Before she could oblige, she glanced up and caught Cliff’s eyes on her. She saw his lips twist into something between a sneer and a smile. With a silent oath, she signed the pad and handed it back.

“I don’t know much about this kind of thing,” she began briskly, “but I’d appreciate it if you kept me informed on whatever’s being done.”

“We’ll have the medical examiner’s report in a few days.” Pocketing his pad, the investigator became solidly professional again. “We’ll all know more then. Thanks for your time, Miss Fitzgerald. We’ll be out of your way as soon as we can.”

Though she felt Cliff’s gaze still on her, Maggie didn’t look over. Instead, she turned and walked back into the house. Moments later, music could be heard through the open windows.

Cliff remained where he was, though he’d answered all the questions that he could answer. His thoughts were focused on the sounds coming from the music room. It wasn’t one of her songs, he concluded, but something from the classics, something that required speed, concentration and passion. Therapy, he wondered, frowning up at the window. With a shrug, he started toward his car. It wasn’t his concern if the lady was upset. Hadn’t she told him she’d moved back here to be on her own?

Turning his head, he saw the investigators preparing to leave. Within moments, he reflected, she’d be alone. The music pouring out of the windows was tense, almost desperate. Swearing, Cliff stuffed his keys back in his pocket and strode toward the steps.

She didn’t answer his knock. The music played on. Without giving it a second thought, he pushed open the front door. The house vibrated with the storm coming from the piano. Following it into the music room, he watched her from the doorway.

Her eyes were dark, her head was bent, though he didn’t think she even saw the keys. Talent? There was no denying it, any more than there could be any denying her tension or her vulnerability. Later, he might ask himself why all three made him uncomfortable.

Perhaps he did want to comfort her, he told himself. He’d do the same for anyone, under the circumstances. She didn’t have to mean anything to him for him to want to offer a diversion. Strays and wounded birds had always been weaknesses of his. Dissatisfied with his own logic, Cliff waited until she’d finished.

Maggie looked up, startled to see him in the doorway. Damn her nerves, she thought, carefully folding her hands in her lap. “I thought you’d gone.”

“No. They have.”

She tossed the hair out of her eyes and hoped she looked composed. “Was there something else?”

“Yeah.” He walked over to run a finger over the piano keys. No dust, he noted, in a house nearly choked with it. Her work was obviously of first importance.

When he didn’t elaborate, Maggie frowned. Cliff preferred the impatience he saw in her eyes now. “What?”