if he wasn’t?” I countered.
“He could have been a she,” Summers said.
Why had he or she strangled Mick? And when, exactly?
Summers brandished a hand. “Plenty of other people will have touched that knob.”
“Not since then. When I came in, I used the exterior knob. Won’t prints layer over other prints? Won’t the topmost be the most recent?”
Rodriguez returned and whispered something to Summers. He nodded, then directed her to examine the front door and jotted in his notebook.
I said, “I also noticed pet hair and some straw on the floor beside the business cards. My assistant cleans the place spotless every night before leaving. The floor should have been dust-free. Of course the pet hair could have come in with Mick since he works with animals, or the killer might have—”
“Stop,” Summers said abruptly.
“I wasn’t theorizing.” My cheeks blazed with heat. Of course I was theorizing. I’d been a problem solver all my life.
Rodriguez returned and showed Summers a few pictures on her cell phone. “Don’t pretend to be a lab tech, either,” she said to me.
Was this their typical routine? Bad cop, worse cop?
“How many episodes of CSI have you watched, Miss Kelly?” Summers asked.
Far be it from me to admit that I’d binge-watched every episode after my breakup with my fiancé. I’d had a few murderous thoughts. Seeing professionals catch the bad guy every time had put me off the idea of killing him. Besides, I wouldn’t look good in an orange jumpsuit.
“A few,” I replied.
Summers smiled, trying to disarm me. It didn’t work. When I had been a landscaper, one too many clients had dismissed me because I was young and female, another of the many reasons I’d set off on my own journey.
“By the way, have you considered that Mr. Watkins wasn’t the intended victim?” he asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s your shop,” Rodriguez said. “What if the killer meant to kill you, but Mr. Watkins just happened to appear?”
I gulped. “No way. I’m never here late at night.”
“Maybe the murderer was lying in wait,” Summers said.
“For me?” I shook my head. “I don’t have any enemies.”
“Everyone has enemies,” Rodriguez chimed. “Even Dylan.”
Summers chortled and turned a page of his notebook. “What can you tell me about Mr. Watkins?” He gazed at me somberly.
My mind was reeling, but I continued to answer as best I could. “Like I said, he owns... owned Wizard of Paws, the pet-grooming shop across the way.” I jutted a hand. “He liked animals. He was married to—”
“What’s going on?” a woman cried from the front of the shop. “Have you seen my husband?”
I whirled around. Emily Watkins, clad in a short-sleeved white blouse and khaki pull-on breeches fitted with a fashionable leather-and-rope belt and tucked into brown riding boots, was being detained by a third officer, a lanky redhead in his early thirties. Emily’s right hand and forearm were wrapped in a wide elastic bandage with a Velcro-style fastener. When had she injured herself? She was carrying a brown leather jacket and a Michael Kors tote bag.
“Why are the police here?” Emily shrieked. “What happened? Mick, are you in there?” She pulled free from the officer and charged into the shop. “Courtney, I see you. What’s going on? Where’s Mick? Have you seen—” She drew to a halt beneath the arch of the French door and gasped. “Mick!”
She raced onto the patio, toward her husband.
In one swift move, Summers pocketed his notebook and grabbed her. He held her firmly at bay. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You shouldn’t be out here.”
“That’s my husband. I’m Emily Watkins. Is he all right? Did he fall? What happened?”
“Red,” Summers said to the red-haired officer, “secure the crime scene and get officers down here ASAP to help tag evidence.”
“Sir.”
Summers addressed Emily. “Please, ma’am, exit the shop. Wait in the courtyard for me.”
“Not until you tell me what happened.”
“It appears your husband was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Her jaw fell open. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Please, ma’am, go to the courtyard.”
“But Courtney’s here,” Emily snapped.
“She discovered the body, and it’s her shop.”
Emily’s eyes fluttered. With stress or apprehension? I eyed the bandage on her arm. Yesterday, she’d been worried that her husband was having an affair. Had she followed Mick into my shop last night, shoved him, and then strangled him? In the struggle, had she injured herself?
Honestly, Courtney, your first instinct is to suspect the spouse? I had watched too many CSI episodes. On the other hand, I recalled how furious Emily had been with Mick.
“Mrs. Watkins,” Summers said. “I’ll speak with