His Partner's Wife (2 page)

But there was that dead man in Stuart's den.

The door opened; Mrs. Porter peered around it. The suspicion
altered instantly and the door swung wider. "My dear! What's wrong?"

"I…" For all the world, Natalie couldn't seem to
get further. Her mouth only worked.

Mrs. Porter, miraculously, drew her in and locked the door
behind her. "Come in here and sit down," she said firmly. "There
you go." She steered Natalie into the living room, eased her into a wing
chair and patted her hand. "Can you tell me now?"

"What is it?" Mr. Porter asked from the doorway.
He looked stooped, his hair whiter than Natalie remembered. It seemed as though
he'd aged ten years in the one he'd been retired.

"Hush," his wife said. "Give her a
minute."

"I…" Stuck again, Natalie closed her eyes. Big
mistake. As though her mind had snapped a digital photo available for instant
review, there he was. White bits of bone and brown hair matted with blood. Gray
tissue. Her stomach heaved and she pressed a hand to her mouth.

"You're ill." Mrs. Porter half rose.

"No." Natalie swallowed. She could not give in to
the nausea. Not yet. "I … I just got home from work. And there's somebody
in my house." Above their twittering, she finished. "Somebody
dead."

They were amazingly kind and efficient. Mr. Porter called
the police. Mrs. Porter wrapped an afghan about Natalie's shoulders and
vanished briefly in return with a cup of tea. The warm, sweet brew settled her
stomach as nothing else could have. Her neighbors waited with her, Mr. Porter
stationed at the front window.

A color commentator, he peered through the crack between the
drapes, announcing the arrival of a squad car. "No, two," he
corrected himself. "They've gotten out and they're circling your house.
Going in."

Natalie pictured the uniformed officers, guns drawn. What if
she
had
somehow imagined the corpse in Stuart's den? No. She
couldn't have. She hadn't known
that
was how a skull would look if bashed in. She wished she
could have continued in blissful ignorance.

"There's a plain car now," her neighbor continued.

Sipping her tea, huddled in the afghan, comforted by the
delicate, papery touch of Mrs. Porter's hand patting her every few moments,
Natalie saw the scene through his eyes: two big men in suits conferring with
the patrol officer who had come out of the house. Both disappearing inside
briefly, then reappearing. Glancing down the street, spotting the Porter's
house. She knew before the knock when they arrived on the doorstep.

Please, please, let them be friends,
she prayed.
Not
strangers.

Most of all, she quite fiercely wanted John McLean. He'd
told her of Stuart's death, carried one corner of her husband's coffin, scraped
out the gutters on her eaves last January, painted the house this July. He was
quiet, soft-spoken, solid, her bulwark. He had been Stuart's partner and, she
supposed, was watching out for her from a sense of obligation to her husband
rather than from real friendship for her. Nonetheless, she couldn't imagine
what she would have done without him this past year. She wished she had told
Mr. Porter to ask for him.

But Natalie knew that, even if she had thought of it, she
wouldn't have asked. She never called John, except a time or two to suggest he
bring his children to dinner. Natalie refused to be the stereotype of a lonely
widow, the kind of woman who needed a man at her beck and call, or at least
wanted one. Her pride barely let her accept his help when he offered it.

The doorbell rang, and Mr. Porter went to let the officers
in. On a rush of relief almost painful in its intensity, Natalie recognized the
slow, deep voice of Stuart's former partner before he filled the entry to the
living room. At about six feet, John McLean wasn't unusually tall, but his
shoulders were broad and his build muscular. Mid-thirties, he kept his
russet-brown hair short, as befitted a police officer. His face was pure
male—not handsome, in fact undistinguished, she had always thought, except for
compelling eyes.

"Natalie!" Gaze locking on her, he came straight
across the room as if nobody else was here and crouched in front of-the chair.
Taking her hands, he said roughly, "You're all right."

"Yes." She sounded tremulous and was embarrassed
by the weakness her voice gave away. "Is whoever did it gone?"

"Afraid so." His eyes were bluer than she'd
realized. "We recognized the address from dispatch and burned rubber
getting here. Who the hell got himself dead in your house?"

We.
Of
course he wasn't alone. She tore her gaze from his to see another friend beyond
his shoulder.

"Geoff." She tried a smile. "I'd forgotten
you two were working together."

Perhaps ten years older than John McLean, Geoff Baxter was
nearly of a height with John and perhaps a little broader, his waistline
thickening and his hairline thinning. He and Stuart had been partners back in
their patrol days, and had remained friends until her husband dropped dead of
an unexpected heart attack at forty years old. Like John, Geoff had stayed in
touch since Stuart's death, even going so far as to offer to haul that "crap"
out of the garage so she could use it. He'd wanted to install an electric
opener, too, so that he wouldn't have to worry about her.

She doubted even his darker worries had included a corpse
inside her house. Natalie gave a shiver.

"You're in shock," John said abruptly. "I
hate to ask you questions, but I have to."

"I'm okay." This smile was slightly more
successful. "Really. I just had the daylights scared out of me."

He squeezed her hands hard and stood, stepping back. Not
only physically—he assumed an air of remoteness. "Tell us what
happened."

Mrs. Porter, still hovering, suggested they sit and offered
coffee, which both accepted. After she'd brought in a tray, John thanked her
and asked if they could speak to Natalie alone. With thinly disguised disappointment,
the Porters withdrew.

Natalie took another sip of her tea. Both men had taken out
the notebooks ubiquitous to police officers and held pens poised. Their
expressions were still sympathetic, but also intent, razor sharp. This was
their job. Natalie felt a chill at the realization. Suddenly they had ceased
being friends and become detectives who, by nature, were suspicious of
everyone.

Including her.

"I got home from work, parked in the driveway—"

"What time?" Detective Baxter interrupted.

She remembered looking at her watch. "5:35—I noticed
before I got out of the car."

Pens scratched on paper.

She described events: unlocking the front door—yes, she was
sure it had been locked—setting down her purse on the hall table and going
straight upstairs. The kitchen and living room had looked just as she'd left
them that morning. She told of noticing the sewing room door open, then
actually making it a couple of feet past the den before her brain accepted what
her eyes had seen: a dead man in Stuart's den. The tale of her flight felt
ignominious, but she also knew she'd been sensible.

"You didn't set foot in the den?" John McLean
asked.

"No. I was afraid…" She clutched the afghan
tighter against another shiver and finished softly, "Somebody might still
be in the house. Besides, I could see his head. I knew he couldn't be alive. My
checking his pulse wouldn't have done any good."

"You didn't recognize him?"

"I couldn't see his face from the doorway. It never
occurred to me that I might know him. I thought…" She didn't know what she
had
thought.
"That he must be a burglar or something."

"Very likely." John didn't sound satisfied.
"Two of them may have had a quarrel."

"But why
my
house?" Was she asking them, or the Fates?
"Stuart's stereo is nice, I guess, and a burglar could have that
big-screen TV with my compliments, but they're both still there. I don't know
if anything was touched."

"The scumbag might have panicked after bashing in his
partner's head and fled. Or run when he heard you opening the front door."

"But how did he get in? And out?"

"The side door into the garage was unlocked."

"But…" Disturbed, she looked from face to face.
"I always keep it locked. The one from the garage into the house, too.
I've hardly set foot into the garage in weeks!"

"Neither door had very good locks." A frown
furrowed John's forehead. "I should have replaced them for you."

"You couldn't possibly have predicted that anything
like this would happen. Or that anybody would want to break into my house at
all. Beyond his stereo system, about all Stuart had was the house and,
gosh—" she waved her hand vaguely "—treasures like ten years of
Field & Stream
and
Sports Illustrated
packed
in boxes. Totally intact, no issues missing." Stuart had made a point of
telling her that when he caught her about to recycle a copy of
SI.
He'd
looked at her as if she were an idiot when she ventured to ask why he was
keeping them all. "Heaven knows the house doesn't exactly shout
money," she added now.

John grunted. "It's a decent place in a decent
neighborhood. These days, everybody has electronic equipment. Our Port Dare
criminals specialize in stuff that's easily turned over. None of them would
know a piece of genuine artwork from a reproduction if it was labeled. Jewelry
is always good, and I'm sure they would have hunted in your bedroom if
everything had gone according to plan."

"But the den?" Why was she arguing? She
wanted
murderer
and victim to be common burglars, having nothing to do with her. Still…
"Stuart's computer is dated."

"You might have had a laptop tucked away in there, a
pager, an expensive calculator." He shrugged.

"Yes. I suppose." Now
she
was the
one to feel dissatisfied, but it took her a moment to analyze her unhappiness
with the scenario.

Why wouldn't two burglars have immediately unplugged and
taken the obviously expensive television and stereo equipment before exploring
further? Her sewing machine was a fancy, electronic model that did everything
but wash the dishes. Wouldn't they have considered it worth taking? Besides… Now
the discontent stirred anew.

"The cat had been napping in there."

"What?"

She saw that she'd startled both men.

"It must not have just happened," Natalie
explained, thinking it through as she went. "I shut the door to my sewing
room last night. When I got home today, that door had been open long enough for
the cat to have taken a nap on the fabric I'd laid out in there. And Sasha
wouldn't have relaxed enough to take a nap in the open unless strangers were
long gone. Which means I didn't scare him away."

Geoff Baxter looked doubtful at her logic.

John frowned thoughtfully. "The coroner hasn't arrived
yet. She'll be able to give us a time frame."

"I suppose it doesn't matter what time he was
killed."

The two men stirred.

"I know it does to you," Natalie conceded.
"To your investigation. But to me… Actually, I'd rather think he
wasn't
still
in the house when I got home. The idea that he was standing behind one of the
doors, listening to me, maybe even watching…"

John half rose to his feet, then seemed to force himself to
sit back down. His face was grim.

Natalie hunched inside the afghan.
"That
gives
me the creeps," she concluded simply.

John made a gritty sound and slapped shut his notebook.
"Damn it, you're coming home with me tonight."

She wanted nothing more, but her pride, so important to her,
insisted she protest. "I have friends I can stay with."