“What makes you think she suffocated?” Miguel asked.
“Signs of suffocation usually include very high levels of carbon dioxide in the blood and extremely bloodshot eyes.” Dr. Rayburn opened one of the deceased’s eyelids. The ordinarily white area of the eyeball was red with purple splotches. “What’s baffling about this,” the pathologist continued, “is that the symptoms are consistent with the inhalation of a pulmonary agent.”
Rosa was stunned. “Poison gas?”
Dr. Rayburn nodded. “Phosgene comes to mind. It was used in the latter part of the First World War and was a more efficient killer than chlorine.”
Rosa was impressed with Dr. Rayburn’s knowledge of what her parents had often referred to as the Great War. The events of the Second World War dominated the hearts and minds of most people nowadays.
“The esophagus was clamped almost completely shut.” Dr. Rayburn walked over to a clipboard hanging from the end of the gurney and held it up. “The thing is, lab tests confirm that there isn’t even a trace of anything like that in her blood. Besides, how can someone breathe in a poison gas standing at the end of a pier on the Pacific Ocean?”
Rosa was as perplexed as Dr. Rayburn. “What do the tests show?”
“High levels of carbon dioxide, which I already mentioned, is consistent with asphyxiation.” He paused for a moment. “There are other interestin’ things found in her in blood.”
“Such as?” Miguel asked.
“The high level of alcohol indicates that she was drinkin’ to excess on that evenin’. However, signs of ongoing alcoholism are absent, such as liver fibrosis, etcetera. Small traces of cocaine were also found. But . . .” He held up a finger. “The most surprisin’ thing so far is that we found traces of digoxin, a drug used to treat cardiomyopathy.”
“You mean she had a heart condition?” Rosa asked.
“Yes. More precisely, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. She had abnormally thick heart muscles in her left ventricle. I called her doctor this morning, and he confirmed it. He was treating her and thought it to be under control. It’s typically a genetic condition.”
Miguel’s eyebrows pulled together as he shook his head. “A person who has a heart condition should avoid things like alcohol and cocaine, shouldn’t they?”
“Oh yeah,” Dr. Rayburn nodded. “That’s a dangerous mixture, not to mention if it’s mixed with undue stress.”
Rosa immediately thought of the two arguments she’d witnessed the night of Miss Adams’s death.
“Despite all that,” the doctor continued, “it wasn’t the digoxin that killed her.”
Miguel and Rosa shared a look.
“What did?” Miguel asked.
Dr. Rayburn worked his lips. “It appears that she inhaled a substance that mimics poison gas. Whatever it is, it must be very obscure. Whoever gave it to her probably hoped that because she fell into the water while drunk, and along with the fact that she was sniffing cocaine with a weak heart, that the true cause of death would be missed. I believe the killer wished to throw you off the scent.”
He gave a pointed look at both Miguel and Rosa. “Florence Adams was most definitely murdered. We just don’t know how yet.”
12
Rosa was stunned to find Gloria at the breakfast table the next morning, a coffee in one hand and a pen in the other. She circled something with a flourish then smiled when she saw Rosa approaching.
“Who’s the early bird, now?” Gloria teased.
“I admit, I’m surprised to see you.” Rosa pulled a chair from the table and took a seat.
Gloria’s opened newspapers took up most of the table. “I’ve searched the want ads, but the only jobs available for women are secretarial or retail.” She glanced at Rosa. “It’s not like I need the money. I need purpose.”
“What happened to wanting to be a TV actress?”
“I considered what you said, and I’m not sure I’m ready to commit to something that requires going back to school. I thought I’d become a working girl and see how I like it.”
Rosa bit the inside of her lip to keep from smirking. Most women who weren’t married or mothers had no choice but to be working girls.
Señora Gomez had brought platters of fried eggs and bacon, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice.
“I like clothes, flowers, and romance.” Gloria’s eyes brightened. “I know! I could be a wedding organizer! I hear it’s becoming a real profession. Look at our garden. Imagine the beautiful bouquets I could create, and I’ve got a lot of ideas for wedding dresses. I’ve been to tons of weddings—”
Gloria stopped mid-sentence, her eyes growing wide with a glint of horror as they latched on to Rosa. Rosa couldn’t stop the blush of embarrassment that crept up her neck. Her own wedding had been the last one the two had attended, and it had ended in humiliation.
“Oh, Rosa, I’m so insensitive!”
Rosa swallowed and forced a smile. “Nonsense. You’d make a terrific wedding organizer.”
Gloria sighed. “It was just an idea. I’m honestly not sure what I want.”
“What other kinds of things do you like to do?” Rosa asked.
Gloria wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. I like to dance. I’m actually taking ballroom dance classes. You should come sometime!”
Rosa did love to dance, and the offer was intriguing. But with her recent break up with Winston, and secretly, her confused feelings about Miguel, she just couldn’t picture holding onto a strange man in such an intimate manner.
“We’ll see,” she said non-committedly. “At the moment, I’m busy with this task your mother assigned me to.”
After breakfast, Rosa straddled the Schwinn and headed back into town. Now that she was on the case, it was natural that she’d pop into the police station occasionally.
It had nothing to do with wanting to see Miguel again.
Nothing at all.
It occurred to Rosa that her American counterparts might frown at her mode of transportation, but in London, riding one’s bike was a common choice, even for the police.
The street leveled off, and she entered the outskirts of town
