Would you recognize a serial killer if you talked to one every single day?
Starving artist Lia Anderson doesn't. Neither do her friends at the Mount Airy Dog Park. Then the violent death of Lia's newly-ex boyfriend brings Detective Peter Dourson...
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Peter rolled over and snagged his phone off the bed-side table. He froze for a moment, confused by a fringed, amber lampshade. Slivers of daylight revealed unfamiliar slashes of color. He shook his head, remembered where he was, and smiled. Then he looked at the screen. Groaned. Dispatch. The time was 6:43 a.m. Shit. Thank God he only had a few beers last night. A hangover after less than 5 hours sleep would be murder. He sat up and flipped the phone open. "Dourson."
"Detective, we have a suspicious death at 843 Hosta Terrace. You flagged that address on one of your cases. I know this is your day off, but I thought you would want the call."
"Thanks. Who's the deceased?"
"Her name is Catherine Laroux."
"I'll be right there." He rolled over and looked at Lia. Should he tell her? What a way to spoil the mood. Not yet. She'd find out soon enough. He stroked her hair.
"Mmmph."
"I gotta go."
"Do you have to?" she murmured, half asleep.
He nuzzled her neck. "Yeah. Work." Nipped her earlobe.
She turned her face so that their lips met. "See you later, Kentucky Boy," she breathed into his mouth.
By the time Peter was dressed, Lia had fallen back asleep. So much for romance, he thought, and kissed her on the back of her head as he left.
Peter winced when he saw crime scene investigators tromping all over the labyrinth. He ducked under the yellow tape, flashing his badge at the officer posted there, and was directed to the center of the maze. He sighed as he saw the path, established by other officers, cutting straight through the garden. He knew he couldn't walk Lia's mosaic path because it might contaminate evidence, but he regretted the damage to the plants. Then it occurred to him that he was more concerned about the garden than he was about Catherine. Maybe because he never met a flower who would sleep with its friend's boyfriend, if flowers had boyfriends, which they probably didn't, seeing as how pollen was delivered by bees. Kinda like getting sperm in the mail. A depressing thought which explained why all the flowers got along and gardens were such peaceful places. Nothing to fight over.
He spotted Catherine lying in the mulch at the edge of her koi moat, her silk caftan soaked and crumpled up around her legs, her halo of dandelion-fluff hair sodden and lank. Brent was already there, talking to Dr. Jefferson. "Amanda, Brent," he nodded, "What have we got?"
Amanda Jefferson was a sturdy black woman sporting a heavy mop of braids down her back. She stood up from where she had been kneeling by the body. "Can't say for sure until the autopsy, but it looks like a - no pun intended - garden variety drowning." Gardener showed up shortly after sunrise, found her floating in the pond here and hauled her out, then called us."
"Bailey? Bailey's here? Where is she?"
Brent pointed back towards the house. "She's on the deck. She's really upset."
