in there,” I said and pressed a trembly finger to my lips. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
The officer stepped through the arched doors and froze. His head angled toward his shoulder microphone and he called for backup. Then he blinked. “Ma’am, have you moved anything or touched the victim?”
“I … I took his pulse.”
He hunkered down and pushed his finger into Bing’s neck. I couldn’t get my breath. I rubbed my hand over my throat. I needed my inhaler. But it was in my purse, and I didn’t want to walk through the blood to get it. My spit tasted like I’d been sucking pennies, and I thought I might be sick.
The officer stood and turned. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Teeny Templeton.”
“Do you know the victim?”
“He was my fiancé,” I said with emphasis on was.
He looked at my bare fingers. “And you came home and found him?”
“Yes,” I said, then thought of my annual lie tally. Had I just told number thirteen? Technically, yes. This had been my home until recently. Misleading a policeman would definitely qualify as a commandment breaker. I shut my eyes and did a quick recount of every lie I’d told so far.
Number one, Aunt Bluette—New Year’s Day.
Numbers two through twelve, Bing—January through June.
I stared up at the chandelier, into the tear-shaped prisms. What should I do? I could look the cop in the eye and say, Actually, this isn’t my home. But if I told the truth he might get the wrong idea about me. Better to raise the lie count than get slapped into the pokey, right?
In the distance I heard sirens. A man in a dark green suit came into the house and talked to the responding officer. Uniformed policemen streamed around them, followed by men in overalls. I heard the responding officer say my name. The guy in the suit turned. His eyes were the color of his suit, hazel, and protruded from deep sockets. His hair was curly and windblown, jutting up like a Chia Pet. He walked over and introduced himself as Detective Purvis.
“Did you witness the homicide?” he asked.
I shook my head. Bile spurted into my throat, and I bolted to the powder room. Sir scratched at the door while I was sick. I turned back to the sink, switched on the faucet, and ran my hands under the cold water. The door flung open. Detective Purvis reached past me and turned off the tap.
“Ma’am, don’t wash your hands,” he said.
But it was too late; I already had.
He grabbed my elbows, steered me into the dining room, and pulled out a chair. Sir trotted under the table and growled. I sat down and put my hand on my chest. In the background I heard the officers say that Bing had been shot. I imagined him lying on the floor, and I drew in a wheezy breath.
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“I’ve got asthma,” I said. “I hate to bother you, but I need my inhaler. It’s in my purse and my purse is in there.” I pointed toward the breakfast room.
He left the room and I dropped my head into my hands, forcing myself to take measured breaths. Purvis returned with my handbag. I grabbed my Ventolin inhaler, shook it, and took a puff.
Detective Purvis sat down. “Miss Templeton, tell me again what happened.”
“I knocked and rang the bell. Bing wouldn’t come to the door.”
“Where were you prior to coming home?”
“Charleston.”
“Where exactly?” Purvis asked.
“Rainbow Row.”
“Why were you there?”
I almost said “visiting” but that would have definitely been a lie. “I’ve spent the past few nights at a house on Rainbow Row,” I told him.
“Which house?”
“The Spencer-Jackson.”
“Why were you there if you live here?” Purvis glanced up at the brass chandelier.
“See, Bing and I broke up.”
“When?”
“Couple of days ago.”
“Why?”
I paused. Surely to goodness they didn’t think I had something to do with this. Better to tell the truth and lay it on thick. “I caught him playing
The officer stepped through the arched doors and froze. His head angled toward his shoulder microphone and he called for backup. Then he blinked. “Ma’am, have you moved anything or touched the victim?”
“I … I took his pulse.”
He hunkered down and pushed his finger into Bing’s neck. I couldn’t get my breath. I rubbed my hand over my throat. I needed my inhaler. But it was in my purse, and I didn’t want to walk through the blood to get it. My spit tasted like I’d been sucking pennies, and I thought I might be sick.
The officer stood and turned. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Teeny Templeton.”
“Do you know the victim?”
“He was my fiancé,” I said with emphasis on was.
He looked at my bare fingers. “And you came home and found him?”
“Yes,” I said, then thought of my annual lie tally. Had I just told number thirteen? Technically, yes. This had been my home until recently. Misleading a policeman would definitely qualify as a commandment breaker. I shut my eyes and did a quick recount of every lie I’d told so far.
Number one, Aunt Bluette—New Year’s Day.
Numbers two through twelve, Bing—January through June.
I stared up at the chandelier, into the tear-shaped prisms. What should I do? I could look the cop in the eye and say, Actually, this isn’t my home. But if I told the truth he might get the wrong idea about me. Better to raise the lie count than get slapped into the pokey, right?
In the distance I heard sirens. A man in a dark green suit came into the house and talked to the responding officer. Uniformed policemen streamed around them, followed by men in overalls. I heard the responding officer say my name. The guy in the suit turned. His eyes were the color of his suit, hazel, and protruded from deep sockets. His hair was curly and windblown, jutting up like a Chia Pet. He walked over and introduced himself as Detective Purvis.
“Did you witness the homicide?” he asked.
I shook my head. Bile spurted into my throat, and I bolted to the powder room. Sir scratched at the door while I was sick. I turned back to the sink, switched on the faucet, and ran my hands under the cold water. The door flung open. Detective Purvis reached past me and turned off the tap.
“Ma’am, don’t wash your hands,” he said.
But it was too late; I already had.
He grabbed my elbows, steered me into the dining room, and pulled out a chair. Sir trotted under the table and growled. I sat down and put my hand on my chest. In the background I heard the officers say that Bing had been shot. I imagined him lying on the floor, and I drew in a wheezy breath.
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“I’ve got asthma,” I said. “I hate to bother you, but I need my inhaler. It’s in my purse and my purse is in there.” I pointed toward the breakfast room.
He left the room and I dropped my head into my hands, forcing myself to take measured breaths. Purvis returned with my handbag. I grabbed my Ventolin inhaler, shook it, and took a puff.
Detective Purvis sat down. “Miss Templeton, tell me again what happened.”
“I knocked and rang the bell. Bing wouldn’t come to the door.”
“Where were you prior to coming home?”
“Charleston.”
“Where exactly?” Purvis asked.
“Rainbow Row.”
“Why were you there?”
I almost said “visiting” but that would have definitely been a lie. “I’ve spent the past few nights at a house on Rainbow Row,” I told him.
“Which house?”
“The Spencer-Jackson.”
“Why were you there if you live here?” Purvis glanced up at the brass chandelier.
“See, Bing and I broke up.”
“When?”
“Couple of days ago.”
“Why?”
I paused. Surely to goodness they didn’t think I had something to do with this. Better to tell the truth and lay it on thick. “I caught him playing
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