Free Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) by Bob Avey

Thompson, seemed suspicious. She studied Elliot’s badge for several seconds before asking, “Is Brighid in some sort of trouble?”
    “You could say that.”
    Deborah Thompson sighed, her breath a puff of fog in the cold air. “I wish I could say that surprises me, but it doesn’t.”
    Elliot watched her face, looking for a reaction. “Why do you say that?”
    Ms. Thompson took off her red stocking cap, which nearly matched the color of her cheeks. “Well, her line of work, of course.”
    “Could you be a little more specific?”
    She smiled uncertainly and chafed her hands. “Would you like to come inside? It’s a bit nippy out here.”
    Elliot followed Ms. Thompson inside where they sat in wicker chairs in what had apparently been the front bedroom. It had been brightly painted and converted into a sunroom. After bringing Elliot a cup of hot tea, Ms. Thompson said, “Haven’t done your homework, have you? I really hate to say this, though I suppose the truth is what you’re after. Brighid sells herself for money, Detective. She’s a prostitute.”
    “I know about that. Is there anything else you could tell me?”
    Ms. Thompson set her teacup on a table beside her chair. “Brighid’s a nice person, really, perhaps a bit lacking in the area of judgment, but as sweet as you’ll ever meet. What has she gotten herself into, Detective? Maybe I could help.”
    Elliot studied the lady then set his cup down as well. He hated this part of his job. “Brighid’s dead, Ms. Thompson. She was shot.”
    Deborah Thompson’s hand came up, covering her mouth. After a moment, she lowered it to her lap. “Dear God.”
    “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”
    She shook her head. “She never brought her customers home, at least that’s what she told me. And I’ve never seen anyone hanging around.”
    Ms. Thompson paused briefly, then adding, “There is something else you need to know, something rather odd.”
    Elliot turned to a fresh page in his notepad. “Go on.”
    “Brighid was a bit delusional. Believed she was the descendant of a Celtic goddess, her namesake, I suppose.”
    Elliot thought of the strange symbol carved into the table where the John Doe had been found. “Was she a member of a religious group?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Anything else?”
    “I’m afraid that’s all I know. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
    Elliot added this to his notes, then folding his notepad, stood, and put on his coat. “Thanks for you help, Ms. Thompson.”
    He handed her a card. “If you come up with anything, give me a call.”
    After being let out, Elliot walked the short distance to the victim’s address.
    The house appeared as steeped in mystery as its owner was. Overgrown shrubs and bushes crowded the small lot, and vines covered the serpentine picket fence that surrounded the yard. The forensic team had arrived. Elliot stood on the porch for a moment, observing empty flowerpots and wooden planters, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went inside the 1920s bungalow on Trenton Avenue. He hoped to find something that might give him an idea as to the victim’s connection with the unidentified body at Windhall. Raymond Clark was there, dusting for prints.
    “How you doing, Elliot?”
    “Long day,” Elliot said. He felt strange, lightheaded. “I could sleep for a week.”
    “Hope you’re not coming down with something,” he said. He went back to his work.
    The first bedroom, which was on the south side of the house, just off the living area, had been outfitted for sleeping, but the closet and the dresser were empty and nothing sat atop the furniture but a lamp: a guest room. Elliot took a quick look around the adjoining bath, then went back to the living area.
    He picked up a small box sitting on the fireplace mantle and looked inside. It was filled with potpourri. Brighid kept a neat house; the antique furnishings, purposely selected to fit the bungalow’s era,