Free Blood of Eden by Tami Dane

notice how broad his shoulders looked from that angle. “You said she died from complications of dengue hemorrhagic fever. What exactly killed her?”
    â€œThe ME hadn’t completed a full autopsy yet, of course, but liver damage was the early diagnosis.” Pausing midway down the staircase, he turned to look up at me. “I think I saw a neighbor at home. Maybe she noticed something. Let’s go talk to her.”
    â€œOkay.” I followed him down the remaining stairs, sort of glancing this way and that. I was hoping if there was something out of the ordinary in the house, it would catch my eye. In the foyer, we said good-bye to Trey Chapman, after having verified that the daughter, Julia, had been away since the beginning of last week and wouldn’t be returning until late tomorrow. Then I officially gave up; my first search for clues had been an utter failure.
    So far, I was about as useful to the FBI as a freezer to an Eskimo.
    Outside, JT pointed at the house on the east side of the Richardsons’ home, the one I’d been peeping into earlier. “The neighbor was working on the flower beds. I saw her from the window.”
    We followed a stone path around the side of the neighbor’s house. JT stopped at the wooden gate closing off the backyard. He called out, “Excuse me, ma’am?”
    After a little bit of rustling, a woman shuffled around the corner. She tipped her head and pushed back the brim of her straw gardening hat to wipe her forehead with a gloved hand. “Yes?”
    JT flashed his credentials. “Agent Thomas, with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œSure.” The woman wandered toward us. She looked puzzled as she stopped at the gate and draped a hand over its top. “How can I help you? This won’t take long, will it? I have to go to work in a while.”
    â€œNot more than five minutes, tops. Did you happen to notice anything unusual about your neighbor in the past couple of days?” He pointed at Deborah Richardson’s house.
    She thought for a moment, shook her head, then glanced at the victim’s home, as if it might tell her something. “No. Not that I can think of. Her daughter, Julia, has been gone. She’s a summer camp counselor. With her away, the house has been quieter than normal. Though Debbie keeps to herself, anyway. Why?”
    He toyed with his spiral notebook as he asked, “Did you know she died yesterday?”
    The woman’s eyes widened. Her gloved hand smacked over her mouth. “Died?” After a beat, she added, “That poor child, losing her mother. Was she ... murdered?”
    â€œThere’s nothing to suggest it was murder, ma’am,” JT said.
    â€œThen why is the FBI investigating?” She glanced at me.
    â€œWe’re just following up on some information that may or may not be related to her death,” I said, repeating what JT had told Chapman earlier.
    â€œThis is very surprising.” The woman chewed her lower lip. “Did you talk to the boyfriend? If you’re looking for someone suspicious, I’d check him out first.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?” I asked, slanting a glance at JT.
    Chances were, our victim hadn’t been murdered, but had simply ignored her symptoms—how and why?—and had died when she started bleeding internally. But Chief Peyton had decided we were treating this case like a murder investigation. So, that was what I was going to do. If nothing else, it could prove to be good practice for when I got my job with the BAU.
    A suspicious boyfriend could be a good lead in a murder investigation.
    â€œWell”—the woman tapped her chin with an index finger—“on those police shows, isn’t it always the husband or boyfriend who kills the victim?”
    I nodded. “Generally, yes—”
    â€œI think they were having