“Any defensive injuries?”
“Uh-uh. No unusual cuts. Nothing under her nails.”
“So she had too much to drink, stepped into the tub, slipped and cracked her head on the faucet, and then she drowned. That it?”
“Well, she had a nasty contusion on the front of her head, right side, just above the hairline, but Morrison says don’t make too much of that. The bruising looks to be older than the skull injury, so it probably happened earlier.”
“Big bruise? Little bruise? What’re we talking?”
Lorren sighed. “Little, Lieutenant. And not enough to kill her.”
“All right. Time of death?”
“Last Thursday night, maybe Friday morning. Morrison says he can’t pin it down anymore than that.”
“Lovely. You can tell me cause of death, but you can’t give me manner of death. Am I right?”
“Morrison’s leaning toward accidental.”
“He’s leaning? Meaning what? He’s not sure?”
“Meaning it’s impossible to say. He told me to tell you ‘pending’ for now, but that’s only because he knows you’ve got the case listed as ‘suspicious.’”
“What—he’s banking on me to help him finish the paperwork?”
“Hey, he’s giving you a break, Lieutenant. He’s buying you a little time. But absent of other evidence—and soon—he’ll finalize his report with accidental.”
“So that’s it, then?”
“Look, I’m reading off notes. Like I said, he’ll send a full report later.”
“All right, thanks. Tell Morrison thanks. And listen, while I got you on the horn, any clue when the autopsy for Henry Becker is scheduled?”
“Who?”
“Becker. Old guy with Alzheimer’s. He was brought in on the 27th, late, the day after Farr.”
“Oh, right. The No-Name Pond.”
“That’s the one.”
“I don’t know when he’s scheduled, but don’t hold your breath, not with Morrison out now. We got bodies stacked to the ceiling—and that’s only a small exaggeration.”
“Probably just as well. I’m getting pressure to let Becker’s physician sign off.”
“I doubt Morrison would fight you.”
“Yeah, well. Can you check the calendar? Let me know what’s what?”
“You got it. I’ll call you back.”
Claudia hung up. Pending. Great. She needed to shake something from the trees fast. She sorted through the Farr case file and dug out Raynor’s number. His phone rang half a dozen times before he answered with a gruff “yeah.”
“Well, hello, Mr. Raynor,” she said. She identified herself and said pleasantly, “Remember me?”
“Like I could forget. You’re the tall gal with the red-headed sidekick. You lookin’ for that cup of coffee now?”
Claudia eyed the mug on her desk. “No, but thanks. What I’m thinking is maybe you’ve had time to ponder our conversation the other day. Maybe you remembered something that didn’t occur to you at the time?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do.” Smug. Confident.
“You sure?”
“As sure as a bat pickin’ off bugs in the dark.”
“Speaking of the dark, did you find what you were looking for last night?”
Raynor paused. “Say what?”
“Did you find what you were looking for last night?”
“I don’t follow you.” Careful now. Wary.
“Sure you do. Last night. I came by, but you weren’t home. I thought I saw a light in the woods. By Farr’s trailer.”
“Maybe you saw a firefly because me, I’m a damned hard sleeper, Lieutenant. You shoulda knocked like you meant it. I was home all night.”
“This wasn’t that late. Maybe nine-ish.”
“I’m an old country boy. I hunker down early.”
“Hmm. So you didn’t even walk your dogs?”
“They practically take care of themselves. Maybe you noticed.”
“Then you weren’t out last night?”
“Seems to me like that’s what I just said.”
“Ah. My mistake then.”
“Must be.”
“Well, if anything strikes you, anything you want to talk about, you just give me a call, all right?”
“You’ll be the first.”
“See you later, Mr. Raynor.”
“Hey, that invitation for coffee, it ain’t good forever.”
“It won’t be forever.” Before Raynor could respond, Claudia hung up. She slipped her jacket on and headed for the door, stopping just long enough to coordinate tasks with Moody and Carella. She could do more on her feet than she could at a desk.
Chapter 12
The gourmet grocery store in Feather Ridge reminded Claudia of one she and Robin visited in Boca Raton a few months after settling in Indian Run. The Boca stop was part of Claudia’s campaign to show Robin all of the Sunshine State, to persuade her that relocating to Florida had been a good move—an adventure, even—and that just because they lived in Indian Run didn’t mean they had to be isolated. She rented comfortable cars for each journey, most of which involved weekend stays at pricey hotels that played hell with her budget at the end of every month. But they did it all. They toured the Everglades and on the same day stopped at Parrot Jungle. They visited Disney World and Sea World. They hit Busch Gardens. They educated themselves at St. Augustine and Cape Canaveral. They drove the west coast and then the east coast, frying themselves at beaches and swinging through ritzy malls that offered valet parking outside and numbing inducements to spend inside. Robin seemed to enjoy most of the excursions, though in the end the campaign was a bust, serving only to reinforce Indian Run’s limitations by comparison. No beaches here. No malls. No exotic animals or larger-than-life fantasy characters to woo tourists.
“Give it a rest, Mom,” Robin finally said. It was a week night and Claudia was poring over a state map, trying to plan their next visit. “I know you’re trying. You want me to like it here, which I don’t see happening in my lifetime, no matter what. But I’m getting used to it and you don’t have to worry that you’ve . . . I don’t know, maimed me in the head or something. Anyway, I’m sick of packing and unpacking. Admit it. You are too.”
Claudia regarded her daughter thoughtfully, then sighed. “I could weep with relief at just the idea of putting my suitcase back in the closet and leaving it there.”
“A no-brainer. Now let’s go get a pizza and celebrate going nowhere.”
Claudia smiled now, thinking of their exchange. She looked around the Feather Ridge gourmet grocery store. The one in Boca didn’t have anything on it. Self-help glass bins containing everything from exotic spices to chocolate-covered pretzels lined both sides of two aisles. She examined labels on the bins, astonished at the varieties of rice alone. She counted seven, recognized only four. Booey, she thought, would know them all.
She wandered further, getting hungry, letting her nose lead her to the produce section where she developed a sudden and rare hankering for a salad. Rows of pristine lettuce, broccoli, eggplant, and asparagus beckoned from displays so artfully presented they looked like still-life paintings. She lingered for a minute, then reluctantly moved on.
A few minutes later, she had completed a circuit of the store and went in search of the manager. His name was Milo Aggastino, and he emerged from behind the deli section, beaming and wiping his hands on a stained apron that barely covered his girth. He exchanged hearty greetings, pumped her hand, and all without taking a breath remarked that he remembered seeing her on TV but didn’t believe he’d ever seen her in the store before. Could that be?
It was impossible not to like him. He effervesced with good nature, which would be grating if not for its genuineness. She found herself grinning back, then told him she was only in the store on business.
“Business!” said Aggastino. “But it’s the lunch hour! How about I personally make you a sandwich—it won’t take long—and we can talk wh
ile you eat?” He wheeled around before Claudia could answer and called out, “Bruce! Brush off some counter space for me!” He turned back. “You like provolone, Detective?”
“I . . . sure.”
She stood to the side of the deli counter and waited while Aggastino built a fat sandwich on sesame wheat bread. When it was complete, a pickled lampooned to the middle with a toothpick, he swept it onto a paper plate and beckoned for her to follow. She accompanied him to a cramped office that had none of the luster of the store itself. He gestured for her to sit behind his desk, then poured coffee before she could say no. Finally, he sat across from her in a folding chair that she worried would collapse beneath his weight.
“That coffee, it’s the finest Colombian you’ll ever find. No filler in that, I guarantee you,” he said. “Eat, eat.”
Claudia ate. Between bites, she asked him whether he was familiar with Wanda Farr. He shook his head until she described her.
“Ah! The cat lady! Yes, sure, I know her. Well, wait—I should say I know her to the extent that anyone can know someone who doesn’t talk to them. Anyway, she’s a regular, here a couple times a week.” He dropped his voice. “She doesn’t actually come into the store, only to around the back—”
“The dumpster.”
“Yes.” Aggastino shrugged. “She picks out sandwiches or other food she can eat, expired lots that get tossed, that sort of thing. Once in a while I put out something specifically for her. That’s only if I’m not busy, if I happen to think of it. Either way, she won’t take anything if she sees me watching—probably thinks I’ll chase her off—but she does take whatever’s there the minute I’m not. She’s an odd sort of . . . Wait a minute. Something’s wrong with her. You wouldn’t be asking about her otherwise. What’s happened?”
Claudia swallowed the bite in her mouth and told Aggastino that Farr had been found dead in her tub, drowned.
“I can’t believe it,” Aggastino said slowly. “I mean, I never imagined her to be in good health, exactly, but she was so . . . steady. Her and her cats, they . . .” He looked at Claudia. “I don’t understand. Are you here because . . . you think it was a bad sandwich I gave her? That it made her sick or so weak that she drowned?”
“What? Oh, no. No, no, no . . . nothing like that,” Claudia said quickly.
“But you think she was murdered?”
“I’m just tying up loose ends.”
Aggastino gazed at her thoughtfully, then shook his head. “That’s what a politician might answer, not a homicide detective.”
Claudia ignored the rebuke and wrapped the remainder of her sandwich in a napkin. “There are always loose ends when someone dies unattended. An investigation is routine. That’s all.”
“You’re not going to finish?” Aggastino pointed to her sandwich. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s great, really. I’ll finish it later in the car. Mr. Aggastino, do you remember the last time you saw Wanda Farr?”
The grocer sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Honestly, I don’t know. Let’s see . . . this is Thursday. I know I didn’t see her yesterday. I was off the day before. I’m not sure about Monday, but . . . I don’t believe I saw her then, either. We had roast beef on special, a ton of it; my mistake, I ordered too much. I put a half-pound out for her. It didn’t go.”
“What about the week before?”
“The week before!” Aggastino’s eyes widened. “In this business, a week ago is a lifetime. I can’t remember which part-timers I had on last week, never mind an old woman who rooted through the dumpster. I’m sorry.”
“How about anyone else? You ever see anyone with her. Maybe following her?”
He shook his head. “And anyway, why would someone follow her? She had no wealth. I don’t think she probably had any friends. I can’t imagine why someone would kill her. For what possible gain?”
Claudia stood. “I appreciate you taking time to see me, Mr. Aggastino. And the sandwich, it was wonderful.” She dug through her purse for money, but the grocer refused payment. He labored to get out of the chair, then escorted Claudia to her car.
“You want me to ask around about her? Discreetly, that is?”
“That won’t be necessary. Of course, if conversation does happen to come up . . .”
“I’m on it.”
Claudia smiled and got in the car. She could still see the grocer in her rearview mirror when she pulled out of the parking lot. A nice man. Why couldn’t Suggs be more like him? Why—
The screech of her portable radio yanked her from her musings. Sally’s voice crackled to life.
“What is it, Sally?” Claudia asked. She eyed the rest of her sandwich on the passenger seat.
“What’s your 10-20?”
Claudia rolled her eyes. She’d created a monster. “I’m just leaving the gourmet grocery store at Feather Ridge.”
“Can you, uh, 10-45 me?”
“Can I—sure, Sally. Give me two minutes to pull off the road.” Claudia tossed the radio next to her sandwich and coasted to the shoulder. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. “All right, what’s up?” she said when Sally picked up.
“Hey, got to love this new technology, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, what’ve you got?”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to be cranky, too. I can’t take you and the chief all in one day.”
“He’s in?”
“About a half hour ago.”
“He wants to see me?”
“No. I raised you because you had a phone call I thought you’d want to know about. I’ve learned a thing or two, you know, and one thing is not to blab names and phone numbers over the radio.”
“Good point. So who called?”
“Barbara Becker.”
“And?”
“And she said to tell you that some other lady—a ‘Babs’ Kensington?—she’s at the Becker house now.”
“She’s here? In town?”
“That’s what Mrs. Becker said. I’m supposed to tell you that if you can swing by in the next hour or so, you can catch her. After that I guess she’s going out. Or something.”
“Well, hot damn,” said Claudia. Good. Maybe she could get the Becker thing off her desk before the day was over.
“Glad you’re happy, Lieutenant. Stay that way, all right?”
“Oh, hey, Sally. That’s a big 10-4. And thanks. I’m heading over there now.”
“Is it all right to just plain say ‘good-bye’ when we’re talking on the phone?”
“Yeah. That works.”
“You sure? I don’t want to be breaking some kind of police telephone protocol.”
“Smart ass. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Well, then—bye-bye.”
Claudia laughed out loud. “Bye yourself, Sally.” She disconnected, wolfed down the rest of the sandwich, and turned the car back toward Feather Ridge.
Chapter 13
Barbara “Babs” Kensington wasn’t even remotely close to what Claudia expected. She expected someone plain—maybe even dowdy—someone with a reticent demeanor, someone who had trouble making eye contact. Somehow, that was the impression Mrs. Becker had left her with, but that wasn’t this woman. This woman, the one who escorted her into the kitchen and poured a scotch over ice as if it were a reflex motion, this woman boomed laughter and radiated energy like a live wire. Indeed, from the plunging neckline of her blouse to a tightly wrapped skirt worn mid-thigh, she practically screamed “Look at me!” Claudia suspected that most people did.
True enough, there was a physical resemblance between Kensington and Mrs. Becker, just as the older woman had described, but even with that, Claudia didn’t know how anyone could mistake this . . . “Babs” as the daughter of Henry and Barbara Becker. She also didn’t know why Mrs. Becker would want anyone to. The women were from different planets. It seemed inconceivable that both orbited around Henry Becker.
Kensington turned suddenly from the sink counter. Her drink sloshed over the glass in
her hand. “Did Barbara tell you she had to go out? She should be back in an hour or two if you don’t mind waiting.” She licked at her fingers. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Claudia said. “I was under the impression that Mrs. Becker would be here, but it doesn’t matter. I got her statement earlier. I just need yours now.”
“Fire away!” Kensington said as she scraped back a kitchen chair and joined Claudia at the table. She laughed heartily and added, “Not literally, of course. I know all you police officers carry guns. You tuck yours up in your bra somewhere?”
Right then, Claudia gave up trying to like the woman. She didn’t like her sing-song way of talking, she didn’t like her flamboyance and she certainly didn’t like her jokes. And now that the woman was in closer proximity, she realized she didn’t like her perfume either. She sat back in her chair, wrinkling her nose at the heavy woodsy scent.
“I won’t keep you long, Miss Kensington, ” she said. She flipped her notepad open to a fresh sheet.
“Just call me ‘Babs.’”
“Miss Kensington is fine, thanks. Now if you don’t mind, tell me how it was that you and Mrs. Becker missed connections.”
“Didn’t Barbara already explain?”
“She did, yes, but because you were both responsible for Mr. Becker’s care I’d like to hear your own description of events.”
“Hmm. Let me see how I can put this.” She tapped her fingers against her glass, took a long swallow, then sighed impatiently. “You want to know what happened? What happened is we screwed up. Very simple. I fell down on the job. She fell down on the job. We botched things.” She shrugged. “No point trying to paint a rosy picture on it.”
“Be specific.”
“Specific? All right. Barbara went to Chicago on a Monday evening—”
“June 19?”
“What? I don’t know. If the 19th was a Monday, then it was the 19th. Anyway, she was supposed to be back on Thursday morning, somewhere around ten or eleven. Now me, I already had plans to leave on Thursday, because I was heading to the Chicago area myself.”
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