Chapter One
Police Surgeon Brian Belden clicked the lock on his SUV and nodded to the uniformed officers, who flanked the front gate of the mansion that loomed in the darkness beyond. It was hardly familiar territory for him—this was a place for people who moved in very different circles to the ones he was accustomed to travelling in. He made his way up the paved, curving driveway towards the sprawling building perched on the bluff that he knew overlooked the Hudson River.
“Hey, big brother. Nice suit.”
“Thanks,” Brian returned as his sister, Trixie—Detective Trixie Belden—appeared in the yawning gap that passed as the doorway into the house.
“Guess Pamela wasn’t too impressed at yet another date interrupted.” Trixie was short with sandy curls, bright blue eyes and a turned-up nose. She looked like a cross between Gidget and a short, tomboy version of a young Meg Ryan. In reality, she was more bloodhound-meets-Annie Oakley. She had finely honed instincts where crime was concerned and could easily take down a man twice her size.
“Karen,” he corrected. “Pamela got fed up with date-interruptus around four dates and two months ago.”
Trixie smothered a grin. They were at a murder scene, after all. “You need to change it up, Brian. You need a new dating strategy.”
“Coming from Bluff Point’s most romantically challenged member of law-enforcement, that’s advice I’m so going to take.” Brian dropped his bag on the porch, opened it and pulled out the plastic overshoes he preferred for crime scenes.
“Technically, we’re still a part of the greater White Plains law-enforcement team, and I’m still from Sleepyside, sort of on probation,” Trixie said.
“Sorry—Sleepyside’s most romantically challenged…woman…person?”
“You can talk. If it weren’t for Mart running into Diana Lynch a couple of months ago, we Beldens would be looking to Bobby for dating advice.”
“I still haven’t completely closed that door,” Brian admitted. He moved past his younger sister and into the foyer. Marble floors shone and glistened beneath his feet, ornate oversized gold mirrors threw his reflection back at him and a chandelier that he suspected might be responsible for the odd power-outage in the area sparkled and moved as the breeze drifted in through the open doors. “Cosy,” he said drily.
Trixie nodded, knowing he was comparing the place unfavourably to the farmhouse they grew up in. “The guy was rich, really rich,” she said, keeping her voice down. “We’re running a full background now, but when the address came up, the mayor called.”
“If you Beldens have finished with your family catch-up, we have a murder to solve.”
Brother and sister turned their attention to the man on the stairs.
“Don’t I get to decide if it’s murder or not?” Brian asked, not completely unreasonably.
“Not when the guy has three bullet holes in his back.” Detective Dan Mangan nodded his dark head towards the second floor. “When you didn’t answer right away, I got a hold of Carter. She’s with the vic now—Craig Houghton, thirty-six, some kind of businessman. I’m still waiting on an update. We’ll check in so that you can take a look, Doc, but leave it with her. I think you’d better check on the wife. She’s a mess.”
“And a suspect?” Brian asked as he started up the winding staircase alongside his friend, while Trixie spoke to a recently arrived uniform before following behind.
“Husband’s dead, she’s here, she’s got blood on her. You bet she’s a suspect,” Dan confirmed.
He led the way along more marble flooring, past artwork that Brian was sure was genuine, stopping at an open door where Brian could see the victim, sprawled and broken, guarded by two more officers, while his co-worker Eloise Carter snapped photos. This guy has to have some clout, he thought. Half the force is here.
He followed Dan in, while Trixie headed on down the hall.
“Hey, Mangan, Boss.” Eloise Carter turned her close-cropped dark head in Brian’s direction and he offered her a nod and a smile.
“Not done yet, Carter?” Dan demanded. “You’re slipping.”
“I like to take my time, Mangan. Trust me, most things work out better that way.”
“What do we have?” Brian asked before the two totally got off track. Lately, they’d been doing a lot of verbal duelling.
“Three to the back,” his assistant returned. “Looks like a .22, but effective nonetheless. Bagged and tagged two slugs, plus this.” She waved an evidence bag that contained what looked like bloodstained fabric. “The other bullet must still be in there.”
“Time?” Brian queried.
“No more than two hours ago. I’m almost ready for the bus. Or do you want to…?”
Brian shook his dark head. “Take him home,” he instructed. “And make a start on the autopsy. You know what you’re doing.”
“And you are so not dressed for the occasion,” Carter returned with a grin at Brian’s dark suit and open-neck white shirt.
“I was at dinner and had tickets to that new play.”
“With Miss Curvaceous red-head—the ‘actress’ ? Bet the call went down well. Gave her chance to showcase her dramatic talents.”
It was way too close to the truth, and Brian unsuccessfully suppressed a grin of his own.
“When will you learn?” Carter shook her head. “You’re a picket fence, one woman in the world kind of guy, not a serial dater.”
“Thanks,” Brian returned drily. “Now I’ve had advice from my sister and my colleague. Both of whom are currently and, need I add, usually, single. I should probably be taking notes.”
“Oh, you’re a good student. You’ll catch up.” Carter slipped the camera back into the bag and got to her feet. She glanced around the room. “Motive sure wasn’t robbery. Have you seen the stuff that’s just hanging and laying around here?”
Brian’s gaze shifted around the room. Eloise wasn’t wrong. The study was furnished in heavy ebony pieces: desk, filing cabinet, bookcases and a buffet that served as a bar. Their surfaces gleamed, light bouncing off them and off the modern silver service on the bar and the angular frames and letter opener on the desk. He walked around to study them. He recognized the victim, and although he didn’t move in lofty social circles, he recognized some of the other faces. The White Plains mayor was in one and a congressman, whose name escaped him, in another. A third featured a well-known actor whose name was regularly in the tabloids. Brian wasn’t sure why the collection left him cold, but it did. Usually he had no trouble humanising the victim—sympathy came naturally to him, even if he refused to let it interfere with his professionalism.
He gave the room a swift visual sweep. Nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle. That might be more his sister’s field than his, but it told him something. Gave a framework to the people who lived within the walls. He always took in the space that surrounded the scene. Always examined the whole of the place, and he did this now. More artwork adorned these walls. Heavy brushed silver frames displayed modernist pieces. He recognized Kandinsky, Georgia O’Keefe and, of course, Picasso and was pretty sure these weren’t prints. Two sculptures were perched either end of the long, black desk. One of them was an indeterminable object with sharp edges, predatory—did that say anything about the man who lay dead nearby? Partially covering the floor, were two geometric black, white and red rugs, and a black streamlined leather sofa and chair were positioned before the full-length window that, if it were daylight, would give on to the Hudson. It was expensive, it was perfectly put together, but it lacked something.
“These rugs,” Carter said, rubbing one with her toe. “Four-and a half thousand dollars apiece. A friend of mine was looking at one the other week.”
“For a rug?” Brian said incredulously. A few years earlier he’d hesitated before paying that for a car. It confirmed his theory though. This was one expensively decked out room.
“Yeah.” Eloise cocked her head to one side. “You know I’ve been meaning to talk to you about a raise. The last rug I bought cost $12.99 at Wall-Mart.”
“Take it up with the county. And get in line. The last rug I bought cost four bucks at a thrift store.”
“Big spender, that’s you.”
“Can we make a move, Doc?” Dan asked. He’d been on his cell while Brian conferred with Eloise, but now he snapped it shut and nodded towards the door.
“I’ll phone you later,” Brian said to his co-worker, and then turned to follow a beckoning Dan.
Dan continued all the way to the end of the hall, then turned and headed up another, less ornate staircase. The third floor could have been in an entirely different house. The floors were dark, narrow, wooden boards, the lighting softer, more subtle, and although there were mirrors and paintings, they were simpler, welcoming—seascapes and a Monet or two. On second thought, maybe simple was overstating it.
Dan rapped his fingers on a white panelled door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Brian followed him in. This room he liked. Soft pale green painted walls, crisp white trim, comfortable neutral furniture, dashes of pale yellow and peach in the accompanying soft furnishings.
“Mrs. Houghton? This is Dr. Belden, our Police Surgeon. I thought he should take a look at you.”
A woman, wearing a long silky slip of a garment, stood with her back to them. Brian stepped forward, and the woman turned to face him. Huge hazel eyes swam in her pale, drawn face. Her slender arms were wrapped around her almost too slim body, and her long hair—a rich, unusual colour—tumbled about her shoulders. Desire and something else, something foreign, rippled through him and he pushed it away, surprised at his reaction.
“Police Surgeon?” she queried, raising her well-shaped brows. “Doesn’t that mean you’re a doctor for dead people?”
Brian couldn’t quite hide the smile that sprang to his lips.
“He’s a proper doctor,” Trixie declared. “He does live people as well as dead, or at least he would if he wasn’t working with us. We just have more dead than alive people in this job. I mean….”she trailed off.
“I am fully qualified, Mrs. Houghton,” Brian spoke quietly, his tone reassuring.
“Please call me Honey,” the woman said and her voice was barely above a whisper. “No one calls me Mrs. Houghton.”
Trixie and Dan exchanged looks at this remark. Brian moved closer to the woman. Honey, that was the colour of her hair—a breakfast jar of honey—shot with morning sunshine. He felt, rather saw, the look his sister threw him.
“I’m Brian,” he said. “Do you mind if I take a look at you, Honey?”
She shook her head. “I don’t mind. But I’m fine. Craig is the one who’s…” she trailed off. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Mrs. Houghton…Honey,” Dan confirmed. “You know that. You called us.”
“Yes, of course I did.” Honey wavered on her feet and Brian’s arm shot out to support her.
“Let’s take a seat over here.” He led her to a club sofa and eased her onto the overstuffed cushion.
Gently, he traced his fingers over an abrasion on her right temple.
“I tripped,” she said. “Running up here after I found Craig. I tripped on the stairs.”
Brian nodded, but a feeling of recognition—almost déjà vu—washed over him.
“Why did you come up here?” Trixie asked. “Why didn’t you use the phone in your husband’s study?”
The other woman stared at her for a moment. “That’s Craig’s study. I hardly ever go in there. This is my space. And my cell was up here.”
“So you came up here and called us. Did you wait here or downstairs?” Dan asked.
“Here,” Honey said. “I locked the door until you came.”
“You didn’t go back down to see if you could help your husband?” Trixie queried.
“But he was already dead. I couldn’t help him.”
“You seem sure,” Dan observed.
“Have you seen him?” Those wide hazel eyes focused and narrowed slightly. “Yes, I was sure.”
“Mrs. Houghton, Honey, do you have any objection to us searching your home? We may find a clue as to who has done this to your husband.”
“No, I mean yes, I mean, of course you can search.”
Dan nodded to Trixie who slipped from the room to let one of the uniformed officers know to go ahead.
Brian’s eyes dropped to Honey’s forearm, where several small bruises marked the smooth pale flesh.
She followed his gaze. “That’s nothing. I’m a little clumsy.”
“And,” Dan added, “we do need to test your hands for gunshot residue. Doctor Belden can do that.”
Honey nodded and held out her hands, palms up.
Brian opened his bag and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He smiled at Honey as he applied the adhesives that would collect the samples he needed. Gently flipping her hands, he took a second set, sealing each one in plastic evidence bags.
“I didn’t realise you collected from the back of the hands as well,” Honey said, as he secured the evidence.
As she spoke, Brian used his gloved hand to lightly touch the bloodstain on the front of the slip she was wearing.
“It’s not mine,” she said. “I kneeled down to check him…I left my robe there, but some of the blood…” She shivered and Brian shot a look over head and to his sister, who had just returned, and Dan. The latter nodded.
“Why don’t we get you into something warmer?” Brian suggested. “You’re cold.”
Honey nodded. “My room’s next door.”
Another look passed between Dan and Trixie.
“I’ll go with you,” the latter offered quickly. She crossed to the sofa and helped the other woman to her feet. Honey Houghton was a good three or four inches taller than she was, but was so slight Trixie figured she could carry her if she had to. She kept her hand on Honey’s elbow and guided her out of the room and into the one the other woman indicated.
Trixie was not exactly enamoured with interior decorating styles, but the room was a surprise considering what she’d seen downstairs. Simply furnished with a cream, slightly curved wooden bed and matching bureau and night tables, its floors were the same dark wood of the hall, dotted with soft pale blue and cream rugs.
“Let’s get you something to wear, shall we?” Trixie said brightly, refocusing on the task at hand. It wasn’t like her to be distracted by decor.
“I can still dress myself,” Honey returned mildly. “I’m in shock, but I’m not catatonic.”
“Right. Good then.” Trixie said.
Honey opened a bureau drawer, pulling out a soft, lightweight green sweater. She crossed the room to a doorway, flicked a switch to reveal a walk-in closet and pulled a pair of sweatpants from a shelf.
Awkwardly, she pulled them on under the thin silky slip, and after a moment’s hesitation lifted the slip over her head and turning her back shrugged into the sweater.
“You’ll be more comfortable now,” Trixie said.
“And you’ll be able to take my clothes for analysis,” Honey returned.
“Yes, well, that is procedure,” Trixie noted, vaguely impressed. This woman was not as out of it as she appeared.
“I didn’t kill my husband,” Honey said, her hazel eyes locking with Trixie’s blue ones. “I know everyone says that and I know how it looks, but I really didn’t.”
BH:MAIN NEXT
Author's notes: I was not expecting to write an alternate timeline, but during Jixewrimo 2014, Brian and Honey decided differently. Because I'm me, I can't seem to stray too far from the traditional path, but I did have fun with this, and everyone was very chatty. I have taken some liberties with titles etc. Police surgeon was used in parts of the north east some years ago. I like it and have kept it for Brian.
My thanks go, as ever, to my editor magnifico, Dana. All errors are mine and mine alone.
Trixie Belden et al belong to Random House and not to me. No monetary profit is being made from these scribblings.
