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Jane’s thoughts whirled. Marcus Hotchkins certainly fit the victim’s description, now that she thought about it. Well, what she’d seen of his back fit, anyway. She’d never really interacted with the man personally. He’d only moved to town a few years ago. Once or twice she’d caught sight of him and his mop of blond waves when she’d visited Dr. Garcia. She’d also attended high school with his wife. They’d run with different crowds, though. Tiffany came from one of the town’s wealthiest families. She’d been head cheerleader, beloved by all, while Jane had been president of the book club and ignored by most.
“I’ve never liked Dr. Hotchkins,” Fiona continued. Her expression shifted, as if she’d just smelled something rotten. “I’ve caught him eyeing my tush on more than one occasion, thank you very much!”
“Doesn’t every man check out your tush?”
“You aren’t wrong, hon.” Fiona fluffed her hair. “But the doctor… He’s got himself a roving eye. I bet he dabbled with someone he shouldn’t and a jealous husband or boyfriend decided to whack him.”
The theory intrigued Jane, her curiosity fully engaged. Why had someone killed a well-respected doctor? If the dead man was, in fact, Dr. Hotchkins. What little she knew about him came from gossip, and no one agreed. A nice man. But also a not nice man. Charming and also off-putting. She remembered there’d been a big to do after he’d married Tiffany and moved into her ancestral estate. A mansion atop the hill that overlooked the entire city.
She darted her gaze to Special Agent Barrow, who still paced in the driveway. Leaning closer, she whispered, “Should we tell the agents about our suspicion?”
Fiona wiggled her nose, as if to say, Those amateurs? “We know more than they do. They’ll only add our names to the suspect list. No, thank you.”
Too late. “I think I top the list already.”
“You what?” Fiona gasped out. “Oh no, no, no. No! That is unacceptable. We’re gonna prove your innocence to those fools.”
Excitement bloomed and grew. Yes! She could absolutely prove her innocence. Which should be easy, considering she was, in fact, innocent. “I know just where to start. Excuse me a moment.” Bordering on giddy, she rushed inside the house to unearth the kind of notepad Sheriff Moore and the agents carried. Jane could keep track of her investigation, too. Better safe than sorry.
She returned to the swing beside Fiona to write down her thoughts and findings.
“Well?” Fiona prompted, exasperated. “Where do we start?”
“With a notebook.” She waved the pad in the woman’s direction. “Where else? I’m calling this one Truth Be Told.”
“Oh, good grief. They say we shouldn’t despise small beginnings, but girl, this might be the smallest beginning of all.” Her friend shifted, ice cubes clinking in her glass. “Just out of curiosity and no other reason, did Sheriff Moore happen to ask about me when he arrived? No, don’t tell me. I’m not ready to know. Not about him. Although it probably wouldn’t hurt to check in on him at the murder site. No, never mind. I don’t go to men; men come to me. Besides, I’d rather hear about you and why you didn’t call me the second you stumbled upon trouble.”
Jane fought a grin. “I was waiting until I had more information. I knew you’d have questions, and I wanted to be able to answer as many as possible.”
Fiona sipped her tea. “Not a terrible excuse, I suppose. But not a great one, either.”
As a grin began to spread, from the corner of her eye, Jane noticed the approach of Special Agent Ryan.
Her breath caught, and she sat up straighter. Her heart thumped double time. Triple time! At some point during his examination of the scene, he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal powerful forearms covered with tattoos and smears of dirt. He’d removed his watch and his sunglasses, his expression as hard as granite. Uh-oh. Her stomach twisted, and her pulse leaped. What did this mean?
“And who is this?” Fiona purred for her ears alone, sitting up straighter as well.
“No one. Someone. The other agent.” Her cheeks burned hotter than before.
“Ms. Ladling, I’d like a word,” he said with a smooth smile. Practiced? The delivery of the invitation might drip with charm, but there was no mistaking his command.
Shivers cascaded over her spine. No, not shivers, but fresh shudders. This wasn’t a good thing, but bad. Very, very bad. “Do I need a lawyer?” she asked, wringing her hands.
He pounded up the porch steps and paused, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know. Do you?”
Okay, wrong approach. She stood and smoothed the lines of her fit and flare. “I didn’t do the crime, so I shouldn’t do the time. Right? Unless there isn’t a crime?” Other than trespassing and grave tampering. “Did Dr. Hotchkins trip and fall or something?”
