A Killing in the Valley by JF Freedman Page B

make the time.
    “Hello again,” he called out in greeting. Morton had been here when they had taken the body away. They hadn’t spoken again until yesterday, when Perdue called and asked that he be allowed to look inside the house.
    “Thanks for doing this,” he said to Morton.
    The foreman nodded curtly.
    Perdue grabbed his equipment case from the backseat of the car. It was hot out here, at least fifteen or twenty degrees warmer than in town, where the ocean breeze served as a natural coolant. He took off his sports coat, folded it neatly, and laid it across the driver’s seat. He had stashed his automatic in the trunk of the car before coming out; if he didn’t need to show his weapon, he preferred not to. “Is the door open?” he asked.
    “I unlocked it after you called,” Keith confirmed. He leaned against his pickup. “What are you looking for in there?”
    “Evidence.”
    Morton frowned. “I thought the girl was killed somewhere else. That’s what the news reported the sheriff said.”
    “She wasn’t killed where you found her,” Perdue replied, correcting him. “We don’t know where she was killed.” He looked around. “Has anyone been inside this place since the body was discovered?”
    Morton shook his head. “I’ve been keeping an eye out since the body was found. If someone has been here since then, I’d know it.”
    That was helpful. If there was any evidence in the house, the chances it hadn’t been contaminated would be better. He walked across the gravel to the front door. “Do you want me to come in with you?” Morton called after him.
    “No. The fewer people inside, the better. I’ll call you if I need you.”
    “I’ll be here,” Morton said laconically. He leaned back against his truck and pulled his hat over his eyes.
    Perdue took a set of sterile latex gloves from his briefcase, snapped them over his hands, and turned the front doorknob. With a faint groan of hinges, the heavy door creaked open.
    The house was cool and dark. Carefully walking across the room, Perdue pulled back the heavy curtains. Shafts of sunlight filtered in through the high, dirty windows. What a fascinating old place, he thought, as he looked around. This is living history, better than a museum. He would love to come back on a non-official basis, when he could browse the library, look at the paintings with unhurried appreciation, and enjoy the essence of the place.
    The living room was still. Dust mites hovered in the somnolent air. Talk to me, Perdue said to himself. Do you have a tale to tell?
    On the far wall next to the walk-in fireplace he noticed the gun cases. He walked over and casually tried one of the handles.
    The door swung open. Surprised that it wasn’t locked, he looked inside at the rows of rifles, shotguns, and handguns. These are ancient, he thought, going back as far as the Civil War, from the looks of some of the rifles. Beautiful pieces, as pretty as sculpture.
    He bent over to get a closer look. Then he straightened up, walked to the front door, and flung it open. “Could you come in here a minute?” he called out to Morton.
    Keith pushed off from the side of his truck, where he’d been half-dozing. As he reached the front door, Perdue tore open another package of sterile gloves. “Put these on, please,” he said, as he handed them to Keith.
    Keith pulled the gloves over his large, knotted hands. He followed Perdue inside. Perdue led him to the gun cabinet.
    “Do you normally keep this locked?” Perdue asked.
    “Of course,” Keith answered. He was clearly upset. “That collection’s worth a fortune. It’s insured for over a million dollars.”
    “When was the last time it was unlocked, to your knowledge?”
    Keith shook his head. “I have no idea.” He thought for a moment. “There was a charity benefit out here six months ago, for the rodeo association. Mrs. McCoy might have shown some of the pieces to them. There’s some major gun collectors in that bunch.