Dying to Please by Linda Howard

to be transported.
    A murder in Mountain Brook was big news. The last one had been . . . what, five years ago? When the murder victim was a retired federal judge, the news was even bigger. The pressure on this case would be intense.
    “Who called it in?” he asked, though of course he knew.
    “The butler. She's in that room there.” The officer nodded toward a room to the left.
    It was a breakfast room, he guessed it was called, with the kitchen connected to it. She sat at the table, a cup of coffee clasped between her hands. She was pale and still, staring at the tablecloth.
    She wasn't in her pajamas this time. She wore street clothes, and she still had on lipstick. He said, “Is your car out back?”
    She nodded without looking up. “It's parked under the portico.” Her voice was thin, toneless.
    “What kind is it?”
    “A TrailBlazer.” There was no interest, no curiosity in her voice.
    He went through the kitchen and found the back door in a hallway. The SUV was just outside. He placed his hand on the hood; still warm.
    He went back inside and on the way through the kitchen, stopped to pour himself a cup of coffee. The pot was almost full, so she had evidently poured herself a cup, sat down, then forgotten to drink it.
    She was still sitting exactly as he'd left her. He took the luke-warm coffee from her unresisting hands, dumped it down the sink in the kitchen, and poured another cup.
    He set it in front of her. “Drink it.”
    She obediently took a sip.
    He sat down at the table, to her right, and took out his notebook and pen. “Tell me what happened.” That was an open-ended question, not pointing her in any particular direction.
    “It's Wednesday,” she said, still in that thin tone.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “It's my day off. I did the usual things—”
    “Which are?”
    “My karate class, kick-boxing, the pistol range.”
    “What time was this?” She told him; he made a careful note of all the times and asked where she took the classes. He'd check them out, make certain she was where she said she was when she said she was. “What then?”
    “I went to the Summit, went shopping.”
    “Did you buy anything?”
    “An outfit at Parisian's, a couple of books.”
    “Did you notice the time?”
    “Between four and five, I think. The time will be on the sales receipts.” She still hadn't looked up, though she did take another sip of coffee.
    “Did you come home then?”
    She gave a tiny shake of her head. “No, I ate dinner out. At the . . . I can't remember the name. There at the Summit. The Italian place. I should have come home then, I usually do, but tonight I went to a movie.”
    “Why should you have come home?”
    “Because then I would have been here. It wouldn't have happened if I'd been here.”
    “What movie did you see?”
    This time she did look up, her eyes blank. “I can't remember.” She dug in her jeans pocket and pulled out half of a computer-printed ticket. “This one.”
    He noted the movie, and the time. “I've thought of seeing that one myself. Was it any good?” He kept his tone casual, easy.
    “It was okay. I went so he'd have a chance to approach me, if he was watching.”
    “What?” She had lost him on that one. “Who?”
    “I don't know. The man who sent me the pendant.”
    “Okay, right.” He'd get into that later. “What time did you get home?”
    “Almost ten. The Judge's bedroom light was on. He usually goes to bed about ten, though sometimes he'll watch the news first.”
    “Does he have a television in his bedroom?”
    “No.” Her lips quivered. “He said bedrooms were for sleeping.”
    “So he watched TV in . . . ?”
    “The library. Where I found him.”
    “Let's backtrack a little. What did you do when you got home?” He sipped his coffee, and she followed suit.
    “I began checking to make sure the doors were locked. I always do, before I go to bed. The front door wasn't,” she said. “Locked, that is. That was unusual, for it not to