Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

leaned back and took in the scenery. Large homes, set back, well-maintained grounds, renovated farmhouses. There was something crisp and Protestant about Connecticut, and it wasn’t just the climate. Its people moved around with clear Yankee purpose and energy; the work ethic was alive and well here.
    A lot of theater and film people, writers, and artists lived all over Fairfield County, particularly Lower Fairfield, which encompassed villages like Greenwich, Westport, Wilton, Weston, Redding, and various other small connecting towns.
    Smith was concentrating on the right side of the road. “Ah, here we are.” She put her brakes on, then made a quick right into what looked to Wetzon like shrubbery but was another narrow, winding road that cut through a small, dense wood of evergreens for about a hundred yards and came out beside an expanse of lawn and a broad, single-story house with a huge porch chock full of green wicker furniture.
    “Do you see what I see?” Wetzon put her hand on Smith’s arm.
    Not responding, Smith drove up to the side entrance, slowly passing a maroon police car with rooftop lights. She pulled up in front of a double garage next to a white Ford station wagon. Turning to Wetzon, who was craning her neck to look at the unoccupied police car, she asked, “What’s in that box?”
    “Sticky buns for tomorrow’s breakfast.”
    “Not anymore.” Smith appropriated the box and got out of the car. “Come on.”
    They had just reached the steps to the door when two men in dark-gray uniforms stepped out, still holding the open door, talking to someone inside. The wrinkled, menacing face of a brindled English bulldog pushed its head between the men and began barking.
    “Rambo, get back in here this minute. Don’t let him out.” Penny Ann’s disembodied voice.
    The first officer, beefy-faced under his hat, squat, his belly resting over his belt buckle, firmly pushed Rambo back with the tip of his cowboy boot. The other cop was much younger, perhaps mid-twenties, and thin to the point of frail. There was enough room in his uniform for another cop his size. He caught sight of Smith and Wetzon and gave his partner an exaggerated poke.
    “We’ll be back later, y’hear?” the older one said to the closing door. He looked down at Smith, who was smiling up at him with her most dazzling smile. “Well, now, what do we have here?” He looked ready to jump her bones.
    “We’re paying a condolence call, Officer,” Smith said, making a big thing of the cake box. “Is everything okay with poor Penny Ann?” She nodded to the police car.
    The older cop’s eyes rested on Wetzon, then slid back to Smith. She was really giving him the treatment. “If you’re friends of Miz Boyd, you tell her to work with us. Everything will be hunky-dory.”
    Hunky-dory? What year is this , Wetzon thought. “What’s the problem, Officer?” She directed her question to the older man.
    “Police business.” He put on his mirrored sunglasses and got into the car on the driver’s side. When the younger man was settled, they drove off.
    “Knock on the door,” Wetzon said impatiently. But the door opened at once, and Rambo thrust himself in their way, breathing stentoriously, slobbering, showing a fearful arrangement of teeth. Penny Ann was just behind him, tugging at his chain collar. She was having no effect on him whatsoever till she began thumping him on the nose with a rolled-up copy of Money. Rambo immediately drew back with a clatter of toenails on linoleum, and ungraciously allowed them entry.
    “Penny Ann, sweetie pie!” Smith thrust the cake box into Penny Ann’s hands. Penny Ann wore jeans overalls over a leotard on her pudgy body, sneakers, and a shell-shocked expression. Her face was blotchy. Her hair was pulled back with a faded blue bandanna. She peered at them from behind her glasses. “Don’t you remember? I have a home in Westport.” Smith walked around the kitchen, conspicuously trying not to let anything touch her. “We’re so sorry about your personal tragedy.”
    “Oh, yes.” Penny Ann’s voice was expressionless. “Thank you.” She stood helplessly holding the box, not seeming to know what to do or say.
    They were standing in a spacious country kitchen with built-in closets and all the best appliances. A long work island was centered in the room. It was on this counter that Penny Ann finally placed the box.
    An open loaf of Wonder bread stood on another counter near a toaster