CHAPTER
NINE

Georgetown
Maggie Lyons

Jennifer was just blowing out the candles on her cake when the doorbell rang.

Maggie Lyons waved her hands over the table to dissipate the smoke, kissed her daughter on the top of the head and said, “Hold on a minute, sweetie. I’ll cut it for you in a second. Let me just see who’s at the door.”

She tried to ignore the outpouring of cries followed by naughty laughter that emerged from the kitchen as she left, knowing full well the wolves had descended and there would be a mess when she returned. But that was fine. It was her baby’s birthday, and they were all a little hopped up on sugar and excitement. By the time she got back, the boys would be covered in icing. As would the table. And Jennifer.

The porch light was still on. She’d forgotten; she flipped the switch into the off position. Through the beveled glass of the front door, she could see two men in suits standing outside. One was about six foot, with brown hair cut close to his head. The other was shorter, squat, a bodybuilder. His arms stood out from his body almost at angles.

Cops.

What had that fool done now?

She pulled the door open, frowning. The taller of the two nodded at her.

“Ma’am? I’m Detective Darren Fletcher. This is Detective Lonnie Hart. We’re with Metro P.D. We need to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?”

She smiled in apology, slipped out the door and pulled it closed behind her. She knew what this was about. Her jerk of an ex-husband, who had turned from a fine, upstanding young lawyer into a degenerate alcoholic who liked to bust her around when he didn’t get his way. At least he was paying the child support again—though she knew his firm had garnisheed his future earnings to make that happen. They didn’t need the scandal, wanted her kept quiet and comfortable so she didn’t sue. Like she would—but that wasn’t the point.

“Can we do this out here? I don’t want the kids to hear.”

“Sure.” Fletcher studied his notebook. “You’re Margaret Lyons?”

“Yes, I am.” She heard the weariness in her voice. God, they had all fallen so far. “So what did Roy do now?”

Fletcher’s eyebrows creased, and the shorter man, Hart, chimed in. “Who’s Roy?”

Maggie leaned against the column. “My ex, of course. He’s a frequent flyer with you. Gets delinquent on his support payments. Likes to get into fights. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Oh,” Fletcher said. “This isn’t about him. At least, I don’t think so. It’s about the homicide across the street.”

“The what? Someone was killed? Here? Who?”

She straightened up and looked past the two men, finally registering the multitude of police cars that were parked down the street. Man, she needed to get some more sleep. How did she miss this? And she was shocked the kids hadn’t noticed. Granted, they were all in the kitchen, which faced the garden, enticed with birthday cake, but one of the boys usually grabbed the paper for her in the morning. She glanced down. The paper was still on the porch. She felt a flash of anger.

God, Maggie, get it together. Someone’s dead and you’re worried about the kids’ chores.

The detective was talking again. She tuned back in.

“Yes, ma’am. Happened overnight, sometime between two and four. We’re just checking to see if you heard or saw anything strange last night.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who’s dead?”

Fletcher looked at Hart, who nodded imperceptibly.

“His name is Harold Croswell.”

Maggie felt the wind leave her body, an exhalation she hoped the detectives didn’t notice.

She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with him. Where did this happen? I mean, which house?”

Fletcher pointed over his shoulder to the Federal-style brick town house across the way.

“But that’s Mrs. Emerson’s place. She’s in France for the spring and summer.”

“So the house was vacant?” Fletcher asked.

“It’s supposed to be. She travels quite a bit. A widow. A merry widow. George Emerson, that’s her husband, died three years ago. She’s been lonely, says travel helps.”

Fletcher shifted and she realized she sounded like an idiot. That wouldn’t do.

“God, I’m sorry, I’m babbling. Maybe this man was a friend of hers. She’s had a string of boyfriends. Amazing, really, a woman of her age keeping that pace.”

“He might have been a bit young for her,” Hart said dryly. “Do you have contact information for Mrs. Emerson?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. She has a housekeeper, though. She’d probably have all that.”

“Regular housekeeper?”

“Yes. Daily when she’s home, weekly when she’s out of town.” She smiled apologetically. “Sure would be nice. I work full-time, trying to make partner, and with the three kids, and Roy … Well, things are a bit of a mess.”

“You know when the maid was here last?”

“Um.” Maggie thought about it. “Yesterday morning, maybe.”

“This is a nice neighborhood,” Fletcher said.

“Yeah, it is. I’ve lived here my whole life—my parents left me the place when they passed. But it’s not the kind you’d expect people to be murdered in.”

The detectives were silent for a minute, just watching her. She hated how cops made her feel guilty, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Maggie heard the kids’ screaming laughter, the decibels leaking out through the closed door.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s my daughter’s birthday, we’re having cake. Is there anything else?”

Fletcher shook his head. “No, ma’am. Here’s my info. If you remember anything, please give us a call. Thanks for your time.”

She took his card and went back inside. Shut the door, then turned the dead bolt. Debated telling the kids, decided against it. Keep them in the kitchen, away from the scene. They’d be fascinated and horrified, wanting all the details, then would have nightmares. Like Jen had last night. She really needed to smack Bobby for giving her that book. But they may be more cooperative … No. Better to keep them in the dark.

She dropped Fletcher’s card on the table by the door and steeled herself for what she had to do next.

She never even thought about what Jen had said to her, that small, scared voice in the dark. All she knew was as soon as they had their cake, she had to get them all out.

She’d read about Donovan’s death. A carjacking. On the surface, a senseless act. But now, three days later, Croswell had been murdered in a house right across the street from her very own?

The message was clear. One could be chalked up to a mishap. But two?

The tiniest frisson of fear cruised down her spine. She shook it off. Pulled open the hall closet door and grabbed her bug-out bag, plus the smaller pack she had for the kids.

Fucking past. She was never going to escape it, was she?