Moving is Murder (2007)
“I tentatively touched the pale wrist a few inches from my ankle. Cold. I jerked my hand back and said, “Let’s go back to your house, Helen. We need to call the police.”
She nodded and leaned into Abby as they crossed the street. In her living room, she collapsed into her threadbare rocker-recliner. “You call.” She pointed to an early cordless phone. “I’m too shaky.”
I picked up a phone the size of a brick and dialed. Abby watched out the window until the first flashing light disturbed the still street and then she went to make coffee.
An officer arrived, took our names, got the basic facts, and said he’d return. In the kitchen, Abby opened and closed cabinet doors. “Did you see his face?” I asked. “The man that fell out of the car?”
She paused with a coffee filter in her hand. “No.”
“I did when I checked for a pulse. It was his profile. I think it was the man who talked to Gwen in Tate’s.”
“Oh, boy. We’re a few houses down from Gwen and Steven’s.”
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