Dead Between the Lines by Denise Swanson Read Free Book Online Page A

uncontrollable shivering. Scowling, he cranked up the Suburban’s heat, reached behind him, and tossed me a blanket. “When you closed the store last night, I assume you left by the rear exit, since that’s where you were parked?” He waited for my nod, then continued. “Are you certain you locked it?”
    “Yes.” I thought back, then nodded emphatically. “I let everyone out the front, turned the knob on the dead bolt on that door, went into the storeroom, got my purse from the desk drawer there, and used my key to lock the back door once I was outside.”
    The chief stared at me. Then, as if making a decision, he said, “It was unlocked when the first officer arrived on the scene.”
    “Was—” I started to ask a question.
    Chief Kincaid held up his hand. “Nothing appears to be disturbed inside the store, but I do need you to take a look and confirm that. As of now, we believe the murder took place between the building and the Dumpster. We don’t have a time of death—obviously it’s between when you left at nine fifteen and when the officer noticed the blood trail on his ten-o’clock rounds.”
    “Oh.” Well, that explained how the body was discovered. “I didn’t know the police had appointed rounds. Do you have the same slogan as mail carriers?”
    “Of course, my officers do regular foot patrols of the business area. They pay special attention to the back-alley entrances of businesses. If the doorways aren’t illuminated by the halogen floodlights we recommend to discourage break-ins, the officer examines the area with his Maglite. All of my people are equipped with the ML125, which is among the brightest flashlights available.” The chief rolled his eyes. “And, no, we do not have the same motto as the post office.”
    “Good to know.” I’d forgotten how much Poppy’s father liked to lecture. I took a breath and asked the question that I’d been avoiding. “I’m not a suspect, am I?” After my experience with a Kansas City detective who had been determined to pin the murder of my ex-boyfriend’s fiancée on me, I wanted to be absolutely clear about my status in the investigation. “Right?”
    “Not if you can produce your other sweatshirts for the officer who will accompany you to your house when you leave here.” Eldridge’s voice was firm as he added, “And as long as the people who were at the meeting last night say you were wearing the color sweatshirt you presently have on, then, no, you are not a current suspect.”
    “Why is my choice of clothing so important?” I asked, then answered myself, “Duh! Earlier, you mentioned a blood trail.” I paused to think, then said, “Which means whoever killed Quistgaard would be covered in blood, either from the stabbing itself or when he or she was dragging the body and wrestling it into the box.”
    “Exactly.”
    “But how would they do it?” I tried to remember the anatomy course that I had taken my freshman year in college. “Wouldn’t it take a lot of strength to drive a stake into someone’s chest?”
    “If the weapon was aimed directly over the sternum, yes, it would take a great deal of power to do so.” The chief rolled his pencil between his palms.
    “So the stake is off center?”
    “We don’t have that information yet.” Eldridge reached for the door handle. “Are you ready to take a look inside your store?”
    “Totally.” I jumped out of the Chevy and headed toward the building. As sorry as I was for the murdered man, my business was vital for Birdie’s well-being. It was what put food on the table and kept shelter over our heads. Without it, I’d have to take a job in the city and Gran might have to go into assisted living. To say that I was anxious to make sure everything was okay was like saying that Hurricane Sandy had been a light breeze.
    Chief Kincaid escorted me to the front entrance, watched as I used my key to open the door, and followed me across the threshold. We walked the aisles in