Bodhi’s mind returned to the autopsy of Carlos Garcia the previous afternoon. He remembered that Dr. Ashland had taken several photographs extreme close-up photographs of Mr. Garcia’s face in an effort to memorialize the rictus grin.
“Did you find anything interesting?”
Any hint of joking disappeared from Dr. Ashland’s demeanor. “No, I didn’t. And I paid particular attention to their eyes.”
“No Kayser-Fleischer ring?”
“Not a one.”
Bodhi felt a ripple of disappointment travel through him. He hadn’t been wedded to Wilson disease as an explanation for the death cluster, but it had been the most likely explanation he’d come across thus far.
“Well, I guess ruling something out conclusively is almost as much progress as ruling something in.”
Dr. Ashland snorted. “You might be able to convince a layperson that you believe that. But we both know if we’d have been able to point to copper overload, our work would be done, and those people at Golden Shores would be able to breathe easy again.”
“True,” Bodhi admitted.
He turned his attention to the water and allowed himself to get lost in the gentle tug of the waves against the rocks at the edge of the shore.
“I can’t justify going forward with genetic testing to see if there’s a mutation without some physical evidence to back it up,” Dr. Ashland explained.
“Of course not. It wouldn’t be a responsible use of your resources.”
They both knew sequencing the ATP7B gene from potentially degraded, postmortem samples would be expensive and time-consuming.
“But there’s still a chance.”
Bodhi turned his attention away from the water and back to the man sitting beside him. “A chance it’s Wilson disease?”
“Right. Maybe the dark brown pigmentation of their eye color, which they all share, masked the ring. Or maybe this is lightning in a bottle, and we have a cluster of people who died of Wilson disease without showing signs of liver failure or evidence of copper deposits in their eyes or organs.”
Bodhi gave him a close look. “That would be so statistically unlikely as to be nearly impossible.”
“Yup.” Dr. Ashland nodded his agreement. “But nearly impossible and impossible aren’t the same thing. Could be a black swan event.”
Bodhi considered this theory. A ‘black swan’ was a term initially coined by economists to describe an unexpected event that wasn’t thought possible until after it happened. Five unrelated, elderly people dying of Wilson disease in a month’s time without exhibiting its primary symptoms would certainly qualify.
“Well,” he said slowly, “today I’ll be interviewing some residents who were close with the deceased. I’ll ask whether any of the dead exhibited any neurological or psychological changes in the period before they died. Would information of that sort tilt the budgetary considerations?”
A smile broke across Dr. Ashland’s face, and he slapped Bodhi’s back so heartily that coffee sloshed over the side of his mug.
“If you get confirmation of any behavioral changes, I’ll have something to hang my hat on to stretch my budget to do the sequencing. In the meantime, I’ll make sure I keep good frozen specimens in case we need them.”
A calm settled over Bodhi as they agreed on their plan. He stood and took one last look at the water to sear its tranquil beauty into his memory.
They turned and began to wend their way up the narrow beach to the short gravel path that led to the silver camper.
As they reached the path, Detective Williams’s dark sedan careened down from the highway and turned into the campground.
“Here comes your ride,” Dr. Ashland remarked as the car stopped at the guard booth at the entrance.
Bodhi gave him a sidelong look. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Suppose it depends on what you ask.”
“It’s not case related, but I’m trying to understand something. I thought you might be able to shed some light for an out-of-towner.”
“I’ll give it a shot.”
“Is there some history between Detective Williams and Cleo Clarkson I should know about? I get the impression that they don’t care much for one another.”
Dr. Ashland roared with laughter. “Oh, is that the impression you get? Because the impression I get is that those two women would like nothing more than to run into each other in a dark alley with no witnesses.”
Bodhi half-smiled. “I may have understated the situation. But what gives?”
Dr. Ashland blew out a breath and kept his eyes on Detective Williams’s approaching car while he answered. “Felicia doesn’t exactly confide in me. But if I had to guess I’d say she doesn’t appreciate Cleo’s, shall we say, natural attributes.”
“You’re saying Detective Williams is jealous of Cleo because of the way she looks? She doesn’t strike me as shallow or petty.”
“No, that’s true. Felicia is about as deep as they come. But she is still a human being. And somebody like Cleo Clarkson, well, people respond to her in a different way than they respond to Felicia.”
Bodhi thought about Cleo’s exuberant warmth and Detective Williams off-putting frostiness. “Couldn’t that be a function of personality more than one of appearance?”
“Which came first—the chicken or the egg? I’m obviously not an expert on the fairer sex. Miss Indian Tea’s parting words to me were that I was an overgrown man-child stuck in the seventies. And Felicia doesn’t seem to like me very much. So, what do I know? But other than human nature being what it is, as far as I know there’s no other reason for the enmity between them.”
They reached the front door of the camper just as Detective Williams pulled up alongside it.
“I just have to run in and get my bag,” Bodhi said. “Will you let Detective Williams know I’ll be right out? And thanks for the tea.”
He raised the empty mug in a salute and stepped up to the door.
“You’re more than welcome. And here’s a piece of free advice as a chaser. If I were you, I wouldn’t spend a whole lot of time trying to figure out why there’s bad blood between Cleo and Felicia. Just make sure you don’t get between them and end up as collateral damage.”
Bodhi nodded his understanding and went inside. The medical examiner turned to greet Detective Williams.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Either Bodhi’s little meeting with Cleo Clarkson hadn’t gone very well, or return visitors to Golden Shores didn’t merit the royal treatment. After taking the public ferry—no yacht—from Big Pine, Felicia and Bodhi docked at Golden Island and were greeted by … no one. Unless you counted the gulls.
“Where’s your girlfriend?”
Bodhi wrinkled his forehead but didn’t respond. He stepped off the boat, slung the strap of his laptop bag over his shoulder, then held out a hand to help her off the ferry.
A hot pulse of embarrassment surged through her at her pettiness. She ducked her head and ignored his hand.
They started to walk up the path to the building. The autumn air was just as humid and gross as the winter, spring, and summer air. She wondered idly what it would be like to live where the seasons truly changed.
“I suspect Cleo’s busy setting up our meetings,” Bodhi suddenly said.
“What?” She turned her head.
“You asked where my girlfriend was. I assume you meant Cleo. I’m guessing she’s got her hands full lining up the people we asked to speak to.”
“Oh. Right.” Now she felt stupid on top of everything else. “I was just joking.”
“Mmm.”
They walked in silence. It occurred to Felicia that she needed a reset for the day. She could feel herself spiraling into nastiness. She peeked at Bodhi. He was taking in the flowers and birds as they walked, paying almost no mind to her.
What the heck? It couldn’t hurt.
She slowed her step, closed her eyes, and found her breath. As she inhaled, she thought ‘calm.
’ As she exhaled, she thought ‘steady.’ She repeated the in breath, out breath sequence, feeling her crankiness slide away.
She stumbled over a loose shell. A strong hand gripped her elbow and steadied her. She opened her eyes.
Bodhi was smiling at her. “Walking meditation—it’s a great tool. Pro tip: most people do it with their eyes open.”
Laughter welled up inside her then burst forward, like a fountain. Amid her waves of laughter, she gasped “Right … I’ll remember that.”
“You have the most melodic laugh I’ve ever heard. It sounds like music.”
They reached the lobby doors. She gaped at him for a moment then mumbled, “Thanks.”
She hurriedly pressed the buzzer to announce their arrival.
The cheerful man behind the visitor’s desk greeted them by name and handed them each a temporary ID badge. “Miss Clarkson thought it would be easier if you could access the entire building without an escort or calling ahead. So you are now free to roam about. She did say to send you to her office when you get here, though. Do you know where you’re going?”
“We do. Thank you,” Bodhi said.
They affixed their badges to their shirts then followed the quiet hallway behind the desk to Cleo’s office.
Her door was ajar. She sat at her desk with a stack of documents in front of her.
“Good morning,” Bodhi said.
Cleo looked up. Felicia could see faint blue smudges under her brilliant green eyes.
“Bodhi, Detective Williams. Can I offer you a coffee or a glass of water?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m fine.”
Cleo stood and smiled. “I’m sure you’re itching to get started. I asked Mrs. Pearl and Mrs. Rivers to come in this morning to talk to Detective Williams. They’re already here.”
“Great. Lead the way,” Felicia said briskly.
“Nurse Martinez is on his way in, as well,” Cleo added.
Felicia’s stomach clenched, but she just nodded and maintained her focus on the tasks ahead. “I’d also like to speak to Pastor Scott, if you can arrange that.”
Cleo raised her eyebrows. “It must be your lucky day. I was just about to tell you that he’s decided to sit in on your interviews with Philomena and Charlene.”
“That’s not necessary. Nor is it desirable,” Felicia said with all the diplomacy she could muster, which, admittedly, wasn’t much.
Some emotion flickered in Cleo’s eyes. Distress? Felicia couldn’t be sure because it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“I’m afraid it’s a condition of the interview. Our legal counsel has said they are entitled to have a company representative with them if they like, and both Philomena and Charlene have requested Pastor Scott.”
Felicia frowned. “I’m not sure your attorneys are right on this one.”
But Bodhi had a different concern. “Is Pastor Scott a representative of the company? I didn’t realize he took an active role in your operations?”
Cleo’s expression was pained. “It’s … complicated. I realize the situation may be unconventional. And the police department can always go to a judge and get an order, I suppose. But if you want the interviews to go forward today, Pastor Scott will be in the room. And Philomena and Charlene are already here …”
Felicia sighed. Cleo was right, and they both knew it. She could go ahead with the interviews and deal with Pastor Scott or she could waste a week trying to get them on her own terms.
“Fine. But I plan to ask him some questions, too.”
Cleo shrugged. Then she turned to Bodhi. “Mrs. Martin, Mrs. Johnson, and Mr. Santiago know you’d like to chat with them. They’re at the cafe having breakfast right now, but they said they’re free all morning. Actually, they were planning to meet anyway. Their social club is getting ready for a community service project with some teenagers in Key Largo. So they’ve already got a room reserved in the library. You can meet with them one at a time or all together.”
Bodhi smiled. “Handy.”
“Sometimes things just work out. Let me show Detective Williams to the conference room and then I’ll take you down to—“
Lynette poked her head into the room. “Was it delivered?” She looked around. “Oh, sorry to interrupt. Good morning, Dr. King.”
“Lynette, this is Detective Williams,” Cleo said as she reached for an insulated bag that sat on the credenza behind her desk. “Here you go. Could you take Dr. King down to the cafe with you? That way he won’t have to cool his heels while I get Detective Williams set up.”
Lynette took the cooler bag in both hands. “Sure. Follow me, Doc.”
Bodhi caught Felicia’s eye on his way out. “Good luck.”
“Back at you,” she said. Maybe today would be the day her investigation finally caught a break.
“So what’s in the bag?” Bodhi asked when Lynette paused for a breath in her tour guide spiel.
She patted the silver bag at her side. “My breakfast. I think today’s special was an acacia, oat, and berry bowl. Lunch and dinner are in here, too. Chef Tonga will stow those in the refrigerator for me.”
“You order in—from one of the Keys?”
“I do now. Nothing against the chef, but folks are dropping like flies. I’m not eating or drinking anything that’s not sealed until you figure out what’s going on.” She gave him a meaningful look.
He couldn’t fault her logic. Even though there was no evidence that anyone had been poisoned by or fallen ill from the food, it was a reasonable precaution.
“Plus, it’s better for me. Not so fatty. Don’t tell the chef,” she whispered with a laugh.
He got the feeling she was making light of her ordered-in meals to avoid coming across as paranoid. He suspected her anxiety level was higher than she let on.
They entered the cafe, which looked more like an upscale restaurant than an institutional cafeteria. Instead of long, communal tables, two tops, four tops, and the occasional longer rectangle were scattered throughout the room. The morning light streamed through the large windows.
Lynette led him to a square table for four in the front left corner of the room. The man and woman already seated at the table waved as they approached.
“Morning, Lyn,” the man boomed.
“Hector, Julia,” she replied. “This is Dr. King.”
Hector used the table for leverage and pushed himself to standing.
“Dr. King, it’s a pleasure.”
Bodhi shook the man’s outstretched hand. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Santiago.”
He searched the man’s wrinkled face for a hint of resemblance to his granddaughter but saw none—except perhaps for his warm manner.
“And you must be Mrs. Martin,” Bodhi said, turning to the seated woman to Mr. Santiago’s left.
She smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. We’re all so relieved you’re here.” Her voice quavered.
“Let me just drop off my food with Chef Tonga then we can chat.” Lynette placed her breakfast bowl on the table then started to turn toward the big double doors that led to the kitchen.
Bodhi intercepted her and gestured toward the bag. “Why don’t I do that for you? You sit down and eat. I have a question for the chef anyway.”
She lobbed the bag in his direction and plopped into a chair. “Don’t have to ask me twice. Thanks.”
He deposited his laptop bag on the seat of the free chair and headed for the kitchen with Lynette’s meals.
He pushed the doors open. They swung freely. Two prep chefs—one male, one female—raised their heads from their cutting boards.
“Is Chef Tonga around?”
The female chef jabbed the thumb of her free hand over her shoulder without stopping the chopping motion of her knife hand.
“He’s in the pantry—back there.”
Bodhi crossed the gleaming kitchen and entered a cavernous space. The walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling wire shelving. The shelves were crammed with spices,
dry goods, canned goods, oils, bins of root vegetables, and every imaginable staple.
Pedro Tonga was pawing through a bin of what appeared to be beets, muttering under his breath.
“Excuse me, chef.”
He turned. “Ah, Dr. King.” He dumped a handful of beets into a basket. “Did you need something?”
“Two things, actually. First, I have Mrs. Johnson’s meals. She said they could go in your refrigerator?” He raised the bag and gave the chef a questioning look.
“Bah, her organic superfoods.” He made a face and waved a dismissive hand toward the two refrigerators around the corner in the main kitchen.
Bodhi walked back to the refrigerators, opened the closest door, and placed the insulated bag on a shelf next to a large roast resting in a copper pan.
“And the second thing?” the chef said from just behind Bodhi’s shoulder, his voice matching his stride for quickness. He was a man in a perpetual hurry.
“The second thing is a favor.”
Chef Tonga pursed his lips. “What sort of favor?”
“Could you, just temporarily, switch from using copper pots, pans, utensils, and serving trays? Just until I confirm a theory. Do you have any cast iron hidden away anywhere?”
Bodhi was sure he did. The chef had no doubt had to buy the mass of shiny copperware in bulk to replace his trusty workhorses.
Something like excitement glinted in Pedro Tonga’s eyes. “Pastor Scott approved this?”
Bodhi shook his head somberly. “Pastor Scott doesn’t know.” He paused then added, “But it’s important. And sometimes, chef, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
“Forgiveness instead of permission, eh?” he mused.
After a moment, he snapped his fingers and shouted to the prep chefs. “Go into the storage and bring out my Le Creuset.”
The male chef bobbed his head. “Which pieces, chef?”
“All of it.” Chef Tonga smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bodhi rejoined the group huddled around the table. Lynette was halfway through her breakfast, and someone had already cleared away the dishes that had been in front of Mrs. Martin and Mr. Santiago. They each sipped a cup of coffee.
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