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?Winsley’s mouth grew tight. She didn’t deal well with people not doing as she wanted.
?“And if you tell the police you saw us,” Mark added, “be assured we will bring up your visit.”
?“I see,” she snarled. “I will not mention it, unless the police do so first.”
?“Same with us,” I shot back as Winsley made her way to the door. She gave a nasty look at us, opened the door, and after she glanced both ways, snuck out.
?“Watkins, quick!” I hissed.
?“What?”
?“Look around the floor, under the furniture. For heaven’s sake, keep away from the blood.”
?“What am I looking for?” Mark worried.
?“Didn’t you see it?”
?“See what?”
? I knelt down and peered under the bed. “Ms. Cunningham. Didn’t you see what was missing?”
?“Missing?” he said, confused. “Did she forget her hat?”
?“Aha!” I announced, as I reached behind the dresser. I stood up and held a green piece of jewelry.
?Mark gasped as he saw what was in my hand.
?A cameo with a silhouette of Sherlock Holmes.
?Mark spoke first. “She was wearing that on Wednesday, but not yesterday at the panel.”
?“Exactly, Watkins. I’ve seen her wearing this cameo for years, any time I ran into her. How did it get in here?”
?“Do you think that’s what she was looking for?”
?“I have no doubt, Watkins,” I told him and examined the pin with my magnifying glass. “There’s no blood spatter on it.”
?“What does that mean?” Mark wondered.
?“It suggests that although Ms. Cunningham was in this room, she might not have been here when Candy was shot.”
?“Do you think she was in this room between Wednesday night and Thursday?”
?“When you were drugged and Candy was murdered? Possibly.”
?“So how did the pin end up behind the dresser?”
?“Perhaps a struggle,” I concluded and ran my gloved finger over the cameo. “We will hold onto this, in case we need it. Let’s get out of here.”
19. Typesetting
Mark Watkins
?A few minutes later, we were back in Sheryl’s hotel room. She laid the cameo on her desk, snapped several photos with her phone, and then placed it in a zipper-closing plastic bag, which she also pulled from her luggage.
?I’d reached the point where I no longer bothered to ask her why she brought such things.
?We took off the gloves and shoe covers, and Sheryl put them in the plastic bag designed to line the room’s ice bucket. She then got out her little memo pad and began to write with her strange hieroglyphs.
