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“A hit-and-run?”
Sandy nodded.
Preston shook his head as if trying to clear his mind. “When did this happen?”
“Early this morning. Call came in at about one in the morning. I’m just coming from the scene. I’ve been there all night. Sixty-seven is shut down and state investigators are on the scene.”
“Is the person . . . ?”
“Yeah, he’s dead.”
“She’s been here, Sandy. Annabelle’s been here the whole night.”
Sandy nodded. “I still need to talk with her.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe you, Preston. I still need to speak with Annabelle.”
“Is she . . .” Preston took a step closer. “You don’t think you’re going to arrest my wife, do you, Sandy?”
The words came out as a challenge. Reid Margolis’s sons had been raised to believe they were above the law. Sandy wasn’t about to take the bait.
“I’m not here to arrest anyone, Preston. Just to ask a few questions. Her car was found at the scene of the crime. I need to figure out how it got there.”
Sandy saw Preston look off into the distance, out at the lake, as he thought through his options. The man was either genuinely confused by the news Sandy had delivered, or he was one hell of an actor.
“Mind if I check the garage first?” Preston finally asked. “To see if Annabelle’s car is there. Maybe there’s been a mistake.”
“Sure thing,” Sandy said, following Preston down the front steps and over to the garage.
“Your crew always start this early on a weekend?”
“Lester?” Preston said. “He’s the family’s handyman, a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He’s always around. Annabelle asked him to finish the garage, so he’s been here at sunup every day this week.”
“Morning, Mr. Margolis,” Lester said as Preston and Sandy passed the base of the ladder.
Mr. Margolis was a snot-nosed twenty-five-year-old kid just out of law school, and Sandy found it odd that someone barely his junior would address him so formally. Welcome to the life of a Margolis.
“Morning, Lester,” Preston said.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Margolis?”
“No problem.”
Preston opened the side door of the garage and flipped a wall switch. Overhead fluorescents brought the garage to life. Of the four bays, only the first held a vehicle—Preston’s BMW sedan. The second bay was empty, the third occupied by a 4x4 Gator tractor, and the fourth filled with a workbench and tools hanging neatly on the wall.
“What the hell?” Sandy heard Preston whisper to himself.
Finally, he turned to Sandy and nodded.
“I’ll wake Annabelle and we can all talk in the kitchen.”
“Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Sandy stood in the kitchen of Preston and Annabelle Margolis’s lake house. When the couple came down, Sandy noted that Annabelle, much like Preston, looked to have just climbed from bed. Typically, this would not be surprising for a Saturday morning, but it added to Sandy’s confusion about how this woman could have mowed down a man just hours earlier, abandoned her car on the side of the road, found her way home, and then slept soundly until Sandy’s house call.
“Morning, Annabelle,” Sandy said.
