Dawn fiddled self-importantly with the computer keyboard on the reception desk, glancing at a screen that neither Sunny nor Jane could see. “As I mentioned, there’s nothing listed—”
Jane had had enough, sidestepping Dawn’s desk and heading down the hallway. If this followed the typical layout for most medical practices, somewhere along this corridor would be an examination room, a private office, or maybe both.
“You can’t go back there!” Dawn’s professional composure cracked as badly as her voice.
“Martin!” Jane drowned out Dawn’s complaints. “Stop hiding behind this girl. You made threats to get me to come here, but that’s all you’re getting out of me. Do you hear me, Martin? Martin?”
As she shouted, Jane stomped down the hallway, opening doors. Finally she reached a brightly lit examination room. “Martin!”
Jane froze in the doorway, with Sunny at her heels. It was pretty easy to see why Martin hadn’t responded. He lay sprawled across the metal top of the exam table, very, very still.
4
“Oh my God!” Jane rushed into the room, but Sunny grabbed her by the arm.
“If he’s the way I think he is,” Sunny said, “you’d better not be touching anything.”
Jane shook herself loose. “That’s a big ‘if’ right now.” She hurried over to Martin Rigsdale’s still form. He lay under a bright examination light, facedown. Jane put a finger to his neck and then glanced back at Sunny, shaking her head.
Dawn appeared in the doorway beside Sunny. “What are you doing?” Her voice grew shrill. “What did you do to him?”
“We found him like this,” Sunny told the girl. “Better call 911.”
“You’re damned right I will!” Dawn spun around and rushed back to her desk.
“Come on back here,” Sunny called to Jane. “You can’t do anything to help, and you may get in the way of the cops.”
That earned her a cold look from Jane. “I forgot that you and Will first met at a crime scene. Is that what he told you at the time?”
“On occasion. It’s good advice,” Sunny told her. “Especially around dead bodies.”
Jane grimaced but joined Sunny at the entrance to the room. Moments later, they heard the door buzzer shrill, and then heavy footfalls come down the hallway. A pair of Portsmouth police officers appeared, with Dawn behind them.
“They’re in here.” The girl sounded as if she was trying to catch her breath. “He was fine until they arrived.”
The cops split up, one entering the room, the other closely watching Sunny and Jane.
“Definitely deceased,” the cop in the examination room said to his partner. “Got a contusion on the back of his head. Shirt rolled up on the right arm—I think we’d better secure the scene and call the Detective Division.”
*
That meant a pair of detectives who arrived about fifteen minutes later. The lead was a big, burly type, gray-haired with a mournful, basset hound face. His partner was shorter and skinny, with pinched features and lips pursed as if he’d never tasted anything good in his life.
“Detective Trumbull.” The big man identified himself, displaying a gold badge. “And this is my partner, Detective Fitch.”
Fitch was already inside the room, moving with quick nervous steps. He stopped to examine the body. “Guy took a good knock on the head.” Then Fitch delicately raised one of Martin’s wrists. “No sign of rigor.”
“We’ll have to let the lab rats see if they can narrow down the time of death.” Trumbull turned back to Dawn. “When was the last time you saw the doctor?”
“About an hour and a half ago,” Dawn replied. “Then these two came barging in—”
“Thank you,” The detective’s rumbling voice overrode Dawn’s accusations. He looked from Jane to Sunny. “I understand that one of you is the wife of the deceased?”
“Ex-wife,” Jane quickly corrected, not noticing Sunny’s wince. “We finalized the divorce more than a year ago.”
“She killed Martin—Dr. Rigsdale!” Dawn insisted from the background. “She came down here, and the next thing I know, they’re telling me he’s dead!”
“As you told me at the doorway, Ms. Featherstone.” Was that patience or resignation in Trumbull’s voice? “Why don’t you go wait in the front room with the other officers?” he suggested, turning his concentration back to Jane.
“What was your name again?” he asked her.
“Dr. Jane Rigsdale. I’m a vet, too. Martin and I used to have a practice together.”
“You came down here and found Dr. Martin Rigsdale dead?”
Jane nodded. “He was just lying there.”
Trumbull turned to Sunny. “And you are?”
“Sonata Coolidge. I gave Jane a lift over here.”
“My car had a flat, and I asked Sunny for a ride,” Jane explained.
