sweating, drops glistening through his thin comb-over.
“I thought you were never supposed to … I mean, I saw her, called to her, but I knew she was dead. I, um, I did go near and check for a pulse. I told that to the 911 operator, but there was nothing.” Now he was shaking his head more violently, his voice rising, “And she wasn’t breathing.
I put a finger under her nose. I checked for a pulse.
I did. I checked. But I knew. Oh, God, how did this happen? ” He seemed genuinely distressed.
“Okay.” Reed crouched low, staring at the once-beautiful woman. He knew her, had seen her at several charity functions over the years. Mavis Greenlee was synonymous with Savannah society.
“Can I … Can I go now?” Archer was inching toward the open door and the circular drive, beyond where the first responders had gathered near the fire trucks and emergency vehicles.
“Go where?”
“We have another house,” Archer said quickly, fidgeting with his keys. “Out on Tybee Island. Until … well, until you’re finished here and … and she’s gone.” He swallowed hard and waved a hand at his dead wife. “I just can’t stay here. It’s too … well, you know.”
Reed did know.
He’d seen it all before.
Those left behind not wanting to stay in the home where a murder had taken place.
From somewhere above came a loud, pitiful cry.
“What—?”
“Princess,” Archer said, glancing up at the closed double doors at the top of the stairs. “My wife’s cat. Oh, God, what am I going to do with her?”
At that moment, Sol Augustin returned to the foyer. She’d ridden with Reed to the Greenlee mansion but, after a quick view of the crime scene, had stepped outside to take a call.
She was just disconnecting and stuffing her cell into the pocket of her slacks. “What do you mean?” Sol asked, her gaze shifting from Archer to the dead woman.
“Not her. Not Mavis,” Archer said, realizing what Sol was probably thinking. “The cat. What the hell am I going to do with that damned thing?”
As if she’d heard, Princess gave up another long, pitiful wail.
“You’re worried about your cat?” Sol said slowly.
“I just don’t need another damned thing … I mean I … I have to get out of here.”
“He’s leaving?” she asked, turning her attention to Reed.
Reed explained. “They’ve got a place out on Tybee.”
“Do you? Well, that works out, now, doesn’t it?” she said, turning her gaze on Archer. “And no room for a cat out there?”
“I can’t—I just can’t! Oh, God. It—she—hates me. Spits and hisses and runs away. She’s Mavis’s damned Persian and I … no, no I can’t have that … that thing with me. No.”
To Reed, Augustin said, “Just got off the phone with the ME’s office. They’re on their way.”
“And Forensics?”
“Should be here any minute.” Sol then turned her attention to Archer Greenlee. “Where were you again?” she asked, studying the nervous man. “Earlier tonight.”
“I told you. Or—I mean, I told the cop—a deputy, I think. I can’t remember his name. Big guy. Black. He was here when I first got here.”
“Deputy Freeman?” Reed asked. “Marlin Freeman?”
“Yeah, yeah. That sounds right. I, uh, I think so.” Archer said, blinking rapidly and wiping a hand over his forehead.
“You have cameras here? A security system.”
“Yes, but the original cameras are old, and the newer ones were too good, picked up everything that went on. A rabbit, a bird, whatever, so …”
“They’re not functioning, is that what you’re saying?” Augustin asked.
“Yeah. This is a safe community.” Archer was nodding, but did manage to look sheepish. “I mean it was.”
“What about your neighbors?” Reed asked.
“I—I don’t know.” Archer shrugged. “I, um, I suppose they do. At least some of them.”
“Already got deputies checking,” Augustin said, “and interviewing the neighboring places, and the stores and street cameras.” To Archer, she asked, “Where were you tonight?”
“Me?” At first, he seemed offended, and then he cleared his throat.
“I—I was downtown at the Stag and Boar, had a few beers with some friends. Knox and Otis and Stoney and a couple of others will tell you I was there.” His Adam’s apple worked wildly.
“You can call any of them. They’ll vouch for me and tell you I was there.
Or talk to the bartender, Max … no, Mac.
Yeah, call down there, talk to Mac. He knows I was there.
” Archer’s frantic gaze moved from Sol to Reed.
“We meet down there once a month or so, sometimes after the rifle club. You know, just target shooting.” He was visibly sweating.
“You can call any of them. They’ll vouch for me.
You believe me, don’t you? You don’t … I mean you can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this.
” His skin was white and stretched over his features, his eyes wide.
Reed said, “We’ll need a formal statement down at the station.”
“Do I need a lawyer?” he demanded, stricken. “Oh. Christ. You all, you all think I’m behind this? Holy shit! I knew it. I just knew it! The husband is always the primary suspect.”
To her credit, Sol didn’t roll her eyes. “If you think you need an attorney, then by all means, call one.”
“I don’t … I mean, I didn’t do this … I wouldn’t … never … but …” He looked panicked and pulled at the collar of his shirt.
Reed stepped in. “Go down to the station, make a statement, and then you can go to the house on the island.”
“Okay. Okay. I will.” Archer was nodding frantically.
“I will. And … what about the house?” His gaze darted throughout the interior, to the living area off the foyer, and across the hall to a large den filled with books and a wide mahogany desk situated in front of a marble fireplace.
The entire house, Reed guessed, was filled with what Archer considered valuable items.
“We won’t be finished here for a while.”
Again there was a plaintive meow.
“And the cat? Can someone …?”
“We’ll handle it,” Augustin said.
“Good. Good. So. Um. Can I get my things? From my suite upstairs?” Archer waved a hand toward the top of the stairs and the landing where a huge portrait was visible, a slimmer, younger Archer with a full head of brown hair.
In a suit and tie, he stood slightly to one side of his wife.
One of his hands rested on her shoulder as Mavis, dressed in a shimmering silver gown, her chin lifted, sat in a high-backed chair, a dog, a golden Labrador retriever, resting at her feet.
Archer said, “I can use the back staircase if you want … so as not to disturb …” His voice fell away as he glanced down at Mavis again, then looked quickly away.
“Do you have enough personal items at Tybee?” Reed asked. “We’ll need to go over the entire house.”
“Oh.” Archer was backing toward the door. “Okay. Yeah, yeah, I guess I can make do with what I’ve got on the island.”
“Good. Do that. ‘Make do,’” Augustin said coolly. “And while you’re at it, make certain we can get in touch with you.”
“I—I gave you my cell number. I have it on me.” He patted a pants pocket, making sure the phone was where it was supposed to be, then, as if he expected Reed to change his mind, Archer scooted out of the door, and within seconds, the sound of a sports car’s engine roared to life.
“Must be nice,” Augustin said as she scanned the wide entry hall with its soaring ceiling, curved staircase, shiny floor, and, of course, dead body. She picked up a vase on a side table and then, as if she realized she wasn’t wearing gloves, quickly replaced it. “About the cat?”
Reed watched as she quickly put on a pair of thin disposable gloves.
“Call someone from animal control, and maybe they can get in touch with a shelter.” He hated to think what would happen if Nikki found out about another abandoned pet.
Though his wife hadn’t shown up at the crime scene yet, it was only a matter of time until she found out that Mavis Greenlee had been murdered.
Then she would no doubt discover that Mavis had left behind a cat that her husband didn’t want and that Nikki would move heaven and earth to adopt.
“Okay,” Sol was saying, making a note about the animal before crouching down and studying the victim with a critical eye. “What’s that?” she asked.
“What?”
“Under her skirt. There.” She pointed to the hem of Mavis’s skirt, which had ridden up to her waist in her fall, and there was an unlikely bulge in the tight, tummy-shaping panties.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Augustin leaned forward and, with gloved fingers, carefully pulled down the waistband low enough to show the edge of a polished stone, gleaming under the light from the chandelier suspended above.
Reed’s gut tightened as she took a quick picture of the item in place; he nodded to Augustin and watched as she extracted the rock. A number was clearly visible.
“Five?” she murmured. “Or … or possibly an S.” Turning the stone over, she straightened, then held the rock out for Reed’s inspection. “Marked on the other side.”