“I don’t know more. She was suffocated with a bag.”
“That was the thought upon finding her. However, preliminary postmortem examination revealed her larynx was crushed. They’re now thinking strangulation before the bag was placed.”
“The doctor said Julie showed signs of strangulation.”
“I didn’t know that,” Keith says.
I begin to think. “If Marty was dead, why place the bag?”
“Come on, Jill. Remove reality. This is one of your shows. Why place the bag?”
Suddenly the cottage feels too small. I need room to move. Tipping my head back toward the front porch, I lead us back outside. Walking the length of the porch and back, I again wrap my fingers around the warm mug. “Asphyxiation makes the most sense.”
Keith is now farther away, leaning against the railing of the porch, his arms crossed over his chest. “It would, but it appears she was already dead.”
Why does anyone place anything in a plastic bag?
I look up. “To preserve her face.”
“Why?”
“So everyone will know her eyes were removed on purpose.” I stop walking. “The sheriff hedged, not being forthcoming. Was she assaulted, like Julie was?”
“No,” Keith answers. “Her homicide is closer to Craig’s than Julie’s assault.”
“Wait, you’re calling Craig’s death a homicide—a murder?”
“Nothing we’re saying here is on the record. We’re two people with different fields of knowledge coming together to try to find answers to secrets.” He looks at my cup and smiles. “Is the caffeine helping?”
“That and the conversation,” I admit.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
All roads lead somewhere, but as Keith Gilbert turns left instead of right onto Old Highway 44, I question our destination. “Where are we going?”
“Ultimately, to the Walleye Tavern to pick up your car.”
I watch the scenery strobe past. “Are you taking the long way? Blue Gil is the other way.”
“I thought if we were doing this thing as a team, you’d want to see where Craig and Marty were found.”
Without thinking, I sit straighter, my neck stiffening. The truck begins to slow as we pull off the main road onto the easement. Keith turns toward me, lifting his sunglasses. His eyes flick over me, the shade of coffee without cream. “Jill, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking...well honestly, a variety of different things. You know I do research for fiction, right?”
“Right.”
“You know that the dead bodies I’m around are livepeople in makeup, mannequins, or CGI. For the last example—CGI—there’s nothing actually there. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”
“But you research? You look at police photos, evidence, and read the particulars.”
“I do.”
“There are no dead bodies there, but if you don’t want to see this, I can turn around.”
Before us the road goes on like a black ribbon dotted with yellow, heading up and up. Where we sit, the road is lined with a swale on each side and dense trees beyond that. With the midafternoon sun, the sunlight streams through the tall branches, illuminating patches of ground below. If we went the other direction from the cottages, the road would be lined with open fields for nearly five hundred yards before a patch of trees on either side.
