out and we’re out of unis. The basement should be T. Laine’s to explain. And you might want to talk to the family first?” At the last moment I made that one a question, hoping that it changed my suggestions—orders?—into something less dictatorial. He really did bring out the elder-churchwoman-bossy in me.
He tilted his head and his eyes down to me in the formal way that did such a good job of keeping people at a distance. His braid slid over one shoulder to rest across his chest. “As you wish. I informed Kent that I brought a box of blue unis.”
“Oh. That’s good.” Of course he had been contact with T. Laine. And had brought unis.
Together we trooped up the back stairs and I gave him a tour of the second level. The master suite was empty and had been tidied by someone, likely the family, especially the huge closet, its door partially open to show the bare floor. I peeked in and there was nothing pink hanging or shelved. I had looked online and discovered thousands of photos of Stella Mae Ragel onstage. She never wore pink. Someone had removed pink clothing from Stella’s closet. I murmured all this, and FireWind made a hmmming sound.
We pulled on nitrile gloves and rummaged through the closet, opening drawers, and I found three photo albums and a bunch of loose printed photos, which FireWind estimated were ten years old. We took them in as evidence, placing them in oversized evidence bags he carried in one pocket, just in case something from Stella’s past was important to the case. I started the chain of custody forms for things we would remove from the house.
Together we walked around the bedroom, being nosy, the way special agents were supposed to be. There was a tall vase on the bedside table, with a pretty fuchsia bow tied through its two handles. It was maybe eighteen inches tall and it looked old, one of those antiques rich people collect for flowers and display. The vase had a teal bottom that got lighter near the top, the color at the rim a bright pink that nearly matched the bow. A yellow sunflower and green leaves were molded on the front, and a small card was folded at the base. FireWind said softly, “Roseville, the sunflower pattern.”
I raised my brows in question. “You don’t look like the kinda man who’d know about pottery. Antiques, yes, because you’re so old, but not fancy pottery.” As soon as the words left my mouth I was horrified.
He looked amused and then his face softened. He said, “My wife and I visited San Francisco once. She had a particular liking for Weller and Roseville pottery, which she discovered in a storefront near the bay. She spent many hours there, talking to the owner, learning the different styles and patterns, and when we left, I bought her a small tea set to take with us. She adored the green magnolia pattern and the apple blossom pattern.” His forehead creased and he said, “I believe that I still have the tea set somewhere, in storage.”
I opened the tiny card and on the inside were three words and a date. “‘I love you,’” I read aloud, “and this is dated three months ago.”
“Bag it,” FireWind said, meaning take it into evidence. He shifted the photo albums to his other arm. “Come. Let’s see what the rest of the floor shows us.”
We went on, glancing into the rooms, following the soft sound of voices into a gathering/media room. This room was furnished with leather-upholstered recliners and sofas arranged to view the oversized movie screen, and two square tables with chairs for playing cards or eating. There were black end tables, a kitchenette and minibar with a full-sized fridge, a two-burner stove, a microwave, and a large selection of liquors on shelves. As we pulled off our gloves, I knocked on the door and the occupants turned, going silent. “May we come in?” I asked.
“Is that the FBI agent who took Catriona?” Tondra asked, her face taking on a pugnacious appearance.
Without stepping inside, he displayed his ID. “I am Ayatas FireWind, PsyLED, regional director in charge of the eastern seaboard, not FBI.” He smiled and his entire face transformed into something peaceful and kind and understanding. It ratcheted up his gorgeous factor about six notches and was not a look he shared with his team. The unfamiliar expression faded into compassion. “I have always been a great