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I just have the one. “Where were you yesterday morning around 6 o’clock?”
He frowns at me, probably trying to stir up an alibi. I hope he sees the warning in my eyes.
“Jeff? What’s going on?”
Jeff turns to his wife, who has come down the stairs. She’s wearing a yellow summer sweater, a golf skirt, her hair back in a headband and I can barely take it in.
Who are these people?
“Detective Stone seems to think I had something to do with Gretta’s death.” Jeff snaps and looks at me.
Burke’s hand again lands on my shoulder.
He talks because my words are balled in my chest. “We just need to clear up a few more questions,” he says. “Paperwork.”
Karen joins her husband. “We answered all your questions.” But wariness hovers in her eyes, as if afraid we’ll pry too deep.
She’s probably protecting Jeff, and that burns me.
We’re standing in a living room, just off the entry, with a grand piano, a glass coffee table, flanking white linen sofas, and a wall of pictures. I walk over to the wall.
“You haven’t answered the one I just asked.” I glance over my shoulder at Jeff. Raise an eyebrow.
“I was running,” he says. “Every Friday morning, I take a longer run while Karen has a breakfast with her friends.”
“Anybody see you?” Burke asks.
“I suppose.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I do. I turn back to the pictures on the wall. They’re the usual pictures of Gretta at all ages—cute girl, who went through her buck-toothed stage—and some of the entire family. They had a springer spaniel at one time. “Gretta is an only child?”
Karen walks over. “Yes. She was adopted. We couldn’t have children of our own.”
“She looks like a good girl,” I say. “Did she get into trouble?”
Karen is quiet. “Until recently, she seemed very happy. Then, she started acting out. Getting moody. I think she was depressed. She ran away three months ago, after a terrible fight.”
“But you knew where she was.” I’m still looking at the pictures. There’s one with grandparents, a picture taken on the lake. And another with her standing by a grand piano, in a gold-gilded room. “This one. Where was it taken?”
“At orchestra hall. She was a gifted pianist, and she and a few other students had a private concert. She only invited one other couple to the event.”
“Who?”
“Her softball coach and his wife.” Karen touches the picture, and her voice turns low. “They’ve been very good to us.”
“They gave her a place to stay, didn’t they? At one of their rental units.”
She meets my eyes. Nods, something of fear in her expression. My gaze flicks to Jeff. He’s watching us, his mouth tight.
“That’s how you knew where she was,” I say quietly to him.
He swallows. “No,” he says. “I didn’t know where she was.”
He’s lying. I turn back to the wall.
“Then why was your Lexus at Lulu’s yesterday morning?” Burke asks.
There are more pictures, of Jeff and Karen in their youth, little Gretta on Karen’s lap. And their wedding picture, Karen looking young and pretty in a flouncy dress.
