Bird wondered if Lizzie Ouellette and Dwayne Cleaves seemed happy enough.
If they were lucky, they’d catch Cleaves in time to ask him.
Bird drained the dregs of his coffee, setting his cup back on the console, and stepped out. The wind had shifted, pushing the smoke from the burning junkyard north across the lake, but a faint acrid odor still hung in the air. He took his time making his way up the driveway, taking in the scene—the house nestled among the pines, coming into view as he rounded the final curve. Beyond it, the lake glittered, its waters stirred by the wind. Over the rustling of the trees, the faint ka-thunk ka-thunk of waves hitting the underside of a dock could be heard. Sound carried out here. On a quiet night, a scream might be heard all the way across the lake, if there was anyone around to listen. But every place in shouting distance had been vacant last night. No witnesses. Which made the killer either very lucky, or very local.
Bird knew which one he’d put his money on.
Myles Johnson was outside the door, looking faintly green. He stepped aside at the sight of Bird’s ID and pointed down the hallway, where a half dozen people were crowded outside the bedroom door. Bird recognized the local cops from their uneasy looks—in over their heads, but still not pleased to see an outsider in their midst.
The remains of Lizzie Ouellette were stretched on the floor beside the bed. One of the techs shifted his body as Bird peered through the doorway, offering a brief glimpse of the corpse. The rise of a hip with a pair of red bikini bottoms stretched taut over the bone, a bare shoulder where her shirt had pulled to the side, hair matted with blood. A lot of blood—he could see flecks of it on her naked skin, and a spreading stain on the carpet beneath. Flies were buzzing, but no worms. Not yet. She hadn’t been here long.
Bird scanned the area around the bed, noting the crumpled quilt on the floor. More blood. The quilt was stained, but not soaked.
“She was underneath it,” said a voice, and Bird turned to see the young deputy who’d admitted him into the house standing behind him, his broad shoulders nearly brushing either wall of the narrow space. He was twisting a dishcloth in both hands, gripping it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
The nose guy.
“You’re the one who found the body, then?”
“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t know when I moved the blanket; I thought she might be, you know, alive, or . . .”
“Alive,” Bird said. “That would be after you found her nose in the sink? Is it still there?”
Johnson shook his head as one of the techs emerged from the bedroom, pointing ahead down the hall as she passed.
“He dropped it,” she said. “We bagged it. It doesn’t look like much.”
Bird turned back to Johnson.
“All right, Officer. It’s all right. Tell me what you saw.”
Johnson grimaced. “I followed the blood. There was a trail from the kitchen, after I found . . . you know. And I saw the blanket, with more blood. I could tell someone was under it. I pulled it away. I saw her. That’s it. I didn’t try to—I mean, once I saw her, I knew she was gone.”
Bird nodded. “So he covered her before he left.”
“He? You mean, like—” Johnson shook his head furiously, clutching the dish towel. “No, man. Dwayne wouldn’t—”
Bird’s eyes narrowed at the sound of the husband’s first name. “Yeah? Where is Dwayne, then? Did you try texting him? Did he answer?”
Bird felt a small flush of satisfaction as Johnson’s face went red. The thing about the texts had been just a guess, but it had clearly been a good one. Johnson and the deceased’s husband weren’t just on a first-name basis; they were friends.
Sheriff Ryan had been leaning against the wall throughout this exchange; now he stepped forward, laying a hand on Johnson’s shoulder.
“Hey, it’s a small town. We all know Dwayne, some of us from way back. But nobody’s trying to get in your way. We all want the same thing, here, and my men will give you whatever help you need. We already sent a car over to his and Lizzie’s place in town. Nobody home. Lizzie’s Toyota is around back, and they had one other vehicle, a pickup—it’s not here, so best guess is that wherever Dwayne is, he’s got it. We put out the description. If he’s on the road, he’ll get picked up sooner or later.”
Bird nodded back. “So they lived in town, and then this place is what, a vacation home?”
“Earl—that’s Lizzie’s father—it’s his place. Or was. I think Lizzie pretty much took it over, spruced it up and started renting it out. To folks from away, mostly.” The sheriff paused, shifting his weight, frowning. “That didn’t go over with some of the other homeowners.”