“How long…?”
Detective Christie chose a pen from a mesh desk organizer and began doodling on a yellow legal pad. “Ms. Pierce had been dead at least twenty-four hours before you found her. A witness—one of the deceased’s neighbors—has given a statement that a man she didn’t recognize visited Ms. Pierce on the night she died. The neighbor happened to be standing near her kitchen window when the figure walked past, and she heard the person knock on Ms. Pierce’s door and enter the premises.
“This exchange stood out to the witness because, according to her, Ms. Pierce rarely had visitors.”
Genevieve nodded along, picturing what came next—a struggle, probably brief considering the strength of the intruder, a smothering, or a broken neck, and then... She shivered involuntarily. It was awful, of course. The poor woman was dead, but there was another possible victim who might not be. She leaned forward.
“Detective, I don’t mean to be insensitive toward the, uh, deceased, but shouldn’t you be concerned about locating Miss Love? I mean, if the suicide note was a fake...”
Detective Christie looked up from her drawing and fixed her blue gaze on Genevieve. “I realize Haylie Love was a beloved teacher,” she said gently. “The fact is, Miss Winterland, while we have yet to locate her body, we are quite certain Miss Love is dead.”
Genevieve’s heart sank. “But how?” she persisted. “How do you know for sure?”
“The blood on the clothes found in Ms. Pierce’s home matches Miss Haylie Love’s.” She paused and then added, “And, as you know, there was a copious amount of it.”
A painful silence stretched between them. Genevieve stared at the detective and then looked away, exhaling a shaky breath. So, someone who was not Ms. Pierce had murdered Pinewood’s favorite teacher. It didn’t make sense. Who could possibly have hated Miss Love enough to kill her? Unless she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? But then there was the issue of the protected address... Genevieve remembered what Brandon had said when Miss Love had first gone missing—that she could be at the police station filing an order of protection. Obviously she hadn’t been, not then, but what about before?
She looked at Detective Christie, who was waiting patiently as Genevieve absorbed the news. “Have you checked to see if Miss Love ever filed an order of protection? Maybe in Mountain Ridge, where she used to live?”
The detective’s gaze sharpened. “Why would you think she’d sought police protection?”
Genevieve hesitated. She couldn’t admit to knowing about the protected address and risk getting herself, or Dillon, into trouble. “Just a hunch. I mean, you always do that, right? Check police records.”
Detective Christie sighed. “Of course we do. There were no records of the sort on Haylie Love, not here, not in Mountain Ridge. Now, if you know of something—”
Genevieve had never been a good liar; she quickly changed the subject. “Why did you suspect the suicide was staged?”
The detective considered her for a moment, and then gave a little shrug. “It was the cat,” she said.
“The cat?”
“Devoted pet owners like Ms. Pierce rarely leave their pets behind like that. They tend to make sure their pets are taken care of if they die, and are unlikely to leave them voluntarily. When you mentioned the cat that night, I was immediately suspicious.”
Genevieve said nothing. The image of the abandoned cat and the memory of his lonely cries once again struck pity in her heart for the substitute teacher. She was glad that at least the cat had gone on to a good home.
“Miss Winterland? Whoever is responsible for Ms. Pierce’s death is likely the person responsible for Miss Love’s. You can see how important it is to locate this person immediately. I asked you here today because we need your help to bring a murderer to justice.”
As clear as sunlight, Genevieve could see the face of Miss Love smiling before her, framed by her spunky pink curls. She heard her laughter tinkling like the bells of Sweet Dreams, and saw her bright eyes as she led her students in a lively class discussion, encouraging them, believing in their future success, the way all good teachers do. The senseless loss took Genevieve’s breath away.
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Then the first thing,” Detective Christie said, flipping her legal pad to a fresh page, “is to tell me everything you know about both women.”
“But who would want to murder a pair of Pinewood High teachers?” Brandon wondered. They were sitting in The Coffee Corner at Hidden Treasures, drinking hot chocolate (the rain still had not let up) and sharing a plate of assorted pastries. Brandon glanced disdainfully at a pumpkin spice muffin and tossed the entire thing to Butterscotch, who dove for it like a canine quarterback.
“You’re going to spoil her,” Genevieve chided, patting her thigh and watching with affection as the dog trotted over and rested her warm, golden-brown head on Genevieve’s leg. “And anyway, all your bribes won’t work, see? She prefers me.”
Brandon scoffed. “That’s just because I smell like roasted coffee beans—not very appealing to a dog—and you smell like a hot-fudge sundae.”
Genevieve looked at him mischievously. “You could always come work for me at Sweet Dreams—”
Brandon shuddered. “Yeah, no. You get way too many customers, especially the miniature ones. And anyway, it’s too bright in there.”
Genevieve laughed and wrapped her hands around her mug of cocoa. “You’re going to grow up to be one of those grumpy old men with a NO SOLICITING sign in his window.”
Brandon looked highly offended. “I am not,” he said firmly, “ever growing up.”
“Okay, Peter Pan.” Genevieve took a swallow of the decadent hot chocolate and then sighed as silence fell between them. They could indulge in sweet diversions for a time, but neither could shake the truth of knowing there was a killer loose in Pinewood, and that person was targeting teachers at their high school. Someone had to get to the bottom of this, and soon.
The evening before, Detective Christie had made an impromptu visit to Genevieve’s house, claiming she needed to clarify some information in her notes. Genevieve’s father had sat by her side on the couch for the duration of the visit, visibly on edge as the detective asked mostly tepid questions that Genevieve had already answered.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” her father barked at one point, and the detective glanced at him with a look Genevieve could not identify.
“You don’t see how your daughter’s observations are relevant? She was the first person on the scene.”
“Dad, it’s fine,” Genevieve assured him. She had nothing to hide and was more concerned about staying on the detective’s good side, seeing as how she was technically guilty of breaking and entering. Her father remained mostly quiet after that, staring darkly across the room as the detective occasionally gave him a cool, nonchalant glance. It was all very awkward.
After the detective had left he’d ranted for nearly an hour, dropping alarming suggestions that included Genevieve enrolling in high school distance courses, taking a leave of absence from Sweet Dreams, and even staying a while with her mother in Las Vegas. Genevieve had assured him that the school was implementing increased security measures—it was no longer possible to enter campus without a badge, for instance, and the gates were locked during school hours. Seniors had grumbled about that because it meant they were forced to stay on campus for lunch. Also, (she said this at great cost to her own personal dignity) Tyler’s presence at Sweet Dreams helped to keep her safe and secure.
“Well,” her father had responded, visibly swelling, “I guess that was a good decision after all then, wasn’t it!” Genevieve had smiled through her grimace.
“Very smart, Dad,” she’d said, and then fled to her room before he could continue the conversation.
Now, finishing her break at Hidden Treasures, surrounded by the dark and quiet, she looked solemnly at Brandon. “I want to talk to Principal Mattison.”
Brandon choked on his hot chocolate. “What for? The police already questioned him; he obviously isn’t guilty.”
