Colin trotted ahead.
“Getting hot.” She clapped.
I wished I could stay outside and watch the boys play. Colin shouted as he came around the sycamore. “Got you,” he shouted as he grabbed Keith, who squealed with laughter.
I dropped into the living room for a different game of gotcha!
Chief Cobb stood to one side of the fireplace. A cheerful fire crackled. The living room was warm, but there was no air of holiday cheer.
Jake’s eyes were huge and strained. “I talked to Father Abbott at St. Mildred’s. Do you know when Susan— when we can have her service?”
“The autopsy has been completed.” The chief looked commanding, his heavy face purposeful.
Was there a greater feeling of tension among his listeners than the quiet statement should evoke? Did one of them fear what had been found?
“The body will be released this afternoon.”
“I’ll call Father Abbott.” Jake’s relief was apparent. “Tuesday morning will be good. We can announce the services in the Monday and Tuesday papers.”
“I know there is much for the family to deal with.” The chief gazed at his listeners. “I appreciate the opportunity to meet with those who spent time with Mrs. Flynn on her last day to live.”
There was a grim finality to his words, reminding each of them of their proximity to Susan’s death. He reached into his folder, pulled out the legal pad and a sheaf of printed pages. “I’d like to understand how you knew her and why you were here yesterday.”
Each person in turn described their connection to Susan as Chief Cobb took notes.
Jake Flynn’s face was puffy from lack of sleep. She wore a little too much makeup and her hair had untidy sprigs. Today’s blue cashmere sweater and gray tweed skirt were more flattering than the brown sweater and slacks she’d worn yesterday. She sat on the sofa beside Peg, whose eyes were swollen from crying. Peg’s black dress emphasized her paleness. She wore no jewelry. Even though Dave Lewis sat on the small sofa beside her, the space between them seemed huge. His face wore a conventional expression of concern. Gina Satterlee sat stiffly on a rosewood chair, twining a strand of dark hair in her fingers. She was the picture of fashion in a crimson sweater and gray worsted wool slacks and red loafers. Tucker Satterlee, his freshly shaved face brooding and still, slouched in an oversize leather chair in a rumpled plaid shirt and Levi’s and boots. Harrison and Charlotte Hammond were in their Sunday best, although his charcoal gray suit was wrinkled and his tie askew. Her long-sleeved black silk blouse matched a subtle geometric square in a violet silk georgette skirt that ruffled nicely over blue leather boots.
The chief flipped back several sheets in the legal pad.
When his eyes widened in surprise, I knew he had reached the questions he’d listed in preparation for this meeting. Of course, he had no recollection of having written my additions. Understandably.
Chief Cobb’s brows drew down in a line. He gave an uncertain shake of his head, cleared his throat. “In investigating a suspicious death, it is helpful to have an understanding of the circumstances surrounding the deceased. Had there been any disruption of this household in recent days?”
I would have liked to shout a loud bingo! That was the question that mattered. With backs and starts and obvious uneasiness, the story unfolded: Keith’s arrival on Thursday, the summons of Susan’s lawyer Friday, the confirmation of Keith’s legitimacy Saturday morning.
Cobb wrote fast. I was reminded of a lion gnawing on a carcass. “Obviously Susan Flynn had an eventful weekend. Now I would appreciate your assistance in piecing together an account of her last day.”
Jake sat forward in her chair, her cheeks turning a bright pink. She said breathlessly, “I spoke with my good friend Mayor Lumpkin and Neva assured me that the investigation was only a formality since no one would ever be able to determine exactly how Susan died.”
I wished I could see every face at once. One listener knew exactly why Susan died.
“The mayor”—Cobb’s tone was level—“misinformed you. Mrs. Flynn died from an overdose of digitalis. What remains to be determined is whether her death was self-inflicted, an accident, or murder.”
Jake sagged back against her chair. Peg gave a soft cry. Dave reached for her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Gina’s face was abruptly an unreadable mask of emptiness. Tucker’s lips formed a soundless whistle. Hammond cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the silence. Charlotte reached over, gripped his hand, and the tiny pops ended. She didn’t look at him.
Jake fluttered her hands. “It was an accident. It had to be an accident.”
Cobb’s gaze was demanding. “Was Susan Flynn clumsy?”
Jake’s eyes fell. “No.”
Cobb leaned forward. “Was she easily confused? Could she have taken anywhere from twelve to fourteen pills by accident?”
Jake reluctantly shook her head.
“Susan was compos mentis, Chief Cobb.” Charlotte’s tone was dry. “You will not find anyone who would describe Susan as clumsy, stupid, or easily confused. To the contrary, she was intelligent, alert, and, though weak and ill, quite capable of dealing with her medications.”
Harrison said nothing, but he slowly nodded.
“Susan didn’t make mistakes of that sort.” Peg spoke with finality.
“Since an accidental overdose seems highly unlikely, that brings us,” Cobb said smoothly, “to the question of suicide. What was Susan Flynn’s mental state on her last day to live?”
A smile trembled on Peg’s lips even though her eyes were shiny with tears. “She was happier than she’d been in years and years. Her last day was wonderful. She was thrilled to have Keith at the Christmas party and to
