Red stepped into the clearing and into a puddle of goo that was pooling up around the low-slung Merc in the drive. She knew the car, and the driver, and also knew that those two things paired up with the gunshot she'd just heard made for a 'Holy Shit' trifecta of no-good.

"Madison…" she hissed. "So help me…." She heard the squish of water-logged socks trapped in wingtips and turned to see him re-enter the clearing.

"Red? What are you doing here?"

"Enforced vacation. It was your idea, remember? What about you?"

"Can I get away with a lie about the irresistible lure of folk music?" The woman grimaced and he continued: "Yeah, that's what I thought. I got a little bit of work that may be more difficult than first imagined."

"The gunshot?"

"Yup. Just on my way to investigate."

"Better grab your gear before this wreck sinks into oblivion. Need a hand?"

When they exited the clearing, they saw a small group of people gathered around a form lying on the ground. The sleepy dog snuffed around the group warily. Thankfully the raucous nature of the gathering had ensured that the majority of revelers had not seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Red gave a small sigh of relief—there was nothing Blake Madison hated more than a murder scene surrounded by looky-lous.