“I’ll respond personally as soon as I can. In the meantime, tell her how much I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”

Kay accompanied her as far as the den, where Detective Stanley Rodarte was waiting. Rodarte. Laura had recognized the name instantly from Griff Burkett’s warning. He’d been sure to include mention of an olive drab sedan but had failed to tell her that Rodarte was a homicide detective with the Dallas Police Department.

Rodarte was studying a painting of an English hunting scene. He turned when she walked in. “Is this an original?”

“I believe so.”

“Hmm,” he said, sounding impressed. “Must have cost a bundle.”

She didn’t honor that with a response.

“Sure is a beautiful home, Mrs. Speakman.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you redecorate when you moved in after marrying Mr. Speakman?”

“Elaine Speakman had done such an excellent job with the decor, I saw no need to change it.”

Oddly, his smile didn’t improve his looks. It made him uglier. “Most second wives want to rub out all traces of the first.”

The statement was inappropriate and irrelevant. She thought he’d said it only to see how she would react. She hadn’t warmed to him last night, sensing immediately that he was crass and sly. Now she decided she disliked him intensely.

“I’m being asked about funeral arrangements,” she said.

“The ME is performing the autopsy this afternoon. Depending on what it shows, we should be able to release the body to you either tomorrow or the next day. But I advise against making any definite plans without clearing them with me.”

“I understand.”

Turning her back on him, she moved to one of the leather sofas and was about to sit down when he stopped her. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to look at the library now. See if you notice anything out of kilter. Beyond the obvious, that is.”

She’d known that sooner or later she would be required to go in. She was torn, one part of her needing to see the spot where Foster had died, another resistant to ever entering the room again. Given a choice, she might have postponed it for as long as possible, making the dread of it torturous. In a way, she was glad Rodarte had relieved her of having to make the decision on her own.

Woodenly, she left the den and led the way across the vestibule to the double doors of the library. The hardware on them had been dusted for fingerprints. Seeing that she noticed the smudged dark powder, Rodarte said, “Murder is messy business.”

He pushed the doors open, and she stepped into the room. “You remember Carter,” Rodarte said.

His partner detective, whom she recognized from the night before, was standing in front of a wall of bookshelves, silent and grim as a sentinel. Neither his stance nor his expression changed when she came in.

Except for him, most of the room looked surprisingly normal. Only one area near the desk was in disarray. The desk itself and everything on it had been dusted for fingerprints. An end table lay on its side. The lamp and everything else that had been on the table were scattered across the rug, most broken. The rug itself was buckled. Foster had never allowed even the fringe of it to be mussed, insisting that it be raked several times a day.

She made an involuntary hiccuping sound when she saw his wheelchair.

And there was blood. On the wheelchair. On the rug. On the desk.

Rodarte touched her elbow. “Would you like to do this later?”

What she would have liked was for him not to touch her. She removed her elbow from his hand. “Other than what is obvious, it doesn’t appear that anything has been disturbed.”

“Good.” He pointed her toward a seating group. “Let’s sit down.”

“In here?”

He shrugged and made a face that asked, Why not?

Either he was stupid and insensitive, a jerk, or just plain cruel. Laura suspected the latter, but she didn’t want to take issue with him over where he would conduct this interview. “I’ve been sitting or lying down all day. I’d rather stand.” She went over to the wall of windows, keeping her back to the room.

Forgoing a graceful lead-in, Rodarte asked, “Why did you go to Austin yesterday?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Carter had finally moved. He took a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket. But it was apparent that he was merely reinforcement. Rodarte was the lead investigator.

“At my husband’s request, I went to handle a problem. There had been reports of luggage theft. Our handlers had been accused. One, as it turned out, was guilty. The Austin police have the reports if you care to check.”

“You took a SunSouth flight back?”

“The nine o’clock, last of the evening. On final approach for landing, the flight attendant notified me that I would be escorted off the aircraft. Your chaplains met me in the Jetway. They took me to a private lounge in the airport and told me that my husband had died. I didn’t learn that he’d been murdered until you told me.”

“Up to the point when you were escorted off the plane, you didn’t know that anything was amiss here at home?”

“How could I?”

“Phone call? Text message?”

“I didn’t know anything was amiss.”

“You’d been gone all day. Did you talk to your husband yesterday at any time?”

“Around noon, he called my cell to ask how things were going. Then I called him around six to tell him that the matter had been settled and that I would be on the nine o’clock flight back and not to wait dinner on me.”

“Just those two calls?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Speakman have any appointments scheduled last night?”

“None I was aware of.”

“Well, apparently he did meet with someone here.”

She turned and looked at him.

“There was no sign of a break-in,” he said by way of explanation. “Whoever killed your husband was let into the house.”

“Manuelo would have answered the door.”

He frowned. “We still can’t find him, Mrs. Speakman.”

Last night when Rodarte had asked her help in reconstructing the crime scene, she had mentioned the aide. Rodarte had written down his full name. When she explained what Manuelo’s duties encompassed, the detective had ordered that the entire estate be searched. There had been no sign of the man.

“His room over the garage is still empty,” he told her now. “Bed is made, no dishes in the sink. Clothes in the closet. He doesn’t own a car, right?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And none of the vehicles belonging to you and Mr. Speakman is missing. So how did Mr. Ruiz leave and where did he go?”

“I have no idea. The only thing I know with certainty is that he wouldn’t have left Foster alone.”

“Does he have relatives?”

“I don’t believe so. At least none I know of.”

“You’re sure he was on duty last night?”

“He’s always on duty, Mr. Rodarte.”

“Twenty-four/seven?”

“Yes.”

“Your housekeeper-cook, Mrs. uh-”

“Dobbins.”

“Right. She said she leaves at six o’clock.”

“As soon as dinner is prepared. I can’t imagine why there would have been a change in that schedule. Have you questioned Mrs. Dobbins about last night?”

“She put a roasted chicken in the warming tray and left at six. She said Manuelo Ruiz was here when she left. She’s sure of that because she told him she was leaving. So it’s assumed he was here.”

“I’m certain he was. He wouldn’t have left Foster alone,” she repeated. “Never.”

Rodarte walked over to the area in front of the desk where the rug was bunched up. He squatted down as though to study the dark stains on it. “Much as I hate to, we need to talk about the actual slaying.”

“Must we? You were so descriptive last night. It sounded very…horrible.”

“It was. That’s why I advised you against looking at your husband’s body. It was nothing you wanted to see, believe me. He was still in his wheelchair with a letter opener sticking out the side of his neck.”