Monday Mourning — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

”

Again, the outer door opened then clicked shut. Booted footsteps crossed the ante-office.

Ryan was doing detective casual that day. Denim shirt, jeans, tan wool blazer with elbow patches.

Ryan and LaManche exchanged “Bonjour”s.

Ryan and I exchanged nods.

LaManche filled Ryan in on his findings.

“Time of death?” Ryan asked.

“Did you observe any evidence of a last meal?”

“Saucepan, spoon, and cup in the dish rack. Empty soup can in the trash. Garden vegetable.”

“The stomach contents were completely evacuated. That would have occurred within three hours of consumption of the soup.”

“Niece says the ladies usually ate supper around seven, turned in around nine or ten.”

“If the soup was her supper, and not her lunch.” LaManche raised a finger. “And keep in mind that gastric physiology is extremely variable. Nervous stress and certain diseases can delay stomach emptying.”

I remembered the shaky voice at the other end of the line. Parent’s agitation had been evident even at a distance.

“I’ll request a warrant to pull up the phone records.”

“But the state of decomposition suggests death probably occurred on Friday. And now.” LaManche clasped his hands behind his back. “What have you brought us, Detective?”

Ryan slid a brown envelope from a jacket pocket, and spread color photos on the counter.

One by one, the five-by-sevens took us to Louise Parent’s final day.

Exterior views of a blond brick bungalow. Ice-free walks. Front porch, window strung with multicolored lights. Blue wooden door. Wreath with Joyeuse Fêtes! on a red velvet ribbon. Front lawn with plastic reindeer.

Enclosed backyard, a child’s sled leaning on the far side of chain-link fencing. Ice-free cement stoop. Snow shovel.

Wordlessly, LaManche and I worked our way through the photos.

Close-ups of the rear and front doors showing undamaged knobs and latches.

A kitchen, shot from the right, then the left. Stove, refrigerator, wraparound counter with stainless steel sink. Freestanding butcher block.

Single spoon, mug, and pan in the dish rack.

“Looks very tidy,” I said.

“Not a thing out of place,” Ryan agreed. “No signs of a break-in. No signs of company.”

“The doors were locked?” LaManche.

“Bastillo thinks so, but can’t swear to it.”

“That is the niece?”

Ryan nodded. “Bastillo got a call on her cellular just as she arrived at her mother’s door. She remembers having trouble with her key, but figured it was because she was holding the phone in one hand and trying to unlock the door with the other. She admits that if the door was open, she could have unwittingly locked it then unlocked it again.”

“Did the home have a security system?” LaManche.

Ryan shook his head no, then pulled a snapshot from his pocket and handed it to LaManche. LaManche passed it on to me.

The snapshot showed a plump woman with apricot hair and Jackson Pollock makeup. She looked to be somewhere just north of sixty.

“Rose Fisher?” I asked.

Ryan nodded.

I returned the snapshot and went back to the crime scene photos.

Living room with doilied sofa and love seat. Picture window. Lace curtains. Closed venetian blinds. Birdcage on an ornate metal stand.

I remembered the background twittering during Parent’s calls.

“What kind of bird?” I asked dismally.

“Cockatiel.”

Like Katy’s. Those were the sounds I’d tried to place over the phone.

“Who’s caring for it?”

Ryan gave me an odd look. “Bastillo.”

“Has the victim’s sister turned up?” LaManche asked.

“Rose Fisher. No.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Bastillo says her mother and aunt liked to take off on road trips, but normally gave her a heads-up.”"

"“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.