“Is this how you found her?” Reed asked as he stared down at the broken body of Mavis Greenlee.
Her husband, Archer, stood near the open front door of their mansion. In a polo shirt and pressed khakis, the tall man was huddled against the sidelight of the massive double doors. Archer could do nothing more than nod, his gaze glued to the crumpled mass that had been his wife.
Blood had pooled on the marble floor beneath Mavis’s blond head, a wide puncture wound at her neck, legs splayed upward on the stairs, one of her arms at an impossible angle, no doubt broken. Probably in several places. On the fifth step, a small pink pistol rested, and there appeared to be a bullet hole in the ceiling, right next to a massive chandelier.
The foyer itself was crawling with EMTs and police, the walls reflecting the blue and red flashes from the police vehicles parked in the wide, circular drive outside.
“You didn’t move her?” Reed asked.
“No, no, should I have?” Archer’s big eyes rounded, and he was sweating, drops glistening through his thin comb-over. “I thought you were never supposed to … I mean, I saw her, called to her, but Iknew she was dead. I, um, I did go near and check for a pulse. I told that to the 911 operator, but there was nothing.” Now he was shaking his head more violently, his voice rising, “And she wasn’t breathing. I put a finger under her nose. I checked for a pulse. I did. I checked. But I knew. Oh, God, how did this happen?” He seemed genuinely distressed.
“Okay.” Reed crouched low, staring at the once-beautiful woman. He knew her, had seen her at several charity functions over the years. Mavis Greenlee was synonymous with Savannah society.
“Can I … Can I go now?” Archer was inching toward the open door and the circular drive, beyond where the first responders had gathered near the fire trucks and emergency vehicles.
“Go where?”
“We have another house,” Archer said quickly, fidgeting with his keys. “Out on Tybee Island. Until … well, until you’re finished here and … and she’s gone.” He swallowed hard and waved a hand at his dead wife. “I just can’t stay here. It’s too … well, you know.”
Reed did know.
He’d seen it all before.
Those left behind not wanting to stay in the home where a murder had taken place.
From somewhere above came a loud, pitiful cry.
“What—?”
“Princess,” Archer said, glancing up at the closed double doors at the top of the stairs. “My wife’s cat. Oh, God, what am I going to do with her?”
At that moment, Sol Augustin returned to the foyer. She’d ridden with Reed to the Greenlee mansion but, after a quick view of the crime scene, had stepped outside to take a call.
She was just disconnecting and stuffing her cell into the pocket of her slacks. “What do you mean?” Sol asked, her gaze shifting from Archer to the dead woman.
“Not her. Not Mavis,” Archer said, realizing what Sol was probably thinking. “The cat. What the hell am I going to do with that damned thing?”
As if she’d heard, Princess gave up another long, pitiful wail.
“You’re worried about your cat?” Sol said slowly.
“I just don’t need another damned thing … I mean I … I have to get out of here.”
“He’s leaving?” she asked, turning her attention to Reed.
Reed explained. “They’ve got a place out on Tybee.”
“Do you? Well, that works out, now, doesn’t it?” she said, turning her gaze on Archer. “And no room for a cat out there?”
“I can’t—I just can’t! Oh, God. It—she—hates me. Spits and hisses and runs away. She’s Mavis’s damned Persian and I … no, no I can’t have that … that thing with me. No.”
To Reed, Augustin said, “Just got off the phone with the ME’s office. They’re on their way.”
“And Forensics?”
“Should be here any minute.” Sol then turned her attention to Archer Greenlee. “Where were you again?” she asked, studying the nervous man. “Earlier tonight.”
“I told you. Or—I mean, I told the cop—a deputy, I think. I can’t remember his name. Big guy. Black. He was here when I first got here.”