Dealing in Murder

Chapter One

The blood-soaked sweatshirt was making Molly Doyle gag. Gingerly pulling it away from her body, she was thankful for the police windbreaker she'd been loaned. With her hair tucked up in a baseball cap, wearing jeans and sneakers, she was ignored by the invading television reporters. Slumped against the police car, fighting nausea, she looked like a rookie unable to handle her first dead body. She wanted to kick herself for not having her wits about her yesterday when she bought the desk from the dead woman. If only she hadn't been so greedy, so anxious to get to the other garage sales, she might have thought to check the damn desk. It hadn't occurred to her it might be locked.

And now, because of a stupid little key, she was a major player in a murder investigation. Eyeing the cluster of police huddled around the body in the driveway, she turned away from the patrol car and stole a glance at the growing crowd beyond the yellow tape. Mumbling ever so politely above the sounds of the surf behind them, the residents of Carmel's Scenic Road were soon joined by beach joggers and tourists drawn to the pulsing lights of the three patrol cars blocking the village's most traveled and expensive residential street. The magnificent view of Carmel Bay, and its famous white sand beach, took second place to the grisly scene before them.

Molly pulled the brim of her cap down, sucked in her breath, and pounded her fist against the car. She should have left after calling 911. The natural instinct to be a good citizen was going to kill her chance to start over. Ordered by the first cop on the scene not to leave, she knew it was the beginning of the end. The minute the cops checked her out, as she knew they would, she'd have to leave Carmel.

Reaching for the tiny crucifix she'd worn since her twelfth birthday, her lips moved rapidly, silently repeating one Hail Mary after another. Catholic Guilt told her she was praying for herself and not for the soul of the dead woman. The frequent litany quickly became hypnotic. A Zen state she once joked to Sister Agnes, her early mentor and harshest critic. Within moments her body finally began to relax. It was then it struck her. The revelation gripped her so firmly she had difficulty breathing.

"For want of a nail ... the kingdom was lost" flashed across her mind. For want, of a key, my new life here is over. What is a key, if not a little thing?

Little things. Her life was a road map of "little things."

Her father's imprisonment was over a bracelet. A small chest inspired her career. The end of her marriage began with an offhand compliment. A woman died in her arms this morning because she'd forgotten to ask about a key. Insignificant things. Little things.

Her shaking hands were finally steady enough to rummage in her bag for her cigarettes. Finding anything in the large sling tote was always an adventure. It was the one place she could safely rebel against her need for organization. Her hands felt a small pack of Kleenex. Tearing it open, she stuffed it under the sweatshirt, making a barrier between her skin and the victim's congealing blood. Finding the cigarettes and her father's old Zippo, she inhaled deeply, wondering how much longer the police would keep her here. She toyed with the urge simply to slip away. In the obvious confusion going on in the driveway, they might not miss her.

Problem was, she had given a preliminary statement to the first officer after he had examined the body. They knew her name and where to find her. After escorting her to the patrol car, he ordered her not to leave. The chief would want to speak to her. That was almost an hour ago. The thought almost made her laugh. The chief? She remembered in time that no matter how famous Carmel was, it was still a tiny village, and wouldn't have a homicide inspector.

She needed to tear off her clothes and shower, to scald away the dead woman's blood, to purge the memory of the victim's contorted face, her huge disbelieving eyes darting in panic as she struggled to say something. Choking on her blood, her words were thick and garbled. Playing the sounds repeatedly in her mind, Molly tried desperately to make them mean something. Was the woman calling for someone? A husband? A child? God? With a horrible start, Molly wondered if it was her killer's name.

Brushing ashes off the cop's windbreaker, she tried not to look at the blood on her jeans and sneakers. Instead, she focused on the driveway and watched as a small cloth barrier was placed around the body. She shivered again as her eyes fixed on the police chief and watched his hand chop the air as he barked orders. A bear of a man, he'd come lumbering in nearly a half hour ago. He was well over six feet, with unruly gray-flecked sandy hair and a ruddy complexion probably from a temper. Glad not to be on the receiving end of his obvious anger, Molly almost felt sorry for the young cops clustered around him. The arriving officer must have told him he'd moved the body.

At this point, she didn't much care. She hated cops. All of them. Especially her uncles. She knew the chief would glance at her statement, then ignore it and ask her to repeat everything all over again.

Tucking loose hair back into her cap, she forced her mind into replay. She had to sort her thoughts. Get her facts straight. He'll want to know why I was here ...