Moira flinches, and twists round towards the noise. ‘What the . . . ?’
A barrel-chested guy the size of a mountain strides into the kitchen. His white hair, deep tan and huge arms make him look like Popeye’s older, more muscular brother. When he speaks his voice is gravel deep, the accent Bostonian rather than Floridian.
‘I’ve called the troops to action. Meeting’s in half an hour.’
‘Excellent,’ says Philip, gesturing towards her. ‘Moira here found the body, she’s going to talk us through what she saw.’
‘Sounds good,’ says the man mountain. Pouring himself a mug of coffee, he moves across the kitchen to the space next to Moira at the island and leans his hip against the counter.
Philip gestures towards the empty stool. ‘Take a seat.’
‘I’m okay standing,’ says the big guy. He looks at Moira. ‘You go right ahead.’
Moira frowns. Who the hell is this guy? With him towering over her, the kitchen that had seemed so big and spacious moments ago now seems more like a hobbit house. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Rick, ma’am.’ Putting his coffee down, he stretches out his hand in greeting. ‘Rick Denver.’
Moira shakes his hand. It’s at least double the size of hers. He’s got a firm grip and a cool, dry palm. ‘I’m Moira.’
‘Great accent,’ Rick says, grinning. ‘I guess you’re another transplant from England like these guys?’
He says the word England as if it has three syllables – En-ger-land. And his smile makes him look less imposing, more goofy, but Moira isn’t prepared to drop her guard. ‘I am.’
‘You live here?’ He holds her eye contact.
She gives a curt nod. ‘Moved in last month.’
‘Cool.’ Rick glances from Moira to the others. ‘So the crime scene, what did you see?’
Moira hesitates. She didn’t like the idea of telling Lizzie and Philip, and now there’s this Rick guy she’s even less keen.
‘Go ahead,’ says Philip, nodding encouragingly. ‘Rick’s ex-DEA. He’s law enforcement, just like me and Lizzie.’
Like me too, thinks Moira, but she says nothing because, shit, this is all she needs – yet another person from law enforcement.
‘It’s okay,’ says Philip. ‘Continue. You’re perfectly safe with us.’
Biting back the urge to tell him she’s been a cop herself and doesn’t need his patronising assurances, Moira looks at Rick instead. ‘That true about you being ex-DEA?’
‘Sure is. Did forty-one years. Real long-timer.’
Moira stares at him. She has to be guarded to protect herself. It’s easy enough, having almost become a habit after years of working undercover, where it’s a force of necessity to make the right moves and stay alive. But she also needs to fit in and not arouse suspicion, so she takes a breath and forces a smile. ‘Well, like I said, there were some things out of place at the pool that didn’t make sense.’
Lizzie stops rotating the bottom of her mug against the counter. ‘How?’
‘Well, when I spoke to the detective he seemed to be working on the idea it was a mugging, but that seemed odd to me.’ Moira tries to inject more doubt into her voice, as if she’s talking about something she’s not an expert in. ‘I mean, if it was a mugging, why did the killer leave all the money and the—’
‘Wait.’ Philip puts his hand out to stop her. ‘What money? How much? Where—？’
‘Tell us from the beginning,’ Rick says, cutting over Philip. ‘Describe how you found the scene.’