Page 1 of Alibi for Murder (Colby Agency: The Next Generation #2)

Woodstock, Illinois

Foster Residence

“I hope you’ll complete the survey when you receive it. We at GenCorp are always here for you, twenty-four seven.”

Allie Foster ended her final call for the day—for the next ten days, actually—and removed the wireless headset. She exhaled a big breath, stood from her desk and stretched. There was something about Fridays, even when you didn’t have plans for the weekend or her first vacation in years happening.

Fridays marked a milestone of completing a week’s work, of having two days off ahead. Well, ten in this case. It was a good feeling.

Or it would be if she had plans of any kind. Sadly she did not.

“Woo-hoo,” she grumbled as she placed the headset on her desk. She shut off the desk lamp and walked out of her office. She was taking a vacation and going nowhere .

How exciting was that?

She would do yard work and maybe finally paint her bedroom. A really old-fashioned getaway from work. Wasn’t she the globetrotter?

Admittedly, Allie had always been a little on the old-fashioned side. Came from being raised by much older parents, she supposed. Technically, they were her grandparents. Her parents had died in a car accident when she was a toddler. She had only the faintest memories of them.

Frankly, she wasn’t entirely certain she remembered them at all, she decided as she slowly descended the stairs.

The framed photos of her family, her parents when she was little and her grandparents as well as her over the years, lined the wall along the stairs.

There was a strong likelihood that the stories she’d heard growing up and these photographs along with the many family albums carefully curated by her grandmother were the actual memories she recalled.

Allie banished the idea and focused on mentally shrugging off the workweek and the stress that often went with providing patient services.

Answering calls all day might not sound like a tough job, but these were questions from patients who were, for the most part, terminally ill.

Either they or a family member had questions about their medications or their appointments or simply what they should do next.

GenCorp was a huge medical operation. The services provided extended across the country and involved cutting edge, sometimes experimental, pharmaceuticals, procedures and end-of-life patient care.

There were always questions and emotions and financial issues.

And although, as a nurse, Allie’s job was to answer questions regarding the medical side of things, that didn’t prevent frustrated patients and family members from spilling conversations over into the other difficult parts of terminal illnesses.

Life during those times was complicated and painful.

What she needed now was to relax with her evening glass of wine and chocolate bar.

“Better than sex.”

Probably not true, but it had been so long since she’d had sex, she wasn’t entirely sure. But to believe this was the case made the idea of no prospects far more palatable and much less depressing.

No one’s fault but your own, Al.

Relationships didn’t generally come knocking on the door. One had to actually put in some effort to acquire one.

Not going there.

Out of habit, she walked around the first floor and checked the windows and doors.

Woodstock’s crime rate was fairly typical for a town of its size.

Not a big town, more on the small side. Still, decades ago her grandparents had a security system installed.

It wasn’t the best, but it remained serviceable.

Although it was no longer monitored, it made a long, loud noise when breached.

Since Allie took over the house five years ago, she hadn’t bothered changing it.

She wasn’t really paranoid about crime or the possibility of intruders.

She preferred to consider herself careful.

Or maybe she was paranoid since she hadn’t changed the fact that there were three—count them, three—deadbolts on the front door. As a teenager, she’d always wondered why there were three on the front door and none on the back. And she had always intended to add one to the back but never bothered.

Which, all things considered, likely made her every bit as paranoid as she’d been certain her grandparents were.

Satisfied that the house was secure, she wandered into the kitchen.

One cupboard was dedicated to her favorite bottles of red.

The drawer beneath the counter in that same spot held her chocolate stash.

She was a simple girl. Many years from now, hopefully, when she was found dead and no doubt alone in the house, no one would think less of her for having plenty of wine and chocolate on hand.

Maybe she was also slightly paranoid about running out of either.

Laughing at herself, she removed the cork from the bottle.

Any burglar would no doubt be disappointed if he broke into her home.

Wine and chocolate—well, and her computer—were the only valuables in the house.

There was no stash of cash or collection of coins.

No jewelry, unless you counted the costume stuff her grandmother had adored.

No weapons except the BB rifle her grandfather had used for scaring off pesky squirrels and birds from his garden out back.

Not that he ever hit one or even tried. It was all about the noise of hitting something nearby, he had explained. It worked every time, he’d insisted.

Allie retreated to the living room with her glass of wine and the chocolate bar. The old box-style television still stood in the corner of the room. It was the perfect size for her aquarium. As she passed, she checked the auto feeder to ensure it held an adequate amount.

“Hello, Nemo and friends.” She tapped the glass and smiled as they darted around.

She frowned at the collection of dust on the dinosaur of a television.

This was something else she needed to do on her vacation.

Dust, not replace the set. She hadn’t watched it in years, even before it died.

The news was far too depressing, and the entertainment industry had stopped making decent movies ages ago.

She picked up her book from the side table and opened it to the next chapter. Books never let her down.

Who needed television when they had books?

The buzz of the doorbell made her jump. For a moment, she felt confident she must have imagined it.

She had no deliveries scheduled. No one ever came to her door, not even the neighbors’ children selling cookies or doing other fundraising activities.

Her house sat back farther from the street than any of the others, and her grandparents had never cut a single tree from their property, so it was difficult to see—and, once you did, the house was a little spooky to kids.

One would think this would be the hotspot at Halloween, and she always prepared, but no one ever came.

The buzzing sound came again, and there was no denying it.

Someone was at her door.

Allie placed her glass and her book on the side table and stood. She wandered first to the front living room window and peeked out. A four-door sedan was parked in the drive. Dark in color, blue or black. No markings that suggested it was some sort of salesperson or business vehicle.

Since she couldn’t see who had stepped up onto her porch from this window, she moved to the entry hall and had a look through the security viewer on the front door.

One man, one woman. Both wore business suits.

Both displayed serious facial expressions.

Not the typical-looking salespeople. More like police officers or investigators of some sort.

Could be trouble in the neighborhood. A missing child.

Allie took a breath. She really disliked unannounced visits, but she certainly did not want to hinder the search for a criminal or a missing person. “Can I help you?” she asked through the door. Sounded better than “Are you lost?” as an opening.

The man withdrew a small leather case from an interior jacket pocket and opened it for Allie to see through the viewer. The credentials inside identified him as FBI Special Agent Elon Fraser. The photo matched his face, though he’d put on a few pounds since it was taken.

Why on earth would the FBI be calling on her?

“Would you state your business, please?” A reasonable request, in her opinion.

The female spoke up this time while simultaneously flashing her own credentials in front of the viewer. “We are here to speak with Allison Foster,” Special Agent Uma Potter explained with visible impatience.

Allie unlocked the door—all three deadbolts.

The deadbolts, she remembered now, were her grandfather’s idea.

He was always certain someone intended to break in and steal his stamp collection or his humidor with his imported cigars.

Allie’s grandmother would roll her eyes every time he mentioned the idea.

Like she had any room to judge. The memories made her smile in spite of the strangers standing on the other side of the door.

She opened the door and surveyed the two once more. “I’m Allison Foster.”

Agent Potter gave her a steady perusal as well. “May we come in?”

“Of course.” Allie stepped back and opened the door wider. The agents crossed the threshold and waited while she closed and resecured it.

“What are you here to talk about?” Allie looked from one to the other. She had thought Fraser was lead—he was older and had knocked on the door—but maybe she’d been wrong.

“This may take some time,” Potter suggested.

Allie nodded. “Follow me.” She led the way to the living room, cringed at the sight of her half-finished glass of wine and chocolate bar on the table next to her favorite chair. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the sofa.

Fraser waited for his colleague and then Allie to sit before doing the same.

“Ms. Foster,” Fraser began, “do you live here alone?”