'It's not a suicide,' a voice shouted from the doorway.
Homicide Lieutenant Lucinda Pierce ignored the noise and
focused on absorbing the scene around her. To the left,
against the wall, a black lacquer table with curved legs
bore a large white and red vase containing a greenhouseful
of red roses and white lilies. The petals appeared to be as
soft as chamois. The floral arrangement overwhelmed the
residential space in its size and expense – more
suited for a hotel lobby or the entrance of a
too–pricey restaurant.
A field of stark white marble veined with black
stretched beneath Lucinda's feet. The stone led to two
broad steps stretching wall–to–wall. It, too,
seemed too much – too grand for a place called home.
Beyond the marble flooring, wide heart of pine planks led
into an expansive living room populated by white and red
chairs and sofas and black lacquer tables. The room ended
with floor–to–ceiling glass that bowed out
toward the James River as if yearning to set sail.
Directly in front of her, right above the marble steps,
an arched walkway, like a bridge over a small stream,
spanned from one side of the second floor to the other
– the top railing of black lacquer supported by the
warm tones of aged pine spindles. Near the center of the
walkway, a wooden chair with an upholstered seat pushed
against the rail. Attached to the railing, a thick yellow
rope formed a dense knot, suspending the body of a
middle–aged woman.
'Someone murdered my wife,' the voice from the doorway
said. Lucinda assumed it was the voice of Frank Eagleton,
the male resident of the home.
Lucinda turned around and faced him. A tall,
well–built man in a charcoal suit, striped tie and
Italian loafers leaned into the room between the two
uniformed officers blocking his access. A very good but
still perceptible hairpiece perched on the top of his
head. Deep–set blue eyes flashed, his full, lower
lip stuck out in defiance. He gave the appearance of a man
who was unused to being ignored.
Turning to Sergeant Robin Colter, Lucinda
whispered, 'Get the husband away from the doorway. Do it
nicely. But make sure the uniforms keep him outside on the
premises.' Lucinda returned to her examination. Below the
woman's feet, the bright red soles of a pair of Louboutin
black spiked heels slashed across the white marble like a
fresh wound.
The deceased, presumably Candace Eagleton – the
only female living at this address – wore a black
pencil skirt and a stark white silk blouse. Around her
neck, a light green stone pendant hung from a gold chain.
The same stone was in her earrings and on the ring finger
of her right hand. Was the way she was dressed telling?
Was she on her way out? Did she dress like that around the
house, or did she put on a favorite outfit to commit
suicide?
Was there significance to the display of the body? No
one opening the door could miss her. The
high–vaulted ceilings in the foyer seemed to press
down, forcing all eyes in the direction of the deceased
woman. Beyond the elevated walkway, the ceilings soared up
again in the sun–drenched room beyond. Was that her
last moment of theatre? Did she want to make sure her
husband noticed her at last? Or was her prominent location
an arrogant slap from a killer?
'Money can't buy you love.'
Lucinda grinned and turned toward the sound of the
familiar gruff voice of the coroner. 'Doc Sam! Is that
what you think this is all about – love?'
'Of course. She either felt unloved and, thus, ended
her miserable existence. Or she was unloved and that
person snatched her life away. Love or the lack of it is a
backdrop to every story.' The word love sounded
incongruous falling off the lips of an old curmudgeon with
a balding head of wispy hair and rumpled clothes.
'Are you becoming a romantic in your old age?'
'I'm not too old to show up at yet another of your crime
scenes, Pierce,' he said as he tugged on a Tyvec suit and
booties.
'True. But love, Doc Sam?' The eyebrow above her good
eye arched nearly to her hairline.
'I'm not getting senile, if that's what you think.
Blame my granddaughter. She keeps telling me about my lack
of faith in humankind and my permanent state of surly
cynicism – she actually used that phrase, just
fifteen years old and she threw "surly cynicism" at me.
Anyway, she nags me to look for the positive, look for the
silver lining, look for the love.'
'And you're actually listening and following her advice?'
'She's my granddaughter, Pierce. My only
granddaughter. I'm trying but your surly cynicism doesn't
make it easy.'
Lucinda laughed and faced the body presumed to be
Candace Eagleton once again. 'The husband says it's not a
suicide.'
'And that surprises you, Pierce? What family does
believe a loved one could take their own life?'