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For the first time, Zachary Lee looked less than happy, probably at the idea of us sitting around the crime scene while he worked. But I wanted to see him off the premises, and just generally keep an eye on him. The young man was probably perfectly all right, but we knew very little about him.
The house had been closed, and it smelled less than wonderful. Poppy would have been embarrassed. There was the awful smell of blood, and the more mundane odor of a much-used litter box. Once again, I was distressed that Moosie hadn't been found. Somehow, the cat's disappearance was an insult to Poppy.
"Tell me what you did yesterday when you came in," Bryan said, and I thought maybe he was distracting me. I was grateful.
"I went upstairs," I said. "No one was there. I came back down and went toward the kitchen." I guided him down the short hall into the kitchen, where everything was the same as it had been, except for fingerprint powder. We stepped around the counter, and I waved a hand weakly toward the spot where Poppy had lain. The gesture was hardly necessary. The blood was a powerful testimony. In fact, seeing it like this—dried and dark—made its impact somehow more violent.
While Zachary Lee went over to the sliding glass door to have a look outside, I felt that my head was buzzing just a bit. I put a hand out to Poppy's breakfast bar, which was laden with bright cookbooks and dried flowers, to steady myself.
Instantly, Bryan steered me out of the kitchen/dining room and into the living room. Instead of depositing me on the couch, he put his arms around me. And he didn't say a word. His left hand stroked my hair.
I really liked that silence. Robin, since words were his livelihood, never quite seemed to know when they weren't necessary.
"So, there's nothing upstairs?" Zachary Lee asked from the doorway.
I began to pull away, but Bryan Pascoe's arms tightened. "The fingerprint dust," he said. "No blood."
"Okay," the cleanup guy said, happy once again. "Why don't you two sit out by the pool? It's a beautiful day. I've got to go suit up and bring in my gear."
Bizarre as it seemed at first, that turned out to be excellent advice. As we walked out the front door and around to the gate at the side of the house (rather than crossing the bloody threshold of the sliding glass door), Bryan gave me rather u
In one of those unexpected little moments of clarity that make life so frightening, I realized (as I sat by the pool of a murdered woman, being comforted by an attentive lawyer) that my first marriage had not been such a partnership.
"All right?" Bryan was saying anxiously.
"Yes, I'm fine." I sounded like a polite robot. I shook myself a little. "Thank you for asking."
At that awkward juncture, another presence made itself known. Teresa Stanton, Uppity Woman par excellence, swept through the patio gate.
"Poor Aurora!" Teresa called. Teresa was a terrifying woman. I hadn't known that a pantsuit with matching jacket was the appropriate outfit to wear to the house of a murdered woman; until I saw Teresa, that is. She wore one, dark burgundy with golden brown touches, and so that was exactly the right thing. Teresa's dark hair was beautifully cut and blow-dried, so the short sides fa
"Teresa," I muttered. Bryan, of course, stood. I suddenly remembered that the woman to whom Bryan had been married was the newly rewed Teresa Stanton. Teresa Pascoe Stanton.
"I've had the devil's own time catching up to you," Teresa said.
I hardly felt I needed to apologize. "This has been a very busy day," I said noncommittally.
"Oh, of course! No doubt! Hello, Bryan." Teresa made sure we knew she was adding the greeting as an elaborate afterthought.
"Teresa, good to see you," he said, his voice cool and un-inflected.
I tried real hard to think of a good excuse to get up and run away, but none popped to mind.
"What's that man doing there?" Teresa asked, distracted by Zachary Lee, who appeared to be wearing a space suit. He was working right inside the sliding glass door.
"He's cleaning up the blood," I said. Of course, that didn't faze Teresa.
"I'm so glad you were able to find someone who does that sort of thing," she said conversationally. "Where's your Mr. Crusoe?"
"I don't know." I refused to explain or elaborate. I wondered what she would do if I asked her where Shorty Stanton was. I was so powerfully tempted that I actually opened my mouth, but then common sense prevailed.
"Of course, all the women in the club want to know what we can do to help," Teresa said.
"Maybe Melinda needs some baby-sitting," I suggested. "Since she's got her own two kids and Poppy's boy, too."
Teresa wrote this down on her little pocket notebook. "What else?" she asked. "We've already taken food to your mother's house."
"I'd rethink backing Bubba Sewell for representative."
"Do you think he is involved with Poppy's death?" Teresa was nothing if not direct, if she thought directness would serve her purposes best.
"No, actually, I don't, but I think his reputation may take a beating if the investigation ends in a trial."
"So it's true: He was messing around with Poppy." Teresa looked very cross.
I didn't meet her eyes.
"Someone who can't keep his pants zipped," Teresa said flatly. "We don't want that in a public servant. I think we've all seen enough of that."
"True," I said.
We all fell silent, and in that sudden hush I could hear the splash of the pool across the privacy fence. Some music was playing, too; it sounded like Handel.
"Cara!" Teresa called. "Are you doing your laps? Can you take a break?"
"Is that Teresa?" a high voice hooted back.
"Yes, girl. Come over here!"
There was a little-used gate in the high privacy fence between the two properties. It made a high-pitched squeak as Cara Embler pushed it open. Cara was pulling off a swim cap as she walked toward us, and she'd wrapped a big towel around her because it was a brisk, cool day. Her hairstyle had been chosen to complement her athleticism; she wore her blond hair (now mixed with gray) short and straight. Cara had been a champion swimmer in high school and college, and someone had told me that she was training for a seniors competition. Lawrenceton people were bemused by Cara—swimming in all temperatures, goal-oriented—but they respected her dedication and her excellent physical condition. Married to a cardiologist who seemed always to be on call, Cara had a lot of time to shape as she pleased.
Though the Emblers had a son, who was studying to be an environmental engineer or something equally laudable, he was in college in northern California and seldom came home. So Cara swam, ran, dabbled in political causes, tutored kids at the junior high, and organized the a
I couldn't understand why she hadn't been on the list for Uppity Women years ago, but I figured that by now she should be fairly close to the top of the list.
"How's John David?" Cara asked me. She plopped down into one of the lawn chairs, draping her head and neck with yet another towel. The day was cool enough that I would have been shivering had I been wet, but Cara seemed impervious to the temperature.