was a silver-framed photo.
Good-looking couple. Tux and wedding dress, big smiles as they cut into a four-tiered cake festooned with yellow sugar roses.
No younger than they appeared now. Newlyweds?
A ceiling lamp glowed faint orange. A dimmer switch near the bed was set on low.
Romantic lighting.
The scene shot into my head, as surely as if I’d scripted it.
The two of them retire for bed, counting on a night of romance.
One or both of them hears something out back.
They ignore it because you can’t go check on every little leaf-rustle and imagined intrusion.
They hear it again.
Someone- something — out in the yard?
No big deal, at worst a raccoon or a possum or a skunk. Or just a stray cat or dog, that had happened before.
They hear it again.
A faint scratching. Rustling of foliage.
Again.
Too enduring to be ignored.
Is there really something out there, honey?
No prob, I’ll check.
Be careful.
I’m sure it’s nothing.
He throws on his robe, goes to check it out. Because that’s what husbands do.
She waits, thinking it’s nice to be married, have someone to squish bugs and play Protector.
Lying back, she relaxes, anticipating deliciousness.
He doesn’t return quickly the way he usually does.
The moments pile up. She begins to wonder.
Don’t be silly, maybe he really did encounter a critter and had to deal with it.
Hopefully not a raccoon, they carry rabies. And get mean when cornered.
But no sound of struggle, so maybe he’s just being careful.
The notion of her darling and a critter makes her smile. So… primal. He’ll be careful, he always is, and it’ll turn out to be one of those funny stories they’ll tell their grandchildren.
But it is taking a long time…
More time passes.
She calls his name.
Silence.
Then, the door closes. Good. Everything’s fine, maybe he’ll come in with one of his yummy surprises. Last time it was Godiva chocolate.
This time it could be another treat. Food or otherwise…
She closes her eyes, arranges herself the way he likes. The comforting sound of male footsteps grows louder.
She loves that sound.
She coos his name.
Silence.
Or perhaps a vague masculine grunt.
Baby’s playing Caveman. Excellent, this is going to be one of those nights.
Something not to tell the grandchildren.
She smiles. Purrs.
Positions herself a little racier than usual, creating sublime invitation.
He’s in the room, now. She hears his breathing intensify.
“Baby,” she says.
Silence.
Fine, that game.
He’s right next to her, she senses him, feels his heat. But…
Something different.
She opens her eyes.
Everything changes.
Papers in the desk of the home office next to the bedroom conformed to DMV info.
Barron and Glenda Parnell.
He’d lived just over two months past his thirty-sixth birthday. She’d made it thirteen months longer.
A picture I.D. badge from North Hollywood Day Hospital tagged her as G. A. Usfel-Parnell, M.D. Nuclear Medicine. In the picture, she was grave, still pretty, wearing big, rimless glasses. Milo found them in a nightstand drawer.
I wondered about the extent of Dr. Glenda Parnell’s visual impairment. What had she actually seen when she’d opened her eyes?
Had she ever really focused?
Trembled at the horror but composed herself sufficiently to bargain?
Fear about her husband’s fate would have shaken her, but perhaps she’d been able to put that aside, sufficiently adrenalized to concentrate on her own survival.
Had the killer pretended to go along as he had her tie her own arm to the bedpost? Or had he relied, at the outset, on terror and intimidation?
Had she sensed it was futile the moment he’d breached the door? Complied out of self-preservation as well as love for Barron, hoping cooperation would spare both of them?
If so, she’d spoken a completely different language from the killer. To him, Barron was nothing more than an obstacle to overcome.
He’d pulled the prelim off perfectly, drawing the guy into his trap.
Now the fun part.
Once prints had been taken, Milo gloved up and gave the office desk a thorough search. Glenda Parnell’s malpractice insurance was paid up, as were her subscriptions to several medical journals. Mail addressed to Barron Parnell appended CFP to his name. A mailer from a brokerage house expanded that to Certified Financial Planner.
So did a letter from an attorney representing the Cameron Family Trust that specified malfeasance and “incautious” investing.
The date was nineteen months ago. Milo copied down the particulars.
Further excavation of the desk drawers indicated Parnell worked out of the home with no apparent clients other than himself and his wife. He’d done well, amassing just over a million dollars in a stock account, two hundred thousand more in a corporate bond account, just under ten thousand in a joint savings-checking account.
The two vehicles parked in the driveway were a three-year-old yellow Porsche Cayman registered to Barron and a gray Infiniti QX registered to Glenda. Both had been recently washed and appeared undisturbed.
Also unmolested was a pricey bank of computers in the office, some serious jewelry in a leather box barely concealed behind blankets in the linen closet, a case of sparkling Christofle silverware in the pantry, a home entertainment system in the living room that included a sixty-inch plasma TV.
We returned to the bedroom. In Barron’s sock drawer, Milo found a silver-framed glamour shot of Glenda. Fuzzy focus, the suggestion of nudity, cornucopia of cleavage, glistening teeth.
To Barry Boo from Sweet Gee. Love 4ever. Happy anniversary. XXXX
The inscribed date was forty-two days ago.
Maria Thomas stuck her head in the room. “Anything?”
Milo shook his head.
“Got a sec?”
