A Specter of Justice by Mark de Castrique Page A

collect.”
    â€œAssuming it was one killer,” I said.
    Hewitt’s eyes narrowed. “And a conspiracy complicates motive. What was gained by her death and who, in the plural, would benefit?”
    â€œHow do you see this affecting the custody suit?”
    â€œI’m hoping the good Reverend Horace Brooks keeps on with his media stunts. I haven’t seen the final numbers, but we were on track to raise a sizable sum for the kids’ educational fund. The judge might not look favorably on awarding custody to grandparents who are outspoken obstacles to the boys’ opportunity for a college education.”
    Hewitt laid his broad hand on my phone. “And if Newly is able to trace this threat back to Brooks, his heavenly piety and testimony for the Atwoods will be shot to hell. We’ll see who’s spoofed in the end.”
    My cell phone buzzed where I’d laid it on the desk. I picked it up and saw the call was from Nakayla. Before I could answer, Hewitt’s rang.
    He looked at his caller ID. “It’s Shirley. She never calls on Saturday. I’d better take it.” He stepped into the other room.
    â€œHi,” I said. “You’re up.”
    â€œHave you heard from Lenore?” Her voice was tense and urgent.
    â€œNo. What’s wrong?”
    â€œShirley just called. She’s been trying to reach her, but she’s getting no answer.”
    â€œMaybe Lenore’s sleeping in.”
    â€œShirley’s been trying to reach her since Molly’s body was found. Lenore sure wasn’t asleep at eight last night.”
    â€œWhen was she last seen at the Grove Park?”
    â€œShe wasn’t.” The answer didn’t come from Nakayla. Hewitt stood in the doorway, the phone still at his ear. “Shirley’s at Lenore’s. She wants us to come there now.”

Chapter Eight
    Hewitt pulled his Jaguar to the curb in front of a story-and-a-half, light blue home with white trim and a manicured yard enclosed by a white picket fence.
    Located just a few miles north of town, the nineteen twenties neighborhood was enjoying a resurgence as proximity to Asheville’s vibrant center made the older homes desirable. Lenore Carpenter’s looked like it received tender loving care. The lawn, surprisingly green for October, was raked clear of leaves. A garden shed stood to the right with a greenhouse attached to the rear. Hanging baskets devoid of flowers were lined up on the concrete apron ready to be stored for winter.
    Hewitt unlatched the front gate and gestured for me to precede him up the walk. When I reached the first step to the porch, a woman opened the door. I stopped and stared, trying to place the familiar face. Then I made a futile effort to hide my surprise.
    â€œYeah. It’s me,” Shirley said. “I didn’t have time to dress properly.”
    â€œYou look fine.” I meant it. Without the severe white makeup and tar-black mascara and eyeliner, she looked cute. But I had the good sense not to utter that four-letter word to Shirley. Not if I wanted to retain all my teeth.
    â€œWhere’s Nakayla?” she asked.
    â€œMeeting us here. Hewitt and I didn’t want to wait for her.”
    â€œHave you heard from Lenore?” Hewitt asked.
    â€œNo. But come look. Something’s wrong.”
    We followed Shirley into the living room. I was aware of a hardwood floor and white brick fireplace, but furniture and artwork passed as indistinct blurs. She quickly led us to a rear bedroom.
    A double bed with a white comforter and decorative apricot pillows ran lengthwise beneath a window overlooking the backyard. An antique nightstand and matching dresser were the only other furniture. On the narrow wall facing the foot of the bed was a full-length mirror. Two Japanese prints hung on either side.
    The center of our attention lay crumpled atop the comforter. At first I thought it was a piece of the bedding; perhaps a