Tuesday Teaser: Guest Post ‘The Crows’ by Maris Soule
He nodded. “I think we can let you inside where it’s warmer, but you’ll have to stay where I tell you. This is now a crime scene.”
“No, it’s a where-he-died scene. That’s where the crime occurred.” I pointed toward the woods.
He looked that direction, and that’s when I noticed his eye lashes. Why is it men always get the beautiful blue eyes and the long, thick lashes? It’s just not fair. I did notice a few crow’s-feet at the edges of his eyes, but they only added a rugged quality to his features.
His gaze came back to the door. “Did you go in this way when you found the body?”
“Yes, but I was careful. I only touched the end of the handle, below the blood.”
“Good.” He pulled a latex glove out of his jacket pocket and slipped it on. I noticed he wore no rings. Neither hand. Not that it meant he wasn’t married or had a significant other . . . or that I should care.
Using his gloved hand, Detective Kingsley held the door open. I walked past him into my kitchen, glad for the warmth of my house. Some days in April can be quite warm. This wasn’t one of them.
Now, I’m not a great housekeeper under the best of conditions; I absolutely drove some of my coworkers nuts at Quick Sum Associates. And at tax time, you can forget me playing Martha Stewart. Dirty dishes filled my sink and covered my counter, and I needed to dump the basket of old coffee grounds by my coffee maker and toss the empty soup can that sat on the stove. I would have gotten around to doing those things if I hadn’t found a man dying in my house.
“The body’s in there,” I said, pointing toward my dining room. “Along with the other officer.”
Detective Kingsley nodded, but didn’t move, other than to pull the latex glove off and stuff it in another pocket. He then took a notebook from his jacket pocket, along with a stub of a pencil. “Your name is?”
“And what does the P.J. stand for?”
“It stands for P.J.” He gave me a look of disbelief, so I explained. “That’s the name I use. Officially. You can check with the Department of Motor Vehicles.”
“P.J. Benson.” He lifted his eyebrows, but wrote it down. “Your age?”
“Why do you need that?” Not that I’m sensitive about my age. I just wondered why it mattered. I wasn’t the one who’d died.
He glanced up from the notebook. “For my records.”
“Twenty-eight. What’s your age?” The moment he frowned, I smiled and added, “For my records.”