Whips and Spurs and Murder by Patti Larsen

Author:Patti Larsen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cozy murder mystery series, cozy series dog, horse jumping mystery
Publisher: Patti Larsen

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Chapter Seventeen

Sarah’s room looked like no one lived in it, the kind of tidy neatness that made me second guess my own life choices when it came to the clutter that was my closet. I sighed while I stood back and stared at the rather OCD organization of color coded breeches, golf shirts, white shirts, black jackets and polished tall boots that filled one end, the bare selection of street clothes on the shelf and hanging sadly on the other side evidence the young rider did little that wasn’t to do with horses.

Not much of a life, but then again, who was I to judge? She was doing what she loved, right? And if it wasn’t for Crew and Daisy, would I even have a social life?

Pots, kettles and calling out the black, Fleming.

Liz looked up from the drawer she was examining on the other side of the room with a grin. “Kid’s neat as a pin.”

“Tell me about it.” I removed my gloves and stuffed them into my pocket. We’d been over every inch of the room and found nothing to do with a syringe or any kind of injectable. This was my third look in her closet, just to be thorough, though truthfully I was kind of in awe of Sarah’s commitment to tidiness and simply had to have another peek.

Liz closed the drawer with a solid thud, her own gloves neatly and efficiently removed tucked away in her jacket as she continued to scan the room with her gaze, refusing to quit until she was sure there was nothing to find. The kind of tenacity I admired and liked to think I possessed myself. Dog with a bone? She’d accused me of as much. Guilty. But even Liz finally pursed her lips in defeat. “That’s that, then. There’s nothing here to connect Miss Shard to the syringe you found.” Did she sound disappointed? I couldn’t bring myself to believe it was due to a lack of evidence against Sarah, but instead a cop’s reaction to a fruitless search for the truth and justice for the victim.

What, me romanticizing? Go figure.

“And still no proof it was the COD.” I’d called Dr. Aberstock earlier, after leaving Emile to mourn his unanswered affections, and before Liz asked me to join her in this little exploration of Sarah’s personal belongings. No cause of death yet, and no fingerprints on the syringe to point to who’d had it in their possession prior to my discovery.

I suppressed a little shiver of uncomfortableness, couldn’t help but feel like I was being a voyeur digging around in Sarah’s stuff like this, despite knowing it was part of the job. Weird to rifle through the girl’s underwear and bras, her personal photos—how few there were of them—knowing she’d likely go through the whole space and have to “fix” everything we’d touched. I knew I’d be upset and creeped out if I had to endure such a search and I was about as far from OCD as anyone.

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