Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

simple or straightforward.
    “Thanks, Chief,” Kidder said, and took back the clipboard.
    Sheila regarded her. The rookie barely made regulation height, but she was trim and athletic, with deep-set gray eyes and a pleasant smile—a looker, young Mr. Cavette had called her. “You and Sergeant Clarke were the first to arrive?”
    Kidder nodded. “We were on the east side of the campus when Dispatch gave us the ten-eighty-seven. The woman who called it in—Ramona Donahue, from down the street—was standing on the curb. The body is in the kitchen, on the floor. A male, gun in his right hand. Sergeant Clarke had me tape off the scene while she took Donahue’s statement. Detective Bartlett got here, gave it a look, and called out the county unit. They’ve started processing the scene.” She looked down at the log. “The others on-scene are on the list.”
    “Thanks.” It was a concise summary. Sheila glanced around. She’d seen everyone except— “Detective Matheson? Is he inside?”
    “Negative. He just went out to the street to work the neighbors, ma’am.”
    “Good.” They’d probably need someone else for the canvass, too, although that could wait until Judge Porterfield ruled. If this turned out to be a clear case of suicide, neighborhood interviews might not be necessary.
    “Hey!” The woman was heavyset, borderline obese. She was reaching over the gate, fumbling with the lock. “I’m Dana Kirk’s friend. We work together at the library. I need to talk to her. Let me in.”
    Sheila nodded at Kidder, who stepped forward. She was brisk but polite. “Sorry, ma’am. You can’t come in here. And you’re not supposed to cross that crime-scene tape out front, on the driveway. So turn around and go back. Now, please.”
    “But you don’t understand!” the woman protested frantically, pushing against the gate. “I’m Dana’s friend! Donna Givens. She’ll want me with her. She’ll need me to—”
    Kidder interrupted sharply. “Do you have any information pertinentto what’s happened here this afternoon, Ms. Givens? Anything the investigators need to know to do their work?”
    The woman hesitated, her face a study in indecision. “No, I—” She swallowed. “No, not really. I just want to—”
    “Then I’ll have to ask you to leave.” Kidder’s voice softened. “But if you have a business card, I’ll be glad to let Mrs. Kirk know you stopped by. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your concern.”
    Admitting defeat, the woman fished in her handbag and pulled out a card. “Tell her I’m available whenever,” she said urgently, and handed it to Kidder. “And tell her that Mr. Vance would like her to phone just as soon as she can. He’s worried about—” She stopped, flushing. “Thank you, Officer. I appreciate it.” She turned and went back down the drive.
    “Good job, Kidder,” Sheila said. Empathy was a powerful tool. Not all cops understood how to use it. She held out her hand. “I’ll be talking to Mrs. Kirk, so I’ll deliver the card. And it might be a good idea for you to station yourself at the tape line.”
    Kidder nodded, gave her the card, and went through the gate. Sheila glanced around, looking for Detective Bartlett, and spotted him on the narrow wooden deck at the back of the house, talking to Maude Porterfield. A guy in a white jumpsuit with adams county crime scene unit in red letters on the back stood by the back door, waiting to go in. He was wearing a plastic cap, mask, gloves, and booties and carried a forensic case. In the backyard (fenced with a six-foot privacy fence), two white-uniformed med techs stood with their arms folded beside an empty gurney with a body bag on it. On a small concrete patio beside an ornamental pool thick with green pond lilies, a dark-haired woman in a skirt and sweater and low heels was huddled in a white plastic lawn chair. Sergeant Clarke crouched beside her. The woman was weeping, big, gulping sobs. The widow, no doubt.
    Sheila regarded her. Maybe a little too histrionic for a woman who was seeking a divorce from a man who now lay dead on the kitchen floor? But you never knew about people. She caught the sergeant’s eye and motioned to her. Clarke got up and came over.
    “Evenin’, Chief. Want me to go out and help Detective Matheson with the canvass?” Jeraldine Clarke was a short, muscular woman with boy-cut ginger-colored hair who went by the name of Jerry. She had grown up on a ranch where her favorite sports