Monday Mourning

”

I considered crushing the pen.

“The bones are too old. Carbon 14 is too expensive. The girls were hookers. Louise Parent died in her sleep. Old ladies do that. They’re known for doing it.”

“I was referring to drooling.”

“See!” I jabbed the pen at Ryan. “Your flip attitude doesn’t help.”

“Tempe—” Ryan reached out to touch me. I drew back."

"“Of course. I forgot. You love me. But you love a lot of things. Goat cheese. Parakeets. The Weeki-Wachee Mermaids.”

Ryan’s mouth opened to say something. I cut him off.

“Right.

I stormed on, all the pent-up frustration rolling in one powerful surge.

“Now, suddenly you’re free for dinner! On Saturday night! What a lucky girl I am!”

The words spewed like water through a sluice gate.

“What about duty? What about your”—I hooked my index fingers to bracket the word—“niece?”

The pen ricocheted off the blotter and winged toward Ryan. Throwing up a hand, he deflected it.

I shot to my feet.

“Oh God, I’m sorry.

Dropping into my chair, I put my face in my palms. My cheeks felt warm and damp.

“Christ. What’s wrong with me?”

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Palming away wetness, I did an ear-tuck with my hair and raised my head.

Ryan was gazing down at me, the travel-poster eyes filled with concern.

Or pity?

Or what?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure where all that came from.”

“Everyone’s under pressure.”

“Everyone’s not turning into Il Duce.”

I was aware of LaManche before actually seeing him.

Throat clearing.

Ryan and I turned. LaManche was in my doorway.

“I thought you both might like to know. The coroner has officially ruled Louise Parent’s death a homicide.”

“She was smothered?” I asked.

“I believe so.”

“Have you gotten the tox results?” Ryan asked.

“Traces of sleeping medication, Ambien, were detected in the blood and urine. Levels were consistent with the ingestion of ten milligrams several hours before death.

“What about timing?” Ryan asked.

“Did you establish whether Parent ate that soup for lunch or for dinner?”

“Phone records indicate calls were made from the Fisher home at three fifty-five, four-fourteen, and five-nineteen P.M. that Friday. The first was to Parent’s priest, the second to a pharmacy two blocks away. The third was to a cell phone. We’re working on that.”

I shot Ryan a look. No one had told me that.