“Chief, you there?”
“Yeah.” Cobb rubbed at his neck as if it were stiff. “Problem is, there are some unusual aspects to the whereabouts of Mrs. Flynn after midnight. But that blue Ford’s a fact. It was abandoned at the foot of Persimmon Hill. The warning ticket issued to Susan Flynn was found in the front seat.”
“Yeah.” There was doubt in the M.E.’s voice. “Maybe the timing works out. Although if he’d seen her at eleven, I could buy it a lot easier than after midnight.”
Cobb cleared his throat. “Can digitalis in that amount be administered in hot chocolate?”
“Sure. If somebody put it in the drink, she’d never notice. If it was suicide, she probably popped them into the cup and drank it down and went off to bye-bye land. Maybe the easy answer’s the best. She must have felt lousy. She knew she didn’t have much time left anyway. Drop the pills into cocoa, give it a stir, no more pain.”
The chief circled: Suicide?
The M.E. was brisk. “Check out her mental state. If she’d been depressed, talked a lot about death, you can close the investigation.”
Cobb loosened his tie. “Can I? What about the fact that she was found on the floor, pillow on her face? Like you said, she didn’t get there by herself.”
“Looks like you have a few loose ends. Anyway”—the M.E. was blithe—“I’ve attached the file and emailed you. As soon as I have a double shot of espresso, I’m on my way to pick up my hot date and drive to Stillwater. Go, Cowboys.”
I wafted away. I wrung my hands. Oddly enough, specters purportedly are often seen pacing and twining their hands in desperation. I hated to be a cliché but this turn of events was ghastly. I had to alert the chief that Susan’s death was murder.
Cobb punched off the speakerphone. He looked like a man trying to piece together a broken vase, but several of the pieces were pulverized. He turned to his computer, opened the medical examiner’s report, printed it out.
He clicked another file, opened it.
I read the title of that report on his screen: Preliminary report homicide lab re: cup and china pot with cocoa residue from bedroom of deceased Susan Flynn.
He punched Print, gathered up both the autopsy and lab reports, and placed them on his desk. On the legal pad, he wrote:
What was Susan Flynn’s mental state?
Interview persons who saw her in the last few days.
Who inherits?
Who moved the body after death and why?
Who prepared the cocoa that she drank shortly before death?
Are there fingerprints—
A perfunctory knock sounded on his office door. The door was opened and in came a heavyset blonde in a silver-gray wool-silk suit with a Peter Pan collar. The dropped bodice wasn’t flattering to the age spots on her upper torso. Her short skirt revealed dimpled knees that deserved merciful covering.
I hadn’t liked Mayor Neva Lumpkin on my earlier visit to Adelaide. I doubted she would charm me this time.
With an air of proprietorship, the mayor settled in a straight chair facing the chief’s desk. She began without preamble. “The City of Adelaide has suffered a grievous loss with the death of Susan Pritchard Flynn, one of our most respected citizens.” The mayor’s voice rose with platform unctuousness. “Susan’s generosity to her community, her selfless devotion to her family and her church, and her honorable character will always serve as a sterling example to those of us who remain.”
“Blah. Blah. Blah.” I clapped my hand over my mouth.
The mayor’s face quivered. “What did you say?”
Chief Cobb’s expression was peculiar. “I didn’t say anything. The heating makes funny noises sometimes.”
The mayor’s head switched back and forth. “I heard a woman’s voice.”
I kept my fingers pressed to my mouth. I must not succumb to the temptation to confound her as I had on a previous occasion when she’d attempted to interfere in a murder investigation. Wiggins had scolded me for that incident.
“Some kind of high sound.” Her gaze moved up to the heating register.
“I turned the thermostat up when I came in. Maintenance always lowers the heat over the weekend. Probably we heard some kind of”—he was making an effort not to smile—“funny wheeze.”
It was a good thing I was pressing my fingers against my lips.
Her plump face pink, her eyes glittering, the mayor gave a short nod. “As I was saying, we have suffered a grievous loss. However, not”—great emphasis—“an unexpected loss. We all knew Susan’s time was short. She had been ill for several years. In fact, my dear friend Jacqueline Flynn doubted that Susan would see in the New Year. Jacqueline acquainted me with the odd circumstances in which Susan’s death was discovered and I felt it incumbent upon me to offer you my assistance. We both agreed the theft of Jacqueline’s car—”
I floated to the blackboard on the opposite side of the room behind the mayor. It was quite clean. The chalk lying in the tray was fresh. I picked up a piece of pristine white chalk and immediately felt as though I were back in a classroom. One of the pleasures of teaching English had been the dissection of character, Bob Cratchitt, Pip, Lady Macbeth, Holden Caulfield, Madame Bovary, Heathcliff, Huckleberry Finn, Jo March.
“—was an entirely separate matter.” The mayor was brisk, a woman sure of her facts.
Behind his desk, Chief Cobb looked immovable as a mountain, a big, solid man. He listened, his blunt face expressionless.
I rolled the chalk in my fingers, such a familiar sensation. My hand rose. I printed, the slight scratch of the chalk lost in the mayor’s volume:
Pompous
“Moreover, as we all know, at the moment of death, there will often be a magnificent, though doomed, struggle. None of us”—the mayor’s tone was lugubrious, but brave—“go willingly into that dark night. Our dear Susan no doubt had some intimation, perhaps piercing pain. This would explain the posture in which she was found. Think of Susan in pain, gasping for breath—”
The chalk moved:
Phony
“—seeking ease. She must have stumbled from her bed, clutching the pillow, only to fall and embark upon that last great journey which we all shall take.”
Not Eugene O’Neill
“I trust everything is clear now.” She spoke with finality.
“Facts are helpful, Neva. I’m sure you will be interested to know that Susan Flynn didn’t die on the floor. Someone put her there and placed the pillow over her face. A shift in the lividity of the body proved she was moved after death. That’s a fact.” He tapped the papers on his desk. “Susan Flynn died from an overdose of digitalis. That’s a fact. My job is to figure out whether the overdose was accidental or deliberate. And, if deliberate, whether she committed suicide or was murdered. Moreover, I intend to find out who moved the body after death.”
The mayor wasn’t fazed. “Sometimes facts must be interpreted to be understood.” She fluttered a pudgy hand in dismissal. “Could there be a reasonable explanation for the placement of the body? Of course. Who can ever know how death strikes an intimate of a family?” Her tone was kind, as if encouraging a listener who might not be attuned to human vagaries. “Reactions are often impulsive, hard to explain, hard to understand. There are many possibilities. Distraught by the finality of death, quite likely someone pulled Susan from the bed and tried to revive her. When it became heartbreakingly obvious that resuscitation wasn’t possible, the pillow was blindly placed over Susan, to hide the unalterable image of death.”