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He shook his head. “Our search yielded some underage drinking at the former cattle factory Miss Davins named, but no one I’d deem sinister. Judging from the blood, and mind you I am nowhere near as talented an estimator as Gianna there holding the biohazard bag, the perp committed this act of violence less than two hours ago, well after my deputy and I had exited the woods.”
“You got here fast,” I pointed out.
“You ain’t the lone soul on this street with my number.” The sheriff’s attention turned from the pelt to me. “Seems that rough week of yours continues, Miss Davins.”
Instantly I remembered I was wearing a dirty smock, had charcoal smeared down my forearms and probably half my face, not to mention the lack of pants and bra. “Feeling equal parts lucky and cursed,” I agreed, holding my hem with both hands, wary of the slightest breeze.
He nodded. “I should add I’m thankful you called and glad you’re safe. We may not have caught the party responsible, but you’ve supplied us with valuable leads.”
“Glad to help.” I gestured at my porch. “Seems karma’s bitten me on Keith’s behalf.”
The sheriff regarded the headless pelt. “Might could be the case, I’m afraid.”
From his tone I sensed a somber confirmation of my worst fear: somewhere beneath the chirping robins and pollen-speckled nests of the spring forest, down where moss consumed stone and insects scuttled at all hours, a mud-encrusted claw was tapping away the minutes to night fall. I shivered.
The man offered his coat.
Before I could inform him the throw was still draped over the banister not ten feet behind, Lisa cut between us.
“Sorry, but do you need me? I’ve gotta haul ass to pick up my fiancé and make our train. I didn't see or hear anything. I stepped in it. Keep everything. I’ve got a spare key fob I can use for today.”
I gaped at her. “Lisa!”
“I’ll have my nightmares on the train, Marcy.” Her pleading blue eyes focused on the sheriff. “I have an interview this afternoon with the Giants. The Giants! Please, my future is on the line here. We’ve already rescheduled once.”
The sheriff was quiet a moment, then thumbed toward a distant investigator: the cross young woman escorting Tammy to her property. “Please allow Lieutenant Mishra-Anderson ten minutes of questioning and make yourself available later should we ask.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” Lisa exclaimed, careful to hold a somber tone. “Our garage door opener’s broken. We’ve been parking outside. I’ll grab my stuff and come around the back in five.”
“Afraid I must insist you exit through the front. We haven't secured the area. I'll help you over the rail.”
“Whatever you say.” Careful not to ruin her socks, Lisa edged around the blood and back inside. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
As she disappeared down the hall, the sheriff’s bright eyes met mine. He folded his coat on the rail and gave it an indicative ‘for you’ pat. “If I thought she knew something worthwhile or believed her to be in any sort of danger, I’d hold her.”
“Are you implying neither one or only one of us is at risk?”
“I’m saying she’s free to go. You, however, I’m interested in.”
He excused himself to walk the scene, but help the man did once Lisa emerged, taking her bag as she hopped the rail. When the sheriff turned to answer a question from an officer, she pointed at his hand and mouthed, “No ring!”
His attention swung back right as my tongue stuck out. A dark eyebrow lifted. “This is a crime scene, Miss Davins.”
Red-faced, I apologized and gestured at my door. “Join me inside, sheriff? An open door is an irresistible temptation for cats, one of which is responsible for last night’s phone call.”
He obliged. No sooner had he removed his hat and crossed the threshold, said cats leered at him from beneath the junk drawer, having been caught red-pawed (or nearly; I’d pushed them inside before their sensitive toes could nope the fuck out of sticky cold blood and wreak havoc on everything expensive and stainable laying around, aka the couch and clean laundry pile).
Samson hissed. Igor shadowed his displeasure in a lower, raspy intonation.
The sheriff’s nose wrinkled.
“Not a cat person?” I observed, rubbing off flakes of dried mascara. When approaching the hall mirror, I avoided the temptation to look.
“Not a pet person,” he corrected. “These are your Maniacs?”
“Samson and Igor.”
“Only two?”
