Feeling nostalgic, Rosa asked Aunt Louisa if she could take the Schwinn bicycle for a spin.
Aunt Louisa lowered the newspaper she’d been reading and stared at her over her reading glass. “Don’t be silly. Take a car.”
“I’d really rather ride the bicycle.”
“Then go ahead. You don’t have to ask every time you want to use something. Mi casa es su casa. Besides, wasn’t that your bike anyways?”
“Yes, I guess so. Someone kept it clean and oiled, so I thought maybe someone had claimed it.
“We have someone on staff who keeps everything in the garage clean. It’s still yours, if you want it.”
After changing into a pair of teal-blue capri pants and a striped shirt, Rosa wheeled the Schwinn out onto the street and was soon happily pedaling her way through the affluent neighborhoods surrounding the Forrester mansion. The warm breeze teased her skin, and she felt grateful for a chance to clear her head.
As her mind swirled with facts and questions about the case, she cruised down the gentle slope towards the town. She was used to letting her mind go, almost subconsciously rehashing elements of a case she was working on, even while she was off duty having dinner or doing such things as watching a film. It was part of the territory of being a detective; one’s mind was continually working. The first questions always came back to means, motive, and opportunity.
Who had the means to pull off a murder? That depended on the cause of death yet to be determined. Who stood to gain the most by the death of the victim? Unknown. Who had the opportunity to kill Florence Adams? Pretty much everyone who attended the polio charity event, though one could narrow it down to those who were known to have ventured away from the party. So far, the police had only done a thorough questioning of Shirley Philpott, but Rosa knew there would be more suspects forthcoming as the investigation kicked into a higher gear.
Hearing a vehicle come up behind her, Rosa directed the bike to the side of the road. Expecting the car to pass, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a siren blasted. She jolted to a stop and grabbed her heart.
Miguel!
A police cruiser parked right behind her, and Miguel, with his deep dimples, laughed. He stepped out of the car.
“You scared me half to death!”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Rosa’s pulse slowed, and she saw the humor. She would’ve done the same thing in his shoes. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Miguel didn’t have to know she’d already forgiven him.
“I had a flashback to the past,” he said. “Are you sure it’s not 1945 again?”
He kidded her, but his words poked her heart. The ripping emotional pain she’d attached to that time obviously hadn’t stayed with him. She forced a smile.
“I was just on my way to the station,” Rosa said.
“How fortunate I came by. I’m on my way to the morgue. Apparently, Dr. Rayburn has returned. Do you want to come?”
“Yes.”
Miguel opened the trunk. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Rosa watched as Miguel effortlessly lifted her bike and secured it in the trunk of the cruiser, then she opened the car door to get in.
Miguel’s dark brow jumped. “Are you driving?”
“Oh, sorry, wrong side.” Rosa blushed, quickly circled the car, and got in the other side. She chided herself for forgetting that American cars had the steering wheels on the left.
Wearing a white doctor’s smock, a blue-eyed man in his thirties emerged from the second office behind the glass at the morgue. Rosa blinked in surprise, both at the doctor’s youth and his alarming good looks. She for one, preferred her attending physicians to be older and on the homely side, and she was pretty sure she’d feel the same way if she were dead!
She kept her expression cool and professional.
Miguel made introductions. “This is Rosa Reed. She’s an officer with the London Metropolitan Police and will be helping us on this investigation as a special consultant.”
Dr. Rayburn held her gaze, then he shifted a clipboard to his left hand and extended his right. “Larry Rayburn. It’s a pleasure.”
Rosa’s lips twitched upward at Dr. Rayburn’s Texan accent.
His gaze moved to Miguel. “Detective Belmonte.” The young pathologist’s interest returned to Rosa. “Aren’t y’all part of the Forrester family?”
“A relative, yes. Louisa Forrester is my aunt.”
“I see,” Dr. Rayburn continued, “I’ve been assigned the Adams’ case. I’m assuming that’s why y’all are here?”
Miguel nodded. “Do you have anything new to report? Cause of death?”
“Kindly follow me.”
At the end of a short corridor, they entered the autopsy room. The floor was smooth, white-painted cement. The walls, tiled white and yellow, produced an echoed acoustic like a small gymnasium. Stainless steel cupboards and countertops lined the walls and displayed various surgical instruments and jars of chemicals. Hanging from the ceiling, a large steel tray with a round scale meter above it measured the weight of organs and body parts. A strong smell of formalin antiseptic permeated the air, a scent Rosa was familiar with having made many trips to mortuaries in London.
In the center of the room, two bodies, covered in white cloth, lay on operating gurneys. Dr. Rayburn walked over to one and uncovered the head. Florence Adams’ brown hair had dried now, and her bloodless face seemed almost placid. Dr. Rayburn also revealed her hands and arms.
“This is a bizarre case. Death wasn’t a result of drowning as there was no seawater in the lungs. However, the body shows signs consistent with the cessation of life by asphyxiation. Lack of oxygen resulted in death.”
“She was strangled?” Rosa asked.
“The obvious signs of strangulation are absent. No bruisin’ on the neck, and the hyoid bone remains intact. Even if she was intoxicated and subsequently smothered, there are no defensive wounds anywhere on her body. However, there are vertical scratch marks on her neck and upper chest. The skin fragments and blood we found under her fingernails are her own.
