Shadow Image by Martin J Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

wouldn’t dare. She could defend against charges like those in her sleep.
    She tried again. The groundskeeper, a disgruntled employee, sees the old woman wandering alone in the gardens. He coaxes her into the gazebo to get out of the rain. Then what? Decides to kill her? The railing splinters as they struggle? Maybe, but why? Right now, Brenna just couldn’t see any logic in it.
    She tried again: In a moment of unthinking rage after years of devoted care to his demented wife, Vincent Underhill snaps. He shoves Floss and she stumbles backward. Her momentum carries her over the railing, splintering it, and into the ravine. Then, according to the groundskeeper, he leaves? Knowing she’d probably die down there? A jury might sympathize with Vincent Underhill. They’d find a way to acquit.
    She tried, finally, to imagine the worst case, as Dagnolo no doubt would: The overwrought Vincent finally snaps, picks his wife up off her feet, carries her to the railing, and drops her into the ravine, his forward motion carrying him into the railing and splintering it. Then, the deed already done, convinced it’s for the best, he leaves. That wouldn’t seem impulsive, and certainly not accidental. It had a brutality, a coldness that was missing from the other possibilities—something Dagnolo would love. That’s just the sort of thing that bugs a jury. If it ever came to that, the groundskeeper’s version and the physical evidence were going to be critical. She thought of the crime lab’s interest in Floss Underhill’s fingernails.
    â€œAlton, do you know if the police found any scratches or marks on Mrs. Underhill? Or anyone else?”
    Staggers shrugged. “They’re waiting for you up at the house. We should go.”
    â€œNo idea?”
    Staggers walked away without looking up. They retraced the path to the house without talking, with only the sound of their shoes on wet stone and the rain’s monotonous rhythm on her umbrella.
    Vincent Underhill met them at the front door after having watched their approach from the rear veranda. Brenna twirled the golf umbrella to dislodge the raindrops clinging to its dome, folded it, and handed it to Staggers. She peeled the Totes off her feet and handed those over, too. “Thanks so much,” she said, expecting him to set them to dry beside the front door. Instead, he headed back out into the downpour with the umbrella and boots tucked under his arm.
    â€œHe’s a good man. Loyal to a fault,” Vincent said as they watched Staggers slog to his car and return the rain gear to the trunk. Brenna felt the former governor’s eyes on her even before she turned to meet them. “Loyalty is something this family cherishes, Ms. Kennedy. We expect it, but we also reward it.”
    Brenna smiled, flustered by his unexpected intensity. She looked across the house’s grand foyer and through the French doors. Everyone else was gone. She recognized the silhouette of Lottie the maid in the overcast light as she gathered the iced-tea glasses onto a tray. “The others left?”
    Vincent turned around, as if he were double-checking. “Ford and Phil needed to get going. Leigh wasn’t feeling well, so she went on back to their house. Look, I’m sorry about earlier.”
    Staggers brushed past them and into the house. With each step, his shoes made the squishing sound of sodden leather. Then, as if he’d forgotten something, he headed back out into the spring shower.
    â€œPerfectly understandable. It’s a difficult time. Mind talking about it for a few minutes now?”
    The former governor led her down a short hall and into a sumptuous paneled study. A fire was lit in the stone fireplace, which stood between two windows overlooking the driveway and front entrance. Brenna wasn’t cold or wet, but the pull of the flames was irresistible. Vincent Underhill was staring out one of the floor-length windows, his