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“Unfortunately, not much,” Amanda conceded. She turned and looked around the room, her gaze landing on Felicity. She wanted so badly to find her killer. Was it the man behind those shoeprints? And just because they belonged to a casual shoe, it didn’t indicate that Felicity had a relaxed relationship with the man wearing them, or that they were welcomed in her home. It could have as easily belonged to an intruder. Speaking of… “Felicity had planned to eat alone. The small pizza tells us that much.” She stalled there, thinking again how Felicity’s time of death may have factored in timewise with the failed delivery attempt. She was about to carry on when Blair spoke.
She set down her tablet, video supposedly finished, and weighed in with, “There’s only one used water glass on the kitchen counter. Nothing to show she had company, period. Well, except for…” Her lips set in a thin line as she glanced at the body.
Amanda asked what she’d been about to a moment ago. “Is there any sign of forced entry?”
“We haven’t gotten that far yet, but we’ll get there,” Blair said.
“Fair enough.” Amanda stepped to the side of the room with Trent and gave voice to what was gnawing on her. “Whoever this person was, Felicity didn’t want them to get her phone, considering that she hid it under a couch cushion.”
Trent nodded. “Right. As Hudson said, it was like the phone was deliberately placed under the cushion. It wasn’t like it just slipped down between it and the couch. But why hide it?”
“Add it to the list of questions. Is there something on it she didn’t want her visitor to see? All I can conclude.”
“Either way, it suggests she had been aware of their presence and had time to tuck it away.”
“Huh. Good point. So, she let this person in, thinking she had things under control?” Amanda gnawed on that.
“If that’s the case, we could assume her killer was someone she knew. This Navarro guy or someone else.”
Amanda’s heart ached at how Felicity may have been betrayed in the worst possible way. She could only imagine how horrible it would have been for Felicity if she’d misplaced her faith in the person who ended up taking her life. “We’ll need to take a good look at her phone, see her recent contacts—beyond myself and Lorenzo’s. It might help us figure out why she hid it.” She didn’t much relish pressing Felicity’s dead finger to her phone as Fred had done. And if it housed glaring evidence, Fred hadn’t mentioned it. She’d wait to access the device for now. Besides, learning more about Felicity—outside of the device—might be crucial for putting what was there into perspective. “Let’s walk around the house and see what we might find out,” she suggested.
“Sounds like a plan. If we’re lucky, a laptop or computer could shed light on why she was killed.”
Amanda appreciated that he was keeping objective and not obsessing about where Felicity had been stabbed. With the investigation so young, there were many possibilities for suspects. Too many. They had to keep open minds.
SEVEN
Amanda and Trent made their way through the house. There was a dining room at the end of the living area, off the kitchen. From the looks of it, Felicity had used the space for storage. Clear totes were stacked along a wall and from a quick glance, each one was empty.
“Huh. That’s not strange at all.” Her words dripped with sarcasm, and her observation brought her back to the one she’d made not long after entering the house. “Do you remember our first time here?”
“Hard to forget. I think every notification we’ve ever done is stored in my head.”
“Sad truth.” Much like storage totes, her mind housed those memories. “I’m thinking more along the lines of how the place looked. There was so much paper in her living room, there wasn’t a place for us to sit.”
“That’s right. I kept thinking, how many books has she written?”
“And did she ever sleep? I thought she must have kept every manuscript she ever printed, every revision.”
“Could have included printed research too.”
“Sure, but today, not one scrap of paper and empty totes.”
“She could have cleaned house. Purging is the thing to do these days, or so my sisters tell me.” Trent had two—one younger and one older.
“Suppose so.” She’d leave it there for now, but the lack of printouts in an author’s house was unusual. But did it tie into her murder?
They moved on and toured the L-shaped kitchen that hugged the rear east and south sides of the house. They passed a modest table and matching chairs and ducked down to the basement using the stairs just beyond the eating area. It was unfinished with exposed cinder block walls and a concrete floor. A rackety furnace, sounding much like a rattling tin can, kicked out cooled air from the air conditioning unit.
Next, they headed upstairs. Two bedrooms—one used as a home office—and the home’s only bathroom.
The office didn’t give up any secrets or a laptop. The only documents were bills—utilities and property tax—all paid up to date.
“Where the heck is all the paper?” Trent gently tossed one of the invoices back to the desk. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nope.”
“She could have purchased or leased a place to do her writing. I’ve read that authors can be particular about where they commune with their muse.”
