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the lapel transmitter. “Officer Hansen. Garage apartment behind Webster home. Possible intruder. No trace of perp. Search of living room apparent. Unknown if any valuables are missing. Alarm raised at one thirty-five a.m. by guest Cornelia Farley. She didn’t see anyone but heard sounds in living room. Search of grounds yielded no suspects or witnesses.” He stopped, listened. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir. Ten-four.” He was brisk as he turned toward Nela.
    She stood stiffly, watching as Jugs disappeared into Marian’s bedroom.
    “Ma’am—”
    Nela felt a surge of irritation. Why did he call her ma’am? She wasn’t an old lady. “I’m Nela.”
    His eyes flickered. “Ms. Farley”—his tone was bland—“a technician will arrive at nine a.m. tomorrow to fingerprint the desk and the front door and the materials on the floor. Sometimes we get lucky and pick up some prints. Usually, we don’t. If you have any further trouble, call nine-one-one.” He stared to turn away.
    Nela spoke sharply. “I locked the door. Someone had a key.”
    His pale brown eyes studied her. “The chances are the intruderknew Miss Grant was dead and thought the apartment was empty. Now it’s obvious the place is occupied. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble.” He gestured toward the desk. “It looks like somebody was interested in the desk and not looking to bother you.” He cleared his throat. “To be on the safe side, get a straight chair out of the kitchen, tilt it, and wedge the top rail under the knob. Anybody who pushes will force the back legs tight against the floor. Nobody will get in. Tomorrow you can pick up a chain lock at Walmart.”
    “That’s good advice, ma’am.” The redheaded policewoman was earnest. “I was in the first car the morning Miss Grant died. The housekeeper told me she ran up the steps to call from here because it was quicker. She didn’t have a key. She used a playing card she always carries in her pocket. The seven of hearts. For luck.” The officer raised her eyebrows, obviously amused at the superstition. “Anyway, she got inside. Like Officer Hansen said, it doesn’t take much to jiggle these old locks. Not that it made any difference for Miss Grant that we got here quick.”
    “What happened to her?” Nela glimpsed Jugs in her peripheral vision.
    The redheaded patrol woman was brisk. “She fell over the stair rail last Monday morning, straight down to the concrete. I was in the first car to arrive.” The redheaded officer—Officer L. T. Baker—gestured toward the opening into darkness. “The housekeeper found her beside the stairs. It looked like Miss Grant tripped and went over the railing and pretty much landed on her head. Broken neck. Apparently she jogged early every morning. When we saw her, it was obvious she’d taken a header over the railing. Massive head wound. She must have laid there for a couple of hours.”
    Nela’s eyes shifted to Jugs.
    The cat’s sea green eyes gazed at Nela. “…
They took Her away…”
    Paramedics came and found death and carried away a broken and bruised body. Nela didn’t need to look at the woman’s cat to know this.
    “A header?”…
board rolled on the second step
…Nela felt a twist of foreboding. “Did you find what tripped her?”
    Officer Baker shrugged. “Who knows? The stairs are steep. Accidents happen. She was wearing new running shoes. Maybe a toe of a shoe caught on a step.”
    No mention of a skateboard. “Did you find anything on the ground that could have caused her to fall?”
    The policewoman waved a hand in dismissal. “These grounds are tidy. Not even a scrap of paper in a twenty-foot radius from the stairs.”
    “She probably started down the stairs too fast.” Officer Hansen shook his head. “She was a hard charger. She always helped at the Kiwanis pancake suppers, made more pancakes than anybody. There were a bunch of stories in the paper. She was a big deal out at the foundation. Anybody