Page 15 of The Body in the Backyard

“Do you think she did it?” It was hard for Riley to imagine the seventy-six-year-old scaling her own stone wall to take a shot at a moving vehicle. But it was Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and it was Griffin Gentry, so anything was possible.

“She stays on the list since she was here—opportunity. She lives in close proximity to Griffin and had a legal dispute with him—motive. She also has the cash to hire someone to do her dirty work—means. But her cookies were good, so I’m inclined to put her lower on the list. Thoughts?” Nick prompted, scanning the yard.

“I got a quick peek at her showing a room full of people how to slit a throat. But I’m pretty sure it was just for a TV show.”

“Interesting.” Nick took her hand. “You know what else interests me?”

“My boobs.”

He gave her a lecherous grin. “Always. Also, traffic flow.”

“It’s a cul-de-sac. There isn’t really much traffic,” Riley pointed out.

He shook his head. “I mean the people. Between the gardeners, the chef, and the pool people, that’s a lot of coming and going through that gate. This place probably requires constant maintenance.”

“Which means she leaves the gate open,” she speculated.

“Exactly.”

They left the wild garden of Belinda’s yard behind them and stepped onto the street. “What kind of a person leaves a threatening note, plays a chest hair prank on someone, and then tries to shoot them?” Riley wondered.

“A weirdo. The world is full of them.”

Josie and Griffin were nowhere to be seen, so Riley and Nick headed for the wood and stone mansion across the cul-de-sac. No one answered the door at that house or the next two, which brought them to the brick Georgian revival on the other side of Griffin’s place. It was situated much closer to the property line. An eight-foot-tall privacy fence divided the yards. There was still fresh dirt around the fence posts.

They hiked up the dozen skinny steps to the home’s front porch, which was completely barren. No potted plants or rocking chairs or welcome mat.

Nick stabbed the doorbell. It was one of the video ones that lit up when they approached.

“What?” snapped a gruff voice.

“I’m Nick Santiago. I’m a private investigator looking into an incident next door.”

There was a pause, then the voice asked, “Is he dead?”

Nick and Riley exchanged a look. “Not yet,” Nick said.

“Hold on. I’ll be right down.”

It took two long minutes, but the front door finally swung open to reveal a disheveled white guy in silk pajamas and a red velvet bathrobe. His blond hair was graying at the temples and stood up in tufts. He had a hard mouth, a soft jaw, and a decent paunch straining the buttons of his pajama top.

“Well? What happened? Was he at least maimed? Horribly disfigured?” he asked, sounding out of breath.

“Sir, can we come inside?” Nick asked.

The man immediately blocked the door with a suede slipper. “No.”

“Is there any reason you can think of that someone would want to maim or disfigure Griffin Gentry?”

“I can give you fifty reasons in one breath, starting with that ridiculous fucking farce of a news show filming here five days a week and making enough racket from four a.m. on to drive any normal citizen insane.”

Now that he mentioned it, Riley noticed the man’s blue eyes were bloodshot. The bags under them looked like they wouldn’t fit in a plane’s overhead compartment.

“So you’re losing sleep because of Gentry,” Nick summarized.

“Losing sleep? Losingsleep? I’m being driven out of my goddamn mind! It doesn’t matter how many sleeping pills I take, I still wake up the second all the car doors start slamming. Slamming! In the middle of the night. Do you know how many doors slam every fucking morning? Seventeen! Then there’s the lights. Good God, the lights, man! They aim them through the windows directly into my bedroom! It looks like a thousand suns. How is a man supposed to sleep through that?”

“Have you tried an eye mask?” Nick asked glibly.