“Where was everyone staying, Mrs. Bradley?”

I lead her into the master bedroom first. “Jay and I were in here.” It’s the biggest room, has its own bath, and is the most private of all the bedrooms. We have our own fireplace and sitting area, so when you’re in here you hardly notice anyone else is around.

The door to the summer porch is just beyond our room, and I point that out. “Alice and her dad slept out there. It was really hot that week.”

The other bedroom on the first floor is on the other side of the house. “This is where the Westmores stayed,” I say. Detective Fuller walks the perimeter of the room, peers out the window that looks out on the back lawn. I watch Detective Myers write in her notebook, and I notice that she’s drawing as well.

“Okay,” she says. “What about upstairs?”

I lead them to the staircase that runs halfway up, opening to the great room before turning on a landing and continuing to the upper floor. “There are two bedrooms up here, with a shared bath between them. The Pearsons stayed in the room on the right, and the Ferrises were on the left.”

“Any kids here that weekend?”

“No. They were all with the grandparents. Well, except Alice.”

“Convenient,” she says. “Where were Mr. Branch and his daughter staying?”

“Downstairs,” Alice says, totally at ease in the adult conversation. “We slept on the summer porch.” Alice puts pencil to paper as if she’s an integral part of the proceedings.

Detective Myers looks at her as though she’s just noticed her. “Hmmm. Okay.” She tips her head up and points to the panel on the ceiling. “Attic access?”

“Yes.”

“That where your husband would’ve had to go to get to that window?”

“Yes.”

Detective Fuller pulls the cord, and we all step aside as it creaks open and frigid air rushes out like a trapped demon. I wrap my arms around my stomach. Sadie pulls close to my side. Fuller swings the stairs down, and we’re practically pinned against the walls of the hallway.

“Mind if Detective Fuller and I look around up there by ourselves?”

I shake my head. “No. Be my guest. We’ll wait downstairs.”

CHAPTER 32 - Rita

CHAPTER 32

Rita

THE HOUSE IS PRETTY COOL. I CAN PICTURE TEDDY ROOSEVELT OR Ernest Hemingway walking through the front door with a dead animal draped over his shoulders. Not that I’m a fan of hunting. I’m not. But the place is interesting and rustic posh. I can see Hemingway sitting on the deck, notebook in one hand, bottle in the other.