“Good boy, Reggie. That’s a very good boy. Sweet Reggie, you’re a good, good boy.”
I carefully moved my hands over his body, feeling for broken bones or swelling, watching his face for signs of pain. He didn’t seem hurt in any way, but I could feel fine tremors under his skin. When I sensed that he was calm enough to follow me, I led him around the group of forensics people to the Community Policing Officer. Then I went back to look at the dead body. So far as I was concerned, it had already been identified.
3
The forensics people resumed their careful work, brushing humus away from the corpse’s head, watching each spoonful they removed, exquisitely mindful that valuable clues could be mixed with the rotted leaves and bark. My breath was shallow and fast, filled with dread for what I was about to see. The techs’ hands stopped moving, and a ripple of silent shock seemed to run around the circle of people bending over the body. When they pulled back to let me see the uncovered face, I felt the same shock.
Not because the jaw had dropped in the automatic reaction of death, or because the eyes were wide and staring. Those things were expected. What was unexpected was the fool’s grin slashed with bright red lipstick on the bluetinged face.
They all looked up at me as if for explanation as well as identification.
I said, “That’s Conrad Ferrelli.”
Guidry gave a curt nod, managing to thank me and dismiss me with one gesture.
“I don’t need to tell you not to divulge anything about the lipstick.”
Of course he didn’t. Innocent people would come forward to make false confessions. Guilty people would give false alibis. Citizens would call with leads and misguided information. That angry lipsticked leer was knowledge that only the killer and the homicide investigators would have. And me.
I turned to go. I didn’t want to stay to see the rest of the uncovering. I didn’t want to find out how Conrad had been suffocated. That was something only the homicide investigators and the killer should know.
Guidry caught up with me. “You know Mrs. Ferrelli, right?”
“Why?”
“Her dog has to be taken home. I was thinking it would be easier for her if you came with me.”
“You mean if I told her.”
“That too.”
“What is it with you? Every time you get assigned to investigate a murder, you end up making me do all your dirty work.”
“I wouldn’t say every time, and I’m not making you do anything. You can refuse. You can let the woman open her door and find a total stranger standing there with her dog. You can let a total stranger break the news that her husband’s dead.”
I glared at him. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was tell Stevie Ferrelli that she was a widow, but Guidry had a point.
The Ferrilli house was just around the bend, the first one at the southern end of the waterside properties, but it seemed more respectful to arrive in a car than go straggling down the street leading a dog by a necktie.
I said, “We’ll have to take my car.”
The Community Policing Officer was kneeling beside Reggie, talking softly to him, and when I took the end of the necktie he came without resisting. Guidry followed us down the lane to Mame’s driveway and my Bronco. Reggie balked a bit at getting into the back but finally obeyed. With Guidry in the passenger seat, I looped a right to the bay and drove past a few shuttered houses that looked closed for the summer.
The Ferrellis’ tall cypress house was on the edge of an inlet, with a curving drive sweeping across the front. The house had weathered silver gray, and near-black Bermuda shutters on its slim windows gave it a coy look, like an island woman with demurely lowered eyelashes. A louvered breezeway separated a wide carport from the house, and a sparkling white Scarab 35 Sport rocked gently at a wooden dock.
I parked in front of the entrance, went to the back of the Bronco, and looped a cotton leash around Reggie’s neck. He was tense, holding his neck stiffly arched as I led him up the steps to the door. Guidry rang the bell, and I laid my hand on top of Reggie’s head while we waited.
Stevie opened the door, her face showing a mixture of apprehension and irritation, as if she didn’t appreciate unexpected people at her door so early in the morning. She was about forty, with the lean high-cheekboned beauty I always associate with generations of money. She was barefoot, in white linen shorts and a high-necked black sleeveless knit top, her dark hair loosely twisted into a comb at the back of her head. When she saw Reggie, her mouth made an O of surprise, and then she looked quickly at Guidry,
I remembered the feeling, the dark curtain slowly descending so that color and light become dingy, the brain screaming that what you’re about to hear can’t be true, even though you already know before you hear it that it is.
I said, “Stevie, it’s about Conrad.”
She covered her own mouth, but I knew it was mine she wanted to shut up.
Guidry said, “Mrs. Ferrelli, I’m Lieutenant Guidry of the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department. May we come in?”
Mutely, she stood aside, and Guidry and I stepped into space that soared to a high cathedral ceiling, with a glass wall at the back overlooking the bay. We walked over dark tile to stand awkwardly on a rug where caramel leather sofas and chairs formed a grouping.
Stevie said, “Has Conrad had an accident?”
Guidry said, “I think you’d better sit down, ma’am.”
She sat, suddenly and heavily, as if her legs had suddenly given way. I slipped the cotton leash off Reggie, and he trotted to her, instinctively going to give comfort. She touched his neck with trembling fingers.
Guidry said, “Mrs. Ferrelli, when did you last see your husband?”
She seemed to shrink inside her skin. I wanted to rush to her and comfort her, but I stayed quiet.
She said, “Tell me what’s happened. Why are you here?”
Guidry said, “We found the dog in the wooded area beside the street. Apparently, your husband was attacked while he was walking him.”
She shook her head. “No, there must be some mistake. Conrad takes Reggie to the beach. He doesn’t walk him on the street.”
Guidry’s voice was gentle but firm. “He was in the wooded area by the street.”
She looked to me, as if I might have better news.
“Dixie? Is Conrad hurt? Is it bad?”
I said, “Stevie, I’m sorry. He was killed.”
She reacted the way civilized women do, first with disbelief and irrational insistence that it was all a case of mistaken identity, then with controlled despair, with shuddering tears, with questions, and finally with gradual acceptance and the ability to give Guidry names to call, people to notify.
There should be some kind of cosmic rule that news like that only comes when you’re alone, totally removed from civilized strictures, so you can fling yourself on the ground and howl like a wild dog. So you can beat your fists on hard surfaces and break your own bones. Civilization forces us to push our grief into our chests where it turns into a sustained moan.
I left her with Guidry and went into the kitchen where a coffeemaker was steaming on the counter, two clean coffee mugs sitting beside it. I poured coffee into one of the mugs and carried it back to the living room for Stevie. She looked up at me with blank eyes when I set it on the table next to her. Guidry got up and handed me a coaster from a stack on the coffee table, and I lifted the mug and repositioned it on the coaster. We were like fussy hosts taking care of a guest’s needs.
I went back to the kitchen and put out fresh water and dried food for Reggie, noting with approval that the food was what I had recommended, the same natural diet that Mame ate but for younger dogs. Reggie heard the plinking sound of kibble hitting his dish and trotted into the kitchen to wolf it down. I watched him closely, looking for any indication of swallowing problems or pain when he chewed. He seemed okay, and when he finished he looked up at me and wagged his docked tail.