all on the day of the murders?”
She moved her gaze to the ground, scratched her head, mulling over the question. A spasm of cooperation flourished and then faded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
Cameron stopped writing and looked up at her. “Where did you see him?”
“ He was fumbling around. Over in that shed there.” She pointed past his shoulder to a rundown outbuilding.
Cameron glanced in the direction she’d pointed. “That your shed?”
“ Yeah. It’s mine. I don’t have enough to fill it up. I let them use it …” She stopped herself. “Or I did .”
Cameron flipped to a fresh page. “What did they use it for?”
“ Tools, lawn equipment, things like that.”
“ How often did you see him go in there?”
“ Every now and then, I suppose.”
“ How about you, Ms. Schumacher? You go in there?”
“ Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Occasionally. I’ve got some canning supplies stored away.”
“ When’s the last time you were there?”
Della shrugged. “Don’t know. A few days before the murders, maybe. Why?”
“ You see what he was doing in the shed around the time of the murders?”
“ I was making my tea ?” she reminded him. “It’s not like I stand at the window watching everyone. I have better things to do.”
“ So you just saw him going inside ? While you were making your tea ?”
She caught his sarcasm, narrowed her eyes, and glared at him. “Yes.”
“ And never saw him leave?”
“ Correct.”
“ What time of day was it?”
“ Dunno. Towards the evening, I guess.”
“ Anything else after that?”
She eyed her rake. “Uh-uh.”
Cameron closed his notepad. He wasn’t going to get much more out of her, not now. Della Schumacher knew a lot more about her neighbors than she cared to let on, regardless of how many times she repeated her worn-out mantra. Cameron also suspected something else: she was a lot closer to the Foleys than she let people think.
“ Thanks for your time, Ms. Schumacher,” he said, staring at the shed, eager to be there, eager to be finally sifting through clues. “Mind if I just go take a look in there?”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
“ Thank you. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.”
“ Mmmm. Looking forward to that.”
Cameron headed toward the shed, wondering just how much Della Schumacher had really seen the night Ben Foley killed his family.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Old Route 15
Faith, New Mexico
Cameron turned his attention to the storage shed. Someone should have checked it. He contained his frustration: it wasn’t on the Foley property, and nobody knew Ben had been using it.
Now it had new significance: a place where he could have stored his belongings, maybe even hidden them.
The shack was rundown, with wood the color of cigarette ash, and the slats appeared buckled in spots where one could peer inside.
Cameron tried but saw nothing in the dark, formless shadows. He reached for the handle and pulled the door toward him. As he did, a thick ray of sunlight shot through the opening, filling the room with a glow and igniting airborne dust particles that glistened and flickered.
Then, something else: a rancid stench, so strong that it made him dizzy. Cameron stepped back a pace and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose and mouth. He moved into the shed, looking around as he did.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they did, a white, shapeless object caught his attention near the back wall. Cameron shifted his gaze toward it, squinting, allowing his focus to sharpen.
Then his mind made the connection.
It was Della Schumacher’s missing cat, Snowball.
Dangling in midair. From the ceiling.
Dead.
Cameron moved cautiously into the room, careful not to touch anything. A rusty chain snaked its way around the animal’s neck, tied off with a hasty, rudimentary knot. In its mouth, a pair of pliers protruded, rammed down its throat and pulled apart as wide as they could go.
She moved her gaze to the ground, scratched her head, mulling over the question. A spasm of cooperation flourished and then faded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
Cameron stopped writing and looked up at her. “Where did you see him?”
“ He was fumbling around. Over in that shed there.” She pointed past his shoulder to a rundown outbuilding.
Cameron glanced in the direction she’d pointed. “That your shed?”
“ Yeah. It’s mine. I don’t have enough to fill it up. I let them use it …” She stopped herself. “Or I did .”
Cameron flipped to a fresh page. “What did they use it for?”
“ Tools, lawn equipment, things like that.”
“ How often did you see him go in there?”
“ Every now and then, I suppose.”
“ How about you, Ms. Schumacher? You go in there?”
“ Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Occasionally. I’ve got some canning supplies stored away.”
“ When’s the last time you were there?”
Della shrugged. “Don’t know. A few days before the murders, maybe. Why?”
“ You see what he was doing in the shed around the time of the murders?”
“ I was making my tea ?” she reminded him. “It’s not like I stand at the window watching everyone. I have better things to do.”
“ So you just saw him going inside ? While you were making your tea ?”
She caught his sarcasm, narrowed her eyes, and glared at him. “Yes.”
“ And never saw him leave?”
“ Correct.”
“ What time of day was it?”
“ Dunno. Towards the evening, I guess.”
“ Anything else after that?”
She eyed her rake. “Uh-uh.”
Cameron closed his notepad. He wasn’t going to get much more out of her, not now. Della Schumacher knew a lot more about her neighbors than she cared to let on, regardless of how many times she repeated her worn-out mantra. Cameron also suspected something else: she was a lot closer to the Foleys than she let people think.
“ Thanks for your time, Ms. Schumacher,” he said, staring at the shed, eager to be there, eager to be finally sifting through clues. “Mind if I just go take a look in there?”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
“ Thank you. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.”
“ Mmmm. Looking forward to that.”
Cameron headed toward the shed, wondering just how much Della Schumacher had really seen the night Ben Foley killed his family.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Old Route 15
Faith, New Mexico
Cameron turned his attention to the storage shed. Someone should have checked it. He contained his frustration: it wasn’t on the Foley property, and nobody knew Ben had been using it.
Now it had new significance: a place where he could have stored his belongings, maybe even hidden them.
The shack was rundown, with wood the color of cigarette ash, and the slats appeared buckled in spots where one could peer inside.
Cameron tried but saw nothing in the dark, formless shadows. He reached for the handle and pulled the door toward him. As he did, a thick ray of sunlight shot through the opening, filling the room with a glow and igniting airborne dust particles that glistened and flickered.
Then, something else: a rancid stench, so strong that it made him dizzy. Cameron stepped back a pace and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose and mouth. He moved into the shed, looking around as he did.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they did, a white, shapeless object caught his attention near the back wall. Cameron shifted his gaze toward it, squinting, allowing his focus to sharpen.
Then his mind made the connection.
It was Della Schumacher’s missing cat, Snowball.
Dangling in midair. From the ceiling.
Dead.
Cameron moved cautiously into the room, careful not to touch anything. A rusty chain snaked its way around the animal’s neck, tied off with a hasty, rudimentary knot. In its mouth, a pair of pliers protruded, rammed down its throat and pulled apart as wide as they could go.
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