Lib Novel Page 77
Maybe someone really had broken into her house. She was unreliable, but we couldn’t blow her off.
Mavis was probably in her eighties, a tiny lady with a head full of tight, white curls. She patted her hair, then wrung her hands together.
“Deputy, I’m so glad you’re here. It’s terrible. Just terrible.”
“Afternoon, ma’am. Can you tell me what happened?”
She leaned against the railing and took halting steps down the stairs. “I was at the salon. A woman has to maintain her appearance.”
I waited while she stopped in front of me and patted her hair again.
“When I came home, I went inside and I knew something wasn’t right.”
“Was your door open or anything broken?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Okay. Then why do you think someone broke into your house?”
“He ate the cookies I left out on my kitchen table.”
I hesitated. Not a bogus call, my ass. “Someone broke in and ate your cookies.”
“Yes.” She grabbed my arm, as if to tug me closer. Her eyes brightened and she squeezed a few times. “Oh my. They really did send me a nice, strong man, didn’t they?”
I gently eased out of her grip. “I’ll have you stay out here while I go inside and check things out. Make sure it’s safe.”
“Oh, it’s not safe. He’s still in there.”
A ripple of tension swept through me. “Still in your house?”
“I think so.”
Something wasn’t adding up. She was awfully calm for an elderly woman with a suspect in her house.
A cookie-eating suspect?
“Wait here, please.”
She touched my arm again. “Be careful.”
“I will, ma’am.” I keyed my mic to report in to dispatch. “Squad seven.”
“Go ahead, squad seven.”
“Mrs. Doolittle claims someone broke in and stole cookies. I’d chalk it up to typical Mavis, but she also says the suspect is still inside. I’m going in to take a look.”
“Stole cookies?” Brenna asked.
“That’s what she said.”
The door was unlocked, so I eased it open and scanned the entryway. Nothing unusual, other than the cloying scent of something floral. It was so strong it almost made my eyes water.
“Tilikum Sheriff’s department,” I called out to identify myself to anyone who might be inside.
I didn’t hear any movement. The living room off the entry was empty, just a couch with a plastic liner and an antique-looking coffee table. Senses on high alert, I made my way toward the kitchen.
In the center of her small kitchen table was a dessert massacre. Crumbs and pieces of broken cookies were everywhere. It looked like what would happen if my three-year-old nephew, Will, had been left alone with a plate of cookies for more than a few minutes.