Roy stopped and a look of relief came over his face. It was replaced a second later by a concerned frown. “What happened here?” he asked.
The question wasn’t really directed at the paramedics, but one of them answered it anyway. “We don’t know yet, sir; we’re just checking the lady’s vitals.”
“I’ll go open the garage door, Roy,” Sam said. “You can come around into the house that way.”
While Sam was doing that, Phyllis and Carolyn stood in the doorway, watching the EMTs work on Georgia. A minute later, Roy came up the hall from the kitchen and hugged Eve.
“I was so worried about you,” he said. “When I turned onto the street and saw the flashing lights, then realized the ambulance was here, well, I . . . I thought something might have happened to you.”
“I’m fine,” she told him, “other than being upset about all this. I’m glad you’re here, Roy.”
The presence of the ambulance drew attention from the other houses on the street, of course, and some of the neighbors appeared to find out what was wrong. They gathered along the curb and watched as one of the paramedics leaned close to Georgia and examined the injury to her head.
The sound of another siren welled up and stopped as the first police car arrived. The driver’s door opened and an officer got out, pausing to say something on his radio before he hurried across the yard.
“What’ve you got, fellas?” he asked the paramedics.
“Female, approximately sixty, head injury,” Jerry replied.
Georgia was a few years older than sixty, Phyllis knew, but that dark hair of hers was deceptive. A shudder went through her as she thought about how blood now clotted thickly in Georgia’s hair.
“Something fall on her?”
“I don’t think so.” Jerry waved a hand toward the gingerbread Santa. “It looks like somebody hit her with a ceramic thing in some sort of Christmas getup.”
“It’s a gingerbread man,” Carolyn said, obviously unable to contain herself. “And it was dressed like Mrs. Claus. It was part of a pair.”
“Okay,” the police officer said. “That makes it an assault, maybe attempted murder. I’ll call the detectives and the crime-scene team.”
He hurried back to his car. While he was calling in, Phyllis asked the EMTs, “How’s she doing?”
“Hard to say, ma’am. She’s unconscious, and it looks like she’s got a fairly severe head injury.”
“Shouldn’t you be gettin’ her to the hospital?” Sam said.
“We’re going to; don’t worry.”
The officer came running back from his car with a digital camera. “Gimme a minute to get some shots,” he said, “and then you can take her.”
Jerry nodded and told his partner, “Go ahead and get the gurney.”
The cop looked up at Phyllis, Sam, and the others and asked, “Did anybody disturb anything when you found her?”
Sam said, “I came outside and got on the top step so I could bend down and check her pulse. I stepped on some of the pieces of the gingerbread man. So did Phyllis. But that’s all. Nobody else got close to her.”
The officer had been taking pictures while Sam answered, snapping them off as fast as he could from several different angles. By the time he was finished, the paramedic was back from the ambulance with the gurney. The other EMT put a padded collar around Georgia’s neck to protect and stabilize it in case there was any spinal injury. Then they carefully and gently moved her onto the gurney, raised it, and wheeled it toward the ambulance.
“Did anybody see what happened?” the officer asked.
Phyllis shook her head. “No, we were all inside.” She knew she would be answering a lot of questions once the detectives got here, and she didn’t want to have to go over things any more than was necessary.
“Is this your house, ma’am?”
“That’s right.”
“And your name is . . . ?”
“Phyllis Newsom,” she said.
The officer’s eyebrows went up, and she knew he had recognized the name. He said, “You’re the one who—” Then he stopped and let an awkward silence take the place of what he’d been about to say.
“That’s right,” Phyllis said. “I am.”
Chapter 6
T
he cop instructed Phyllis and the others to go back in the house and wait for the detective in charge of the case, who would want to speak with them. He stayed outside to make sure the crime scene and all the evidence remained intact.
Phyllis, Sam, Carolyn, Eve, and Roy went into the living room. The curtains were pulled back away from the picture window so that the big, brightly decorated Christmas tree would be visible from outside. The flashing red and blue lights from the emergency vehicles spilled in through the window, overpowering the festive lights from the decorations.
“This is terrible, just terrible,” Carolyn said as she sank into an armchair. “Poor Georgia.”
“I hope she’ll be all right,” Eve said. She had settled down on the sofa with Roy. He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed reassuringly.
Phyllis moved over beside the tree and looked out the window. “I heard it happen,” she said without turning around to face the others. “I heard the gingerbread man shatter.”
Sam stepped up behind her and rested a big hand on her shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you could’ve done anything to stop it,” he told her.
“I should have gotten there sooner. I should have opened the door quicker.”
“If you had, you might’ve seen whoever did it, and then he might’ve attacked you, too,” Sam pointed out.
“We don’t know it was a man.”
“I loaded those gingerbread men in the pickup when we bought ’em,” Sam reminded her. “They were pretty heavy. I guess a woman could’ve lifted one of’em, but to raise it up high enough to hit poor Miz Hallerbee in the head with it . . . well, that wouldn’t have been easy to do.”
A shudder went through Phyllis at the thought of that weight crashing down on Georgia’s head. At least the impact must have been quick and stunning. Had Georgia even known what was going on? She must have, Phyllis decided. The attacker would have had to be close behind her in order to lift the gingerbread man and strike her with it. But the assault had taken her by surprise and been carried out quickly, before Georgia could fight back or even cry out.
More police cars arrived, and uniformed officers began moving the crowd back and putting up crime-scene tape. The SUV that carried the forensics and crime-scene team pulled up at the curb, followed by an unmarked car with flashing lights on its grille. A man in a suit got out of it and started giving orders. That would be the detective who’d been put in charge of the case, Phyllis thought.
The crime-scene technicians converged on the porch. The man in the suit walked across the grass toward the driveway, heading for the open garage. He looked up at the picture window and saw Phyllis standing there. He pointed a blunt finger at the garage.
She nodded to him through the glass and said to Sam, “Would you go let the detective in through the kitchen?”
“Sure.”
Phyllis hadn’t recognized the detective. She knew Chief Ralph Whitmire and Detective Isabel Largo from the previous cases in which she had been involved, but this man was a stranger to her.
He came into the room a minute later with Sam. Short and thick bodied, he had graying red hair and a broad face that looked like a cross between a bulldog’s and a cherub’s face. He gave Phyllis a polite nod and said, “Mrs. Newsom?”
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Warren Latimer. I’ll be in charge of the investigation into the attack on Ms. Hallerbee.” He looked around the living room. “Would you mind introducing me to these other folks?”
“Of course. This is Sam Fletcher, Carolyn Wilbarger, Eve Turner, and Roy Porter.”
Latimer took a notebook and pen from his pocket and wrote down the names. No matter how many advances were made in police work, some things never changed. Latimer said, “I’ll need your addresses.”
“Sam, Carolyn, and Eve all live here. They rent rooms from me.”
“How about you, sir?” Latimer asked Roy.
“Mrs. Turner and I are engaged,” Roy answered rather stiffly. He told Latimer the name of the motel out on the interstate where he was staying and added, “I’m actually from Houston.”
“That’s fine, just as long as we know where to find you while you’re here in Weatherford.” Latimer turned back to Phyllis. “The officer outside said you found the body, Mrs. Newsom?”
“Georgia’s not dead,” Phyllis said.
At least, she hadn’t been when the ambulance left with her, and Phyllis hoped that was still the case.
Latimer nodded. “Of course. I meant the victim. Tell me what happened.”
Phyllis went through the story with brisk efficiency. Latimer’s pen moved quickly as he made notes. Phyllis had been questioned by the police on numerous occasions, so she knew the sort of information they needed.
When Phyllis was finished, Latimer nodded his thanks and turned to the others. “How about the rest of you?” he asked. “Anything to add? Where were you when the incident took place?”
Calling such a brutal attack an “incident” seemed like an understatement to Phyllis.
“I’d gone to the kitchen and reached out through the door into the garage to turn on the outside Christmas lights,” Sam said. “The power strip’s right by the door where you came in.”
“And Eve and I were sitting in here talking,” Carolyn added. “We didn’t know anything was wrong until Phyllis screamed.”
Eve nodded in agreement.
Latimer looked at Roy. “What about you, Mr. Porter?”
“I wasn’t here yet,” Roy said. “I drove up a few minutes later. The ambulance was already here. In fact, when I saw the flashing lights and saw where it was parked, I . . . I sort of panicked. I thought maybe something had happened to Eve.”
“That’s right,” Eve said. “He was very upset.”
Latimer nodded. “Then that’s your vehicle parked out there with the driver’s door standing open.”
Roy looked surprised. “Did I forget to close it? I don’t even remember that. I was just so anxious to find out if Eve was all right.” He started to get up. “I should go close it—”
Latimer held up a hand to stop him. “That’s all right; nobody’s going to bother anything with so many officers around. I’ll have one of them close the door in a few minutes.”
Roy didn’t look very happy about that, but he nodded and settled back on the sofa cushions next to Eve.
Latimer turned to Phyllis again. “Were you expecting Ms. Hallerbee this evening?”
“As a matter of fact, I was. She was going to be leading the Jingle Bell Tour, so she would have been here when they came around, but she’d told me in an e-mail that she might stop by beforehand, just to make sure we were ready.”
“The Jingle Bell Tour?” Latimer repeated with a puzzled frown.
“Yes, the Christmas Jingle Bell Tour of Homes. This was one of the stops on it.” Phyllis put her hand to her mouth. “What’s going to happen to that now?”
“I guess it can go on as planned with its other stops,” Latimer said, “but they’ll have to skip this place. I can’t have a bunch of gawkers tromping around.” He grunted. “Anyway, a crime scene isn’t a very festive spot, is it, no matter how many lights are burning?”
Phyllis didn’t say anything. The detective was right about that. Her holiday spirit might return later, but right now, it was completely gone.
“So this Jingle Bell Tour is an annual thing?” Latimer went on.
“That’s right.” Phyllis found it odd that he hadn’t heard of it. Of course, it was possible that he hadn’t lived in Weatherford for very long. There were new people coming into town all the time these days. It wasn’t the small, rural county seat it had once been.
“And Ms. Hallerbee was connected with it?”
Phyllis nodded. “She was in charge of organizing it this year, and I believe she was going to lead the tour. She’s been involved with it in previous years, too.”
“You said you’d gotten e-mail from her. When was the last time you actually spoke with her?”
“About a week ago, when she came by to ask me if I’d be willing to have my home be one of the stops on the tour this year.”
Latimer frowned again as he looked around at all the elaborate decorations. “You did all this in a week?”
“It was sort of a last-minute deal. One of the other homes had to drop out because the owner is ill.”
“I see. You did a bang-up job.”
“Thank you,” Phyllis said stiffly. “I wish things had worked out so that everyone on the tour could have seen it.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Ms. Hallerbee would feel the same way.”
Phyllis bristled a little at the tone of the detective’s voice, but before she could say anything, Latimer went on, “When you talked to her last week, did she seem upset or worried about anything?”
“Only about the tour. And she wasn’t really upset about it, just concerned that all the details would get taken care of.”
“How about in her e-mails? Did she say anything about anything being wrong?”
“Not that I recall. I still have them. You’re welcome to look at them.”
Latimer nodded and said, “I’m sure we’ll want to do that. It may not be necessary to bother you about it, though, since I’m sure we’ll be getting a search warrant for Ms. Hallerbee’s computers and the e-mails will probably be on one of them. Do you know what sort of work she did, besides arranging Christmas tours?”
Phyllis didn’t like the way Latimer used the past tense in referring to Georgia, but she didn’t correct him again. Instead she said, “She’s an accountant and tax consultant.”
“We’ll need to take a look at her business computers, too, then.” Latimer made a note of that. “What about her personal life?” He looked around the room. “Were any of you particularly close to her?”
“Carolyn, Eve, and I have known her for several years,” Phyllis said. “I don’t think any of us were what you’d call close to her, though.”