Page 26 of Little Dark Deeds (Georgiana Germaine #12)

Q ueenie’s home had been ransacked. Drawers and cabinets in the kitchen were open, and everything from paperclips to jewelry was scattered around the floor.

I stood silent for a moment, trying to make sense of it all, then stepped into the living room.

Foley was hunched over the coffee table, examining what looked like a cocktail ring, which I assumed was Queenie’s.

“Seems the murderer may have been looking for something,” I said. “I wonder if he found it.”

Foley took hold of the ring in his gloved hand and lifted it to the light, and I got a better look at it, and the massive diamond in its center.

“I agree,” he said. “If it was a robbery, he’d be an idiot to leave this behind.”

“Simone was here yesterday, talking to the neighbors,” I said. “She was told Queenie had taken it upon herself to play amateur detective, hoping to solve Tiffany’s murder before we did.”

He stared at me for a moment, then said, “You got that look in your eye—the one you always have right before you’re about to hit me with a theory. Am I right?”

“You are, I just haven’t thought it through all the way yet.”

“Go on.”

“What if Queenie confronted a few people she considered to be suspects and riled them up, trying to get one of them to confess? With her personality, she could have pushed one too many buttons, leaving the killer feeling like they had no choice but to take her out.”

Foley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Let’s say you’re right, even if she threatened people, why would anyone risk a second murder unless she had actual proof of their crime?”

He had a point.

And maybe she did have proof of some sort.

If the motive was to murder her, and nothing more, it didn’t seem logical that her house had been turned upside down when Tiffany’s hadn’t been.

“I just wish Queenie had kept some kind of record of her comings and goings—anything that might tell us what she’d been doing over the past week,” I said.

If only ...

Whitlock entered the room, joining us. “I don’t know about a record, but I just remembered something.

When we first questioned Ron Wheeler about Tiffany, he told us that after he found her in the bathroom, the shock and sorrow of it all was overwhelming.

He rushed outside and broke down, vomiting on the lawn.

One of Tiffany’s neighbors saw the whole thing and came over to see if he was all right. Remember, Foley?”

Foley raised a brow, nodding. “Yeah, now that you mention it. He said it was a woman. He didn’t catch her name.

We asked him to describe her, and he said she was older, with white hair.

After the woman checked on him, she went into Tiffany’s house to get him a glass of water.

That’s when he called the police.” He shot me a look. “Had to be Queenie.”

It was a crucial piece of information Queenie had neglected to share with me, and it shifted how I saw everything. I now knew she’d been inside Tiffany’s house. Had the killer left something behind, an item Queenie discovered?

“I believe the woman who approached Ron that day was Queenie,” I said.

“If I’m right, she had access to Tiffany’s house before the police arrived.

In that time, she could have taken something, maybe an item she thought didn’t belong to Tiffany.

If she was talking to our suspects, she may have used it as leverage to get answers. ”

“You think she was withholding it from us all this time, though?” Foley asked. “We asked every woman on this street if they spoke to Ron that day. They all said no.”

One of them was lying, and all signs pointed to Queenie.

“When I first met Queenie, she seemed distraught over Tiffany’s death,” I said. “But as we started to discuss the investigation, she seemed invigorated, which brings me to my theory.”

“I figured we were getting around to it,” Foley said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Think about Queenie’s life. She wakes up each day, doing much of the same monotonous routine.

Then something scandalous happens—a murder on the street she just happens to live on.

A murder that needs to be solved. So Queenie decides to try and outsmart and outwit all of us, getting justice for Tiffany in the process. ”

“Yes, yes. We know all this, though.”

“I’m not finished. It’s possible Queenie, while in Tiffany’s home, found a clue of some kind.

Then she started talking to those she believed capable of the murder.

The killer, worried they’re about to be caught, decides to shut her up for good.

Then they trash her house looking for ..

. who knows what.” I paused, then added, “Well? What do you think? Sounds reasonable to me.”

Foley hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “It’s a theory. As for the last part, not sure it’s right.”

“Not sure it’s wrong, either,” Whitlock said.

Foley jerked back and, in a teasing tone said, “Taking her side, are we?”

“It’s not about sides. It’s about how often her theories are correct.”

Foley wagged a finger in his direction. “Until it’s proven, it’s just a theory.”

I’d prove it no matter how many hours I had to spend rifling through Queenie’s house. If something was here, a clue leading us to the killer, I had to find it.

“I think we should give Ron a call to see if he remembers seeing anything out of place inside the home that day.”

“Good idea,” Whitlock said. “I’ll do it.”

“I’d like to pitch in and help you gather evidence, see what we can find around here,” I said. “I’m here. May as well let me join in.”

“Given the condition of this place, we could use all the help we can get,” Whitlock said. “And you, of all people, knows she has an exceptional eye for finding clues.”

Foley looked at me, then at Whitlock, then around Queenie’s place. “Oh, I suppose it’s all right. If you find anything good, bring it straight to me. Am I clear?”

“Clear as a foggy mirror,” I said, smacking him on the shoulder. “I’m kidding, of course. And hey, thanks for letting me stay.”

“Hard to know where to start in all this mess,” Foley said.

“Before I get started, Silas arrived several minutes ago, and I’d like to speak to him.”

“Sure, he’s in the back bedroom. Talk to him, and then we’ll see what theories you come up with next.”

He laughed when he said it, though I detected a hint of sarcasm.

We parted ways, and I headed toward Queenie’s room, finding Silas crouched over her body when I entered. Her room was in shambles, much like the rest of the house.

Queenie was lying on the bed, face up, dressed in a pastel blouse and a pair of loose cargo pants. Her hands were at her sides. There was a fair amount of blood, but it didn’t come close to what I’d witnessed in Tiffany’s bathroom.

“What’s this theory I’m hearing you all talking about out there?” Silas asked.

“Queenie was inside Tiffany’s house after she was murdered, before the police arrived. At first, it seemed strange to me that Tiffany’s house wasn’t tossed like Queenie’s. But Queenie was running her own investigation into Tiffany’s murder. Put two and two together and ...”

“She put a target on her back.”

“A big one. I think her killer was here, looking for something.”

“Could be.”

I shifted my gaze to the stab wound on Queenie’s chest. “Have you noticed any similarities between the two murders, anything to suggest we’re looking at the same killer?”

“Some similar, some not so similar.” He pointed out the chest wound, adding, “Based on the angle in which Tiffany was stabbed, it suggests the killer is right-handed. I see a similar angle in the way Queenie was stabbed. But there’s one big difference.”

“What is it?”

“Queenie got a knife straight to the heart—one and done. Tiffany was stabbed multiple times.”

I considered what might have set the two murders apart. “Tiffany’s murder may have been a crime of passion, someone working out anger and rage, whereas Queenie’s could have been carried out of sheer necessity. What can you tell me about the knife sticking out of her chest?”

“It matches a set Higgins found in one of the kitchen drawers.”

“Just like last time, the killer arrived on the scene, used what was available, and then left the murder weapon.”

“Seems careless to me.”

Or the work of a person who didn’t believe they’d ever get caught.

“You scraped Tiffany’s fingernails,” I said. “Find anything?”

“Not a thing. Oh, and I can confirm, she wasn’t sexually assaulted.”

It was a relief.

To be murdered was bad enough. To be assaulted at the same time ... I couldn’t imagine it.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I asked.

“Kiera’s working on lifting some prints off those photos you were given. Should know something anytime. You gonna be here a while?”

“Foley’s allowed me to help them gather evidence,” I said. “I’ll circle back in a while to see if you’ve made any other discoveries.”

“Alrighty.”

He gave me a two-finger salute, and I left the room.

Before I began to collect any potential evidence, I decided to do a full walkthrough of the house, hoping I’d see something that piqued my interest.

I started in the kitchen, peering inside the open drawers and cabinets.

It was easy to see which ones had been messed around with and which ones hadn’t.

The untouched cabinets and drawers were in perfect order, not a single item out of place.

The rest were a scattered mess, with items being tossed out, strewn all over the floor.

On the far end of the kitchen, the back door stood slightly ajar.

The killer’s escape, perhaps?

I walked to the living room next, but there wasn’t much to see.

A small television rested atop a table that looked like it may have doubled at one time as a TV tray.

There was a sofa and a couple of chairs, all covered with plastic.

On the wall behind the sofa was a painting of Queenie standing beside a man. I wondered if he was her late husband.

Moving to the back of the house, I entered the guest room. Aside from the bed, there was a nightstand and two dressers. I looked around the drawers, all of which were shut. Peered into the closet too. What struck me as odd was that everything seemed untouched.

Had the killer been interrupted during his search?

I thought about the tight timeline between the conversation Queenie had with her friends when she arrived home, and Janice and Martha’s arrival at one o’clock.

The killer may have been forced to make a quick escape, fleeing out the back door.

Having found nothing of note thus far, I located Foley and asked how I could be of the most help. They’d started placing number cards around anything they considered to be relevant. I was assigned to take photos of those items, so they could be bagged and tagged and taken into evidence.

A few hours later, we hadn’t made any brilliant discoveries, putting a damper on my theory. Whitlock tried calling Ron, but Ron didn’t answer. He’d left a message asking him to call back.

Overall, I was feeling a bit deflated.

All the pieces had started to fit together so perfectly in my mind.

I’d felt sure I was right, that we were getting somewhere.

But now ... I wasn’t as sure.

Maybe I was grasping at anything because I hadn’t yet had a break in the case. It happened, I knew—though not usually to me.

I was tired, and of all the poor choices I’d made that day, the worst had been my decision to wear high-heeled shoes.

They were adorable, of course, a shiny, black, round-toed pair from the ’20s, which complimented my black-and-cream flapper-style day dress.

But after standing almost all day, I was tempted to go barefoot.

I wiggled my toes and sighed. My thoughts turned to heading home.

I longed for a nice, hot shower, followed by the comfort of my bed, alongside Giovanni and Luka.

Deciding it was time to call it a day, I went looking for Foley.

I’d taken a single step inside the guest room when one of my heels caught on a piece of carpet, and I tripped, falling face first to the ground.

For a moment, I just lay there, catching my breath.

The fall had caused a clatter, no doubt echoing throughout the house, and within seconds, Foley and Whitlock rushed into the room.

“Are you all right?” Whitlock asked.

“A little embarrassed, but I’m fine, yes,” I said. “I chose the wrong shoes to wear today.”

“I’ve always wondered how you do it, investigating in some of the outfits you wear,” Foley said. “Can’t be easy.”

He reached for my hand, and as I went to take it, I hesitated, my eyes coming to rest on a piece of carpet in the corner of the room. It looked different than the rest, uneven and loose. It was almost as if it hadn’t been laid right in that area, or it had, and it loosened up over time.

“I just got off the phone with Ron, and you’re right, Georgiana, he did see something unusual on the day of the murder,” Whitlock said.

“Hold that thought,” I said. “I need to check something first.”

I scooted to the other side of the room and reached for the piece of carpet.

Tugging at the corner, it started to pull right up.

I then tugged at another piece a few feet away.

It wouldn’t budge. I brought myself to my knees, eyeing the rest of the carpet in the room.

No other areas stood out, which I found curious.

“Mind sharing what you’re doing with us?” Foley asked.

“This patch of carpet is loose.”

“It’s an older house. The carpet is old too. I bet it hasn’t been replaced in decades from the looks of it.”

I turned, reaching for the loose patch and lifting it higher so I could see beneath. Bending over, I slapped a hand to my lips, shocked at what I saw.

“What is it?” Whitlock asked.

A stroke of luck had led me to Queenie’s super-secret hiding place.

I lifted the carpet again. Before me was a notecard, my name written in cursive on the front.

Next to the card was something unique.

I glanced over at Whitlock. “Just now, you said Ron saw something unusual at Tiffany’s. Was it a lighter?”

Whitlock blinked in surprise. “Yeah, how’d you know?”