Peg rubbed reddened eyes. “Mrs. Flynn’s grandson, Keith. He’s just a little boy.” Her voice wobbled. “He’s asleep.”
Johnny looked uncertain. “Everybody’s supposed to be together.”
Gina stood with her hands on her hips. “Johnny, you don’t want to wake up a four-year-old and tell him his grandmother’s been killed so he has to come downstairs.”
Johnny turned his hands up in defeat. “I guess not.”
Jake bristled with anger. “Somebody needs to tell us what’s going on. The phone rang and I was told my car had been stolen and then the police banged on the door and wanted to talk to Susan and we found her on the floor. I want to know if somebody called the police. Did somebody know what happened to her? We ought to be told. We were all asleep and Susan was fine when we went to bed. And I don’t understand about my car. Where is it? Who took it? Wait a minute.” She turned and hurried out to the hall, returned with her purse. She opened it, rummaged, finally upended the bag and let the contents slide onto the top of the piano. “My keys are gone.” Her voice shook. “How did someone get into the house and take my keys?”
Johnny was clearly uncomfortable. “Mrs. Flynn, an investigation is under way. Your car was found”—he hesitated—“abandoned at the foot of Persimmon Hill about a quarter to one.”
“Someone stole my car. And someone killed Susan. It has to be the same person.” Jake’s eyes were huge. “Who was driving my car?”
Johnny cleared his throat. “When the investigating officer speaks to you, perhaps he can answer your questions.”
Jake lowered herself like an old woman into an easy chair. Peg and Gina settled on the sofa. Johnny stood stiffly in front of the fireplace.
Jake fingered a lace ruffle at her throat. “Johnny, you can sit down.”
He looked stiffer than ever. “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn. I’ll stand.”
The front doorbell pealed, and the policewoman opened the door.
Everyone stared through the open door at the foyer.
A tousle-haired young man, bristly cheeks red from the cold, strode inside, shrugging out of a ski jacket. “Can’t you people find bodies in the daytime? The last three have been post midnight. How’s a man to get his beauty sleep?”
“Comes with the territory, Doc. They’re upstairs.” She jerked a thumb toward the steps.
Jake frowned. “Who is that?”
Johnny’s face looked older than his years. “The medical examiner.”
Peg’s gaze lifted to a painting of Susan over the mantel, young and lovely, hopeful and eager. “Are they going to…” She broke off, pressed fingers against trembling lips.
Gina came to her feet, began to pace. “This is hideous.” She looked at Jake. “We have to call Tucker. He should come.”
Jake’s tone was hollow. “What can he do? What can any of us do?”
“I’m going to call him. I’ll get my cell.” Gina swung toward the hall.
Johnny stepped forward. “Please, Gi—Miss Satterlee. No calls are permitted.”
Gina stood very still. “No calls?” Her tone was thin.
The young policeman squared his shoulders. “It’s customary procedure when police investigate a homicide. Someone will be down when they finish upstairs. You can explain there are calls you’d like to make.”
I popped upstairs.
The bedroom was crowded, Susan’s body, the M.E., several crime lab techs, and a man I knew at once from my last sojourn in Adelaide. I felt a tiny leap of my heart. Detective Sergeant Hal Price was tall, lean, and well-built— very well-built—with white blond hair and a quizzical expression. This early morning hour, he was unshaven, but the blond stubble was scarcely visible. When the late call came, he’d obviously swiped unruly hair with a quick brush and dressed hurriedly, an orange and black Oklahoma State sweatshirt, Levi’s, and well-worn cowboy boots. I remembered him with pleasure. And some regret. If I’d been of the earth and not the Bailey Ruth who never seriously considered another man after she met black-haired Bobby Mac in high school, this lean blond man would have interested me. I still recalled with pleasure a moment during my previous efforts in Adelaide when Detective Sergeant Price had looked at me in admiration. I regretted that later his look had been suspicious and wary.
Now his slate blue eyes watched the doctor. “Suffocation?”
The M.E. gazed at Susan’s body, his face furrowed. “You got a funny one here. Body on the floor, pillow mashed on her face, traces of makeup on the pillow, hands apparently in defensive posture. But I don’t see any facial bruising and I didn’t see any hemorrhages and tears of the mucosa. I’ll take a close look during the autopsy.” He glanced at the chair and table near the fireplace. A small china pot sat next to a cup and saucer and dessert plate. “Have the crime lab check to see if there are drugs in the residue. It’s easier to suffocate people if they’re drugged.” He moved quickly toward a bedside table and containers of pills. He crouched to see the labels without touching the vials. “Susan Flynn.” He jerked his head at the body. “You got ID?”
“Susan Pritchard Flynn.” Price’s voice was weary.
The young doctor raised an eyebrow. “Even I know that name and I’ve only been in Adelaide a few years. The rich one?”
“Maybe the richest woman in town. Give or take a few million.” Price’s face was carefully expressionless. “One of the nicest. Big giver. Helped people a lot of folks forget about.”
The medical examiner stood and pulled plastic gloves from a pocket, slipped them on, picked up the containers, checked the contents. “Digitalis, Lasix, potassium, Prinivil, Coreg.” He nodded. “Heart patient. Wouldn’t take much to suffocate her if she had CHF.”
