The air inside the outbuilding was just as frigid as outside but at least they were sheltered from the wind. A silver sedan sat on the concrete pad. Debbie Abbot’s car.

The hairs on the back of Eban’s neck rose. They checked the space, making sure no one was hiding behind the stored garden furniture or empty plant pots.

Nothing.

He looked back at the car as Signy peered inside the windows. “Empty.”

“Let’s check the trunk.” Eban covered the detective while she opened it. They both recoiled at what they saw. A woman, probably in her late thirties, lay frozen inside. She’d been stabbed in the chest, right through the heart. Blood coated the front of her white shirt. Her skin was gray, eyes frozen into lifelessness, but she was perfectly preserved. Who knew how long she’d been dead?

Eban turned away and released a long pent-up breath. “Debbie Abbot?”

Signy checked her phone and pulled up a photo of her. “Looks like her. Damn. I just figured out where I heard the name before.”

Eban jerked his chin in silent question.

“Debbie Abbot was Kim Gleeson’s first receptionist. The woman who ‘quit’ without notice.”

Eban grunted. “I am beginning to see a pattern. Let’s bring him in for questioning and see where we are on all the other evidence. We need to link him to the other crime scenes. Bring the wife in for questioning as well.”

“You think she knew what was going on?”

Eban shrugged. He couldn’t imagine living with someone, sleeping with someone and not suspecting. “I don’t want her providing him with an alibi. Let’s collect the evidence. If he’s the killer and Locard’s principle is correct, we’ll find trace evidence that connects him to the murders.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Darby had spent two hours going through images with an officer and writing down names of people she knew and suggesting who to ask for names of the those she didn’t. Fewer photos had been taken later in the evening. The event had been winding down and the novelty of the dances and pipers and haggis had worn off. She’d exhaustively examined what they had. It was difficult to believe someone in that room, where the atmosphere had been one of joviality and fun, was a heartless murderer.

Now, with all the human activity going on, it was proving difficult to focus on volcanology on this not-so-fine Friday morning. Had this victim survived? Had they named their attacker or was their memory a blank slate like hers?

Usually, the latest data from her volcano, or any activity of the fifty-plus volcanoes monitored by US Geological Service was enough to keep her interest. But the earth’s crust was boringly benign today and nothing was even hinting at anything out of the norm except for Kīlauea which had been erupting almost constantly since 1983.

Her phone rang. She checked the number and braced herself.

“Yes.”

“Darby.” It was Jacqui.