Monday Mourning

“So she could feed the bird,” I guessed.

Ryan nodded.

“These ladies, they went by car?” LaManche asked.

“Fisher’s. A ninety-four Pontiac Grand Prix.”

“Is that vehicle now missing?”

“It’s not at Fisher’s house. I’ve put out an APB. If it’s out there, someone should spot the plate.”

“Who’s Alban Fisher?” I asked.

“Fisher’s husband. Tax accountant. Died in ninety-four. Rose never bothered to change the name on the phone.”

“Can Bastillo think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her mother or aunt?”

“The two had an ongoing beef with some neighbor about parking an SUV too close to their driveway. Bastillo insists we should check this guy out.”

“Bastillo seem credible?” I asked.

“I doubt she’ll be recruited by the Berkeley Roundtable, but she comes off sincere enough.” Ryan did a head nod toward LaManche. “Doc says homicide, I’ll start digging on the lady’s background.”

LaManche and Ryan became disembodied voices as I continued down the row of photos.

A corridor. A bedroom. A bathroom. A second bedroom, slightly smaller than the first. Maple dresser, nightstand, four-poster.

Dead body.

Louise Parent was a child-sized bulge under pale pink bedding. She lay facing the door, right arm thrown upward, head angled oddly on a rumpled pillow. Her eyes were black and empty crescents. Gray hair trailed limply across her face.

A pink floral quilt lay neatly drawn back across the foot of the bed. A second pillow sat atop the folded quilt. This one had no pillow slip.

“Bastillo moved the body?” I asked of no one in particular.

“Says she found her aunt unconscious and tried to rouse her.”

“Did she touch the pillow?”

“She doesn’t remember.”

Beneath the bed, I could see two neatly aligned slippers. On the nightstand, a folded pair of eyeglasses, a mug, and a vial of prescription pills.

“That is the Ambien that was sent to us?” LaManche asked.

“Yes. Labeled for thirty, filled last Wednesday. Eight missing.”

“Do you know the contents of the mug?”

“Water. Bastillo filled it when she couldn’t rouse her aunt. Says she got rattled. Didn’t know what to do.”

“Had she found it empty?”

“She thinks so. Remember, this Bastillo isn’t the sharpest knife in the set.”

“Did you find medications other than those that came in with the body?” LaManche asked.

“Vioxx for arthritis. You’ve got that. Otherwise, just the standard medicine cabinet collection. Calcium. Aspirin. Preparation H. Half-used tube of Neosporin. Over-the-counter allergy meds.”

“Anything unusual about the mug being in the bedroom?” I asked.

“According to Bastillo, her mother’s snoring registers a seven on the Richter. Parent was a light sleeper so when she hit the sack her habit was to knock back a couple of Ambien with herbal tea. If the mug held anything, and she isn’t sure that it did, Bastillo says she would have figured it was tea and tossed it.”

“Probably a good idea to get that mug,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Ryan nodded solemnly.

My cheeks flamed. Of course they’d collected the mug.

“We can do amylase testing for Parent’s saliva on the pillowcase, but that won’t be particularly useful,” said LaManche.

“Old ladies drool,” I said.

“They’re known for doing it,” Ryan agreed.

“Did you find any indication when Rose Fisher last slept at home?” LaManche asked.

“Bed was made. Nightdress was on a hook on the bathroom door.” Ryan pointed a finger at me. “No mug on the nightstand.”

No snappy answer catapulted to mind.

“Bastillo said her mother often retired later than her aunt,” Ryan added.

For a full minute we all studied the photos. Then Ryan spoke to LaManche.

“What’s the word, Doc? We got a homicide?”

LaManche straightened, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Continue your investigation, Detective. This is definitely suspicious. I will inform you when I have toxicology results.”

When LaManche had gone Ryan and I spent a few more moments scanning the photos. A leaden feeling was settling in the pit of my stomach.

I broke the silence.

“She was murdered.”

“LaManche isn’t totally convinced.” Ryan’s voice was resonant with sensibleness.

“Parent made calls claiming to have information about three dead girls. Four days later she’s found dead in her bed with feathers in her mouth.”

“Old ladies die.”

“So where’s her sister?”

“That’s a mystery.”

“What did Parent want to tell me about the bones?”

“That’s another mystery.”

Ryan winked.

My stomach tried a flip, landed on its backside.

I took a breath.

“What’s up with us, Andy?”

Ryan regarded me with eyes as blue as a Bahamian bay.

A debating team took their seats in my head. Pro: Confront him with Charbonneau’s prom queen sighting. Con: Keep it to myself.

Prize to the Con side. Wiser to hold back.

Wisdom also did a pratfall.

“Charbonneau mentioned an odd thing this morning.”

“If you’re talking about Saturday’s shooting, it was no big deal.”

“He saw you at the courthouse last August.”

“I’m a hardworking boy.” Boyish grin.

“The week you left Charlotte.”

The Bahamian bay showed nary a ripple.

“For a family crisis in Nova Scotia.”

Calm waters.

“You weren’t alone.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What do I think?”