Page 21 of The Nature of Secrets

He gave her a nod and stepped inside. She followed.

The Winthrop home was just like the many other decadent homes around Nashville she’d had reason to visit—whether on official business or as a child growing up with a mother determined to rule the world. Winthrop’s home was elegant in an understated way. Not over-the-top grandiose.

“We haven’t found anything downstairs that suggests a home invasion. No sign of forced entry whatsoever.”

“Any other evidence?” she asked, watching his posture, his face, as he spoke.

“Nada.” He shook his head, obviously not happy to have to give that answer. “The primary crime scene is upstairs.” He gestured to the staircase that rose from the center of the entry hall.

“You mind if I have a tour down here first?”

He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

He showed her around, like a real estate agent who didn’t really want to be at work today. She studied him, which was her reason forthe request. Ventura was younger than she’d first estimated. Definitely under forty. He didn’t look like the type who went all out at the gym, but he appeared fit. His suit was crisp today. Not sporting wrinkles like last night’s attire. The reddish hair and freckles gave him a sort of boy-next-door quality. His hazel eyes were more forthcoming than the usual jaded detective’s.

“How long have you been doing this gig?” she asked as they entered the kitchen, which was nothing short of a chef’s dream. Lots of gleaming stainless and brass with no shortage of white stone and tile. White cabinets too.

“I started later than most,” he said. His hands slid into his pockets as he assessed her. “I was thirty before I joined the department as a uni. I made detective at thirty-five. Couple years ago.”

“Have you worked a lot of homicides?” She wandered across the room, heading for the family room.

“A few.”

Which meant this was either his first or second one. No surprise. His inexperience could prove to their benefit, but it could also make him more dogged about coming out on top.

The sofa cushions appeared to have shifted a bit from the victim’s night spent sleeping there. A throw hung haphazardly over one arm, half on the floor. A pillow sporting an indentation that could have been made by the victim’s head was nestled next to that same arm. Otherwise, everything in the room, from furniture to framed photos on tables and shelves, appeared as it should.

“Did you find an abundance of beer bottles in the trash somewhere?” she asked, recalling Winthrop’s description of the condition of the room where her husband had slept.

Ventura nodded. “Six beer bottles, all empty.”

“Doesn’t sound like enough for a serious hangover,” she commented.

Ventura hummed a note of agreement. “Not for me anyway.”

Who knew? Maybe Grady was a lightweight when it came to alcohol, or perhaps Winthrop just didn’t recognize a real hangover when she saw one. Then again, there was always the chance that he’d snorted or swallowed a recreational drug, in which case it would show up in the tox reports. Shafer had said the preliminary screen was clean. Time would tell.

“Did you find an overnight bag belonging to the victim?”

Ventura nodded. “Taken into evidence, but I will tell you there was nothing exciting in it. Just a change of clothes and toiletries.”

“Thanks.”

From the family room they moved through the rest of the downstairs. The home was immaculate. Nothing askew or out of place. There had been an update of the interior in recent years. Fresh, light, and airy. Not the heavier, stuffy decor of fifteen or so years ago. Finley’s Spidey sense perked up when they reached the door to the home office—the vault-style one with the keypad for gaining access.

The room sported lots of locked cabinets. A grand desk that overlooked the rear courtyard and gardens. The view beyond the window was the usual sanctuary with a good-size ornamental fishpond instead of a pool. Finley surveyed the desk, eyed the old-fashioned calendar sitting front and center. She flipped through the pages. Hair appointments. Dental cleanings. Personal stuff.

“You took the case that held the murder weapon?” Of course he had, but she wanted to know more about it.

“We did. It appeared someone had taken the box and slammed it against the corner of the desk, shattering the glass.”

As he spoke, she noted the damage to the wood on the front right corner. The finish was scraped, the curved corner gashed.

“According to the housekeeper,” he went on, “the display case usually sat on that shelf.” He pointed to the center position of the lavish built-ins along one wall.

“Anything interesting from the housekeeper?” Finley asked as she surveyed the rest of the room.

“Nothing useful. Mr.Grady was kind and helpful. Mr.Grady was good to Ms.Winthrop. He made her happy. No witnessed disagreements. He never complained.”

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