Free Dangerous Secrets by L. L. Bartlett, Kelly McClymer, Shirley Hailstock, C. B. Pratt Page A

the creek,″ I said, leaving out my
suspicions on how they′d spent their evening.
    Within minutes, two plainclothes detectives had
arrived, along with the chief of police. The yellow crime tape came out and the
investigation began in earnest.
    I was impressed with the care the small town
cops gave the scene—especially since at first glance the area looked totally
innocent. As a former insurance investigator, I was used to looking over
possible crime scenes. Being there brought back a kind of macabre nostalgia.
    When the crime photographer arrived, I admit a
degree of professional curiosity. Though they kept me pretty far back, I
watched as he took photos from every conceivable angle, including flat on the
cement deck for a shot of the body at ground level. They paid particular
attention to the concrete deck, and I wondered if I′d missed traces of
blood.
    After the initial photos were taken, and the
county medical examiner arrived, they hauled Eileen′s bloated, naked body
from the tub, laying her on the concrete deck. In death she looked younger than
she had the night before. A discolored, crescent-shaped cut and bruise marred
the left side of her forehead. The photographer took close-ups of her face, as
well as the edges of the hot tub; there were no other signs of trauma on the
body. The bruise didn′t match the edge of the tub. But something else was
wrong. Eileen′s abdomen should′ve been discolored by pooled blood.
Could she have bled to death? The police had the same idea, for next they took
water samples, then completely dismantled the hot tub′s filtering system.
    I turned away, embarrassed for the dead woman.
The last thing she would have wanted was strangers gawking at her wrinkled,
naked body.
    With all the questions and photos, it was hours
before the Eileen Marshall’s body was removed by the medical examiner. By then
I′d told my story to four or five officers of different ranks, making
sure to tell it exactly the same every time. Sgt. Beach seemed to be in charge.
He wasn′t a local. His voice bore the trace of a mid-western accent—maybe
Iowa. He wasn′t much older than me, and maybe five-ten in height.
    Meanwhile, Morris and the other officers
interviewed the rest of the guests. They even went through the inn′s
trash looking for the missing scotch bottle. And while there wasn′t talk
about them coming back with a warrant to search each room, it seemed like the
next step. At one point Susan disappeared with two of the cops, and the
photographer, to chronicle and then pack Eileen′s belongings.
    When the ME′s wagon pulled away, Sgt.
Beach gathered all the guests in the dining room. ‶ Folks, I know this
is going to be an inconvenience to some of you, but until we determine how Ms.
Marshall died, I ask that everyone stay in the area. If you move to different
accommodations, please let the police department know. We′ll be in
touch.″
    The Andolinas looked grim as they left the
dining room, presumably for their room. Alyssa and her beau seemed
shell-shocked, and wandered out back, probably to look over the death site.
    I was starved, and it was almost eleven when I
finally sat down to eat. A tense-looking Maggie waited for me, and pulled her
chair close to mine. The meal was a somber affair. The camaraderie evident in
the kitchen the day before was gone. None of the guests were particularly
hungry, as evidenced by the food still heaped in the warming trays. Even though
they were booked for another week, we overhead the young Canadian couple
debating whether they should cancel and go home. I put odds that the wife would
win and as soon as the police cleared them they′d be on their way home to
Québec as fast as their BMW could take them. Personally, I didn′t blame
them.
    Maggie sipped her coffee and picked apart a
carrot muffin. ‶ How
do you think it happened?″
    ‶ Not here,″ I said under
my breath.
    She nodded and pushed her plate aside. I
finished my breakfast in