Felice Corvin shot her daughter a quick look. As Brett had done with her father, Chelsea ignored her. Both kids looked as if they were orbiting in a distant galaxy. Their father’s failure to notice was stunning.
A fifth person entered the room from the left — the dining room and kitchen area if this layout matched the Corvins’ house.
Short, sparely built man in his late forties, wearing rimless eyeglasses and weekend stubble. Bald but for feathers of brown at the sides of a narrow face. Dressed for stay-at-home comfort in a white T-shirt, cargo shorts, rubber beach thongs.
“Paul Weyland,” he said, wearily.
Milo said, “Thanks for doing this, sir.”
“Of course.” Weyland sat in a corner chair.
Milo turned to Chet Corvin. “I wish I could give you better news but I’m afraid your house is going to remain a crime scene for at least one more day, possibly longer.”
“Longer? Why?”
“We need to be thorough, sir.”
“Huh,” said Corvin. “Can’t see why it needs to — fine, you’ve got your job. But afterward you will do a thorough cleanup.”
Milo said, “There are private companies specializing in—”
Corvin’s hands slapped his hips. He canted forward. “You don’t handle that?”
“We don’t, sir, but I can give you some referrals and funds can be obtained through victim assistance. So can compensation for temporary housing, but I’m afraid the amount won’t cover anything luxurious.”
“Forget that, we’re not public assistance people,” said Chet Corvin. “We’ve got a place in Arrowhead so save the money for — people in Compton, wherever.”
Milo motioned toward the recliner. “You might want to sit, sir.”
Corvin remained on his feet. “I still don’t see why — let’s keep our heads clear, Lieutenant. Something crazy happened that has nothing to do with the Corvin family.”
Milo said, “As I said, sir—”
“If you need to be thorough, why don’t you accumulate sufficient personnel to do that in a timely manner?”
Felice Corvin stared straight ahead. Paul Weyland took out his phone and scrolled. The kids remained lost in space.
Milo nodded at the recliner. Chet Corvin sat. “Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.”
Brett Corvin, still playing with his fingernails, said, “It was like murder, Dad. They can’t just mess around.”
Chet stared at his son. His eyes hardened. “Of course, slugger.”
Felice Corvin said, “We can’t go to Arrowhead, they’ve got school.” To Milo: “How much does this victims’ group pay, Lieutenant?”
Milo said, “I’m not sure, ma’am, but I’ll see to it that you get the right contact information.”
“Thank you very much.”
Chet Corvin said, “What? Some cheesy motel in a crap part of town? I think not. In terms of school, the kids can get their homework and take it with them.”
Felice Corvin said, “We’ll discuss it.”
Brett Corvin said, “Arrowhead would be cool, we never go, I can do my homework there.”
His mother said, “Nice try.”
Chet humphed and cracked his knuckles.
Through the exchange, no comment from Chelsea. The hands in her lap were twitching faster. Paul Weyland looked at her with what seemed to be pity, but neither parent paid her any mind.
Chet Corvin said, “Back to basics. Who’s the poor devil in my den?”
“No idea, sir.”
“What kind of lunatic would do that to a house?” To me: “We come back home, great dinner, prime rib, I could still taste the pie. Everything looks normal, we might never have found it until tomorrow morning but I left my reading glasses in the library and went down there and did find it.”
To his wife: “And then you come down and scream.”
Felice Corvin said, “You were down there so long, I got concerned.”
“It wasn’t exactly a dead mouse,” said her husband. “I needed time to take it in, who wouldn’t? Something like that, right off our damn living room?”
“Dying room,” said Chelsea Corvin.
Everyone looked at the girl. She mumbled.
Brett gave a knowing smirk: Weird sister behaving predictably.
Chet and Felice shook their heads. Unified in bafflement, their odd child.
The girl bent over and began crying.
Paul Weyland looked ill at ease. A host whose guests had overstayed their welcome.
Felice Corvin went over to Chelsea and touched the girl’s shoulder. Chelsea recoiled. “It’ll be okay, honey.”
“Easy to say, hard to accomplish,” said Chet Corvin, looking at his daughter and wife with curious detachment. “But we’ll get through this, the Corvins are made of tough stuff, right, gang?”
“Totally gross,” said Brett Corvin, with little passion. He sniffled, gulped. Smiling as he mocked his sister.
His mother said, “Bretty—”
The boy made a hacking motion. “I saw it, no hands. Bleh. Messed up.” To Milo: “Maybe they got thrown in the garbage.”
Felice said, “Brett Corvin!”
Chelsea whimpered. Brett said, “Crybaby.”
“Son,” said Chet, “that really is a bit out of line.”
The boy untied a sneaker, twirled a lace. “His face was like that stuff you ate last week, the Italian food. Tar-tare. Bleh.”
Chelsea Corvin made a gagging noise, clamped a hand over her mouth, and tottered upright. Panicked black eyes settled on Paul Weyland. “Ba-ru?”
Her father said, “What?”
Weyland stepped closer to her and pointed. “There’s a bathroom right over there.” Right-hand door on the way to his den. Maybe there was a matching room in the Corvin house. I’d been looking at other things.
The hand Chelsea used to cover her mouth was white and tight. She faltered, gagged again.
Chet Corvin said, “Go! Same place as our powder — go, g’won, don’t mess up Paul and Donna’s carpet.”
The girl ran off, swung a door open, slammed it shut. Retching and vomiting followed immediately. A toilet flush. More gastric noise. Another flush.
Brett Corvin said, “Gross. This is like a whole gross night.”
Milo said, “Mr. and Mrs. Corvin, in terms of where you want to stay tonight—”
Paul Weyland said, “If it helps, they can stay here.” Tentative offer but far from a commitment. “My wife’s visiting her mother, I’ve got three bedrooms. A couple have beds, for the other I’ve got futons in the garage.”
Felice Corvin said, “That’s so incredibly kind of you, Paul, but we couldn’t impose.”
Chet Corvin said, “Big of you, neighbor, deeply appreciated. But seeing as Arrowhead’s off the table, I’ve got a better idea. My corporate card from the company will get us lodging in a decent hotel.” To Milo: “At least for the day it takes to get our homestead back.”
“We’ll do our best but no promises, sir.”
“You’re making it sound as if you own the place.”
“With a crime scene, Mr. Corvin, we do become custodians.”
Chet turned to Weyland. “Thanks but no thanks, Paul. We’ll take it from here.”
“Sure,” said Weyland, sounding relieved.
Brett said, “A hotel, cool. Let’s do the one near Magic Mountain?”
Felice said, “What are we going to do about clothes, toothpaste, pajamas. Your snore-guard, Chet?”
Mention of the appliance tightened her husband’s face. “There’s such a thing as luggage, dearest. Lieutenant, I’m sure you can find a way to accompany us next door so we can take a few necessities without screwing up your procedures.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We need to preserve the crime scene strictly. If you need to purchase anything, the victims’ fund will also—”