Indefensible by Pamela Callow Page B

Ethan jerked his head toward the balcony that hung over them.
    â€œNot too many.”
    â€œGet patrol to start canvassing any houses that could possibly have a view.”
    Sue nodded. “Will do. But don’t hold your breath.”
    He grimaced. He doubted they were going to come up with any witnesses, given the shield of foliage. “Let’s see what the bedroom tells us.”
    Bedrooms, in his experience, held many secrets.
    And, remembering the beautiful, damaged face of the victim, he bet that Elise Vanderzell’s was no exception.

14
    Saturday, 2:24 a.m.
    S everal patrol cars blocked the driveway, lights flashing. Every other second, the lights flickered over a red Volkswagen Beetle, spotlighting the haphazard parking job done by its owner.
    A distraught family member.
    From the gray hair and the familiar embrace she gave the victim’s daughter—who sobbed brokenly into the older woman’s shoulder—Ethan guessed the owner of the red Beetle was the girl’s grandmother. He was glad to see the kids had a family member to comfort them. Even better, she might know the whereabouts of the victim’s husband.
    Sue headed to one of the patrol cars to get the canvass organized. Ethan walked toward the girl and the older woman. They stood near the last patrol car. Ethan glanced in the backseat and saw the son, Nick, slumped with his head in his hands.
    The older lady lifted her head, throwing a concerned glance at Nick as Ethan approached, but did not relinquish her hold on the girl.
    â€œI’m Detective Ethan Drake.”
    â€œPenelope Barrett,” she said, her eyes assessing him. “Their grandmother.” She hugged the girl a little tighter.
    â€œI came as fast as I could,” the grandmother added, more for the girl’s benefit than for his, Ethan guessed. “I left home as soon as Lucy called me. But it’s a forty-minute drive from Prospect. Where I live.”
    She did look as if she’d run from her bed, her short gray hair swirling around her head, a pair of bifocals in a striking blue shoved crookedly on her nose. They seemed too vibrant for the grief shadowing her deep-set eyes. There was something very familiar about her face—she was still attractive, the benefit of good bones—and yet Ethan knew he hadn’t met her before. It would be hard to forget someone like her. She was a tall, lanky woman, and her loose sweater and slightly askew wrinkled skirt hung from her spare frame. On her feet were green rubber boots—the type that had a permanent shelf at Canadian Tire—covered with splashes of paint. The colors were too vibrant and eclectic to be house paint. She was an artist, Ethan bet.
    Lucy wiped her nose with the back of her hand and gazed at Ethan with an expression so bereft that he had to look away.
    â€œCan I take them home now?” Penelope Barrett asked softly. “They’re exhausted.”
    â€œMrs. Barrett—” Mrs. Barrett .
    No. It couldn’t be.
    He felt as if he’d been punched.
    He cursed his gut for denying him his coffee. He’d have picked this up right away if his brain weren’t so sluggish.
    Her eyes narrowed. He was sending off signals to her that he needed to control. He forced his face to relax. “Mrs. Barrett,” he began again. “You are the children’s paternal grandmother?”
    â€œThat is correct.” The whole artsy getup she had going on could not disguise the steeliness in her eyes. This woman was no flake.
    â€œWhat is your son’s name?”
    Lucy stiffened. Ethan glanced at Nick. The teen hadn’t moved an inch, but Ethan sensed he was listening intently.
    Penelope Barrett’s gaze was level. “Randall Barrett.”
    Je-sus .
    Ethan strove to keep his voice neutral. “Do you know his whereabouts this evening? We haven’t been able to locate him.”
    Lucy threw a panicked glance at her grandmother, then at her