Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

seated in the enclosed back porch of the home, which sat on a little hillock. Picture windows looked out on beautiful gardens, a pond and a small forest.

      Monica was slender, almost ethereal. She was no trophy wife; while very lovely, she’d done nothing to correct the changes of time. She was obviously in her late sixties, and still beautiful. Great bone structure, huge powder blue eyes and a quick smile for them—even through her tears.

      “I’m so grateful that you’re here and that you’ve come so quickly! I knew that Adam would help... I knew. The police are going to get this all wrong. It’s such bull! Franklin was, of course, a player when he was young—some drugs, a hell of a lot of drinking, partying. That’s how we met—back when I was modeling he was just becoming known as an author. Struggling! Wasn’t making much of anything at the time. I was actually the far more prestigious person! We met at a party where I was a guest—and he was working for the catering company!” She wasn’t boasting when she spoke; she was laughing. She choked slightly, more tears spilling from her eyes.

      Vickie reached out and set her hand over Monica’s. “I’m so sorry.”

      Monica looked at Vickie and nodded. Griffin thought that Vickie’s ability to empathize with others and offer them real comfort was going to be one of her greatest assets in joining the Krewe. It was also going to be one of the most difficult parts of the job for her to learn to manage. He lowered his head for a moment; it was an odd time to smile. And, an odd time to think just how lucky he was. Vickie was beautiful to look at—five foot nine, with long raven-black waves of hair and blue-green eyes that could change and shimmer like emeralds.

      She was also so caring—honest and filled with integrity.

      He truly loved her. Watching her empathy and gentle touch with Monica, he knew all the more reason why.

      “My husband didn’t kill himself!” Monica whispered fervently.

      “I don’t think it’s been suggested that he killed himself. I believe they’re considering it an accidental death,” Griffin began.

      “Accidental death, my ass! If there’s any last thing I can do for Franklin, it’s going to be to make someone prove that this was no accidental death!” Monica lashed out, furious and indignant. She wasn’t angry with Vickie—who was still holding her hand. Her passion was against the very suggestion that her husband’s death had been through a simple slip—some misfortune.

      She wagged a finger at Griffin. “You listen to me, and listen well. We were the best, Frankie and me. I swear it. When all else fell to hell and ruin, we still had one another. I had nothing against his friends, all the conferences, all the fun—some I went to, some I didn’t. I trusted him. I was glad of his buddies—his writing friends, men and women. I’m a reader, but I can barely string a decent sentence together. Frankie needed other people who could write and talk about it. But when it all threatened his body, I put my foot down. No drugs whatsoever—not even a toke off someone’s joint. No alcohol. None. And he listened to me. Because he wanted to live, and he loved and respected me. He loved us—he loved living. Adam sent you to me because he knows, damn it! Accidental death! No way. And you will find a way to prove it.”

      “Mrs. Verne, what happened yesterday? Was he home—did you not notice that he wasn’t with you until the police came to tell you that...that he’d been found? What went on here yesterday?”

      “What do you mean?” Monica asked indignantly. “There is no lie to this. You may ask anyone anywhere who knows the two of us, from friends to associates, to—”

      “I’m not suggesting anything was wrong between you,” Griffin said, interrupting her softly. “What we’re trying to do is figure out where he was during the day, how he came to be where he was last night. Where was he when you went to bed?”

      “Next to me, lying right next to me!” Monica said.

      “What time was that?”

      “Early. We’d been at my cousin’s house the day before. Her grandchildren were in town. We were literally exhausted—in bed by eight o’clock!”

      “And when you woke up this morning—he wasn’t with you?” Griffin asked.

      Monica shook her head. “But there was nothing unusual to that! Franklin loved to head out for walks first thing in the morning. He always told me that the longest and hardest part of writing was all in his head. When he went for his morning walks, he was really working. Of course, he’d say that with a wink, so what was and wasn’t really true...”

      “Did he mention anything about going anywhere? Meeting up with someone? Any arrangements he might have made to meet up with a friend later—and he didn’t tell you?”

      “He had no reason to lie to me!” Monica said. “No reason. Ever—and he knew it.”

      “But he did keep up regular correspondences with friends, right?”

      “Of course. The police took the computer from his home office. And—”

      She broke off, sighing.

      “What is it?” Vickie asked gently.

      “They asked for his phone. But I don’t have it. They didn’t find his phone anywhere. And I can’t find his laptop, either.”

      Griffin glanced at Vickie. Missing personal devices were suspicious.

      Because there might be evidence on them.

      “Franklin did not meet up with a friend! He did not break in to that cellar to drink wine! I’m telling you, I knew my husband, he...”

      She broke off, gritting her teeth. She was trying not to cry. The woman was truly in anguish; she was also furious.

      “I don’t know when he went out. I don’t why he went out—or how he wound up at the restaurant. I do know one thing.”

      “What is that, Mrs. Verne?” Vickie asked.

      Monica Verne startled them both, slamming a fist on the coffee table. “My husband was murdered!”

      The motion seemed to be a cue.

      In the yard, a dozen birds took flight, shrieking and cawing...

      Griffin could see them as they let out their cries, sweeping into the sky.

      A murder of crows...

      And an unkindness of ravens...

      As poetically cruel as the death of Franklin Verne.

       2

      “I feel just terrible for Mrs. Verne,” Vickie said. “I mean, it was obviously quite a love match. I don’t think that she’s going to be quiet about this—she’s going to let everyone out there know that she thinks that this was a murder.”

      Griffin glanced at Vickie as he drove, taking them back into downtown Baltimore. She was incredibly—and very sweetly—a people person. She felt bad for Monica Verne, and seemed to understand both the woman’s pain and her determination.

      “Yes, she will let everyone know exactly what she thinks, including everyone in the media. The problem is that she’s going to demand answers before people may have them. The ME is no one’s fool, and certainly in no way a yes-man. He will not give his report until he has every single test in. So...”

      “I guess any ME has to be careful. I mean, a writer isn’t exactly a Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger or Prince, but...”

      “Bite your tongue!”

      “I’m serious—who recognizes writers? Stephen King, maybe. And okay, James Patterson—he does a lot of his own commercials, too. But—”

      “People knew Franklin Verne. He was very popular—he gave to so many charities. He and his wife had no children, just one another—and