“Someone likely held her hostage and kept her body in cold storage for months. And then tethered it in such a way that it would be pulled apart when we tried to recover her from the bay. I’d say that’s an indication she didn’t die of natural causes,” I remark.
“But you don’t know what killed her, as I understand it?” She lets that same question hang in the air.
“At this time I don’t.”
“You don’t have a guess.”
“I don’t guess.”
“Then you don’t know.”
“I don’t know for a fact at this point.”
“Isn’t that unusual, when the body is in relatively good shape?” Burke hasn’t taken her eyes off me, and it occurs to me she might think I’m lying.
“Yes,” I answer. “I find this case extremely complicated and unusual. It’s probably going to be a tox case or asphyxia. It may take a while to sort through it.”
“Then we’ll look for anything in here that could point in the direction of an overdose, a poisoning, or asphyxia,” she says. “Drugs, meds, something like a plastic dry-cleaning bag that could have been used to smother her.”
“Then what?” I remind her. “Someone carried her body out of here without anybody seeing it and dumped her into the bay?”
“I’m hoping you’ll tell me. Cold storage or heat?” Her questions are beginning to feel like an interrogation, as Benton looks around and doesn’t look at us.
“Where she was kept was cold,” I reply. “Very cold and dry.”
“We just don’t have the facts,” Burke says dismissively, as my boot covers make plastic sounds on heart pine flooring.
“Are you allergic to cats?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, horribly. And I thought Benton was the psychic.”
“The plastic ring on the floor.” I indicate what’s behind the umbrella stand. “A cat toy.”
“No sign, but appears there was one.”
“As in recently?” Benton is interested.
“There’s a litter box in the master bath,” Burke says. “Water and food bowls are on the kitchen floor.”
“But no cat alive or dead?” Benton is caught up in what it might mean.
“Not so far.”
“Where is her car key now?” I inspect the entryway table, crafted of old distressed wood with hammered copper accents, the bowl high opalescent glass with a pattern of bluebirds.
I pick it up and read the back. Lalique, another expensive antique, and I wonder if Peggy Stanton spent much time in France.
“Sil has it. Swabbed it and the keychain for DNA, checking them for possible prints, for anything, before he unlocks her car, assuming the car is locked,” Burke says. “But when the fire guys got us inside, the key was right there in that bowl you’re looking at, what appears to be a key to her 1995 Mercedes. The keychain has an old compass on it, maybe an old Boy Scout compass? Where you’d expect keys to be when someone’s walking into the house. A typical place to put them, just inside the door.”
“Except if she’s coming in from the garage she’s not likely to walk all the way around to the front, up the steps, and onto the porch, especially if she’s carrying groceries,” I reply. “There’s a path that leads from the garage to a side door that I’m guessing is the kitchen door.”
“Anything else on the keychain besides a car key and a compass?” Benton asks. “A house key, garage key?”
“No.”
“What about mail?” He looks through doorways, but he doesn’t walk inside the rooms. “I noticed a mailbox in front.”
“Empty.”
“Was she having her mail forwarded to another address?” I set down the bowl on the smooth top of the hand-built table and don’t believe for a minute that Peggy Stanton kept her car key or any keys in the entryway. “If her mail wasn’t forwarded, the mailbox should be overflowing.”
“Nothing in it but a couple of circulars, junk mail,” Burke replies. “So it appears someone was taking it for some reason.”
“The same person paying her bills and impersonating her,” Benton says, as if he knows. “What I’d like to do first is check out the garage, walk the property with Machado, then walk through the house while giving Kay room for what she needs. Doug, maybe you can show her around in here.”
What he’s doing is giving me space, but he knows I can’t be alone. I convince myself he’s simply following protocol because I don’t want to believe he’s delivered me to this place and to Douglas Burke so she can casually and spontaneously continue an inquisition I can’t afford to abort.
Looping the camera strap around my neck and picking up my scene case, I tell her for the record that I intend to go through certain areas of the house very thoroughly and it’s important she’s with me the entire time. I won’t open drawers or look inside medicine cabinets or closets unless what I do is witnessed, and I won’t collect any evidence myself unless it directly relates to the body, I explain.
Biological materials, medications, for example, I say to her. But I will look at whatever I’m allowed to look at, assuming my opinion is helpful, I make myself clear.
“Sure, it’s all helpful,” she says. “I’m curious if you usually do your own photography.”
“Generally, no.”
“So if Marino’s not available, you wouldn’t bring one of the other investigators. You have what? About six of them?”
“I wouldn’t bring Marino or anyone here,” I answer her. “Not under the circumstances.”
twenty-four
OFF THE ENTRYWAY TO THE LEFT IS THE DINING ROOM, small, with Wedgwood-blue walls and white molding and trim, the mahogany table in front of the fireplace set with six antique chairs upholstered in dark red velvet.
A built-in hutch displays royal-blue dishes trimmed in gold, French Saxon china that is old, and sterling flatware in cabinets, also French and antique, is stored in wooden chests, a patina of tarnish on all of the pieces. White candles on the table and the mantel have never been lit, and potted plants by the curtained window are long dead, everything covered in dust that hasn’t been disturbed in many months, I estimate. I flip a wall switch and nothing happens, the bulbs of the chandelier and sconces burned out.
“It doesn’t appear they’re on timers.” I scan wall switches and outlets, looking for any sign of power strips or other devices that might have allowed Peggy Stanton to program certain lights to turn on and off. “Were these switches in the on position when you got here?”
“Yes.” Burke is interested in her cell phone.
“And you left them in the on position?” I ask because it’s important.
“Any lights that are burned out, it’s because they were left on by whoever was in the house last.” She’s scrolling through e-mails.
“It’s probably safe to assume that either she left the dining room lights on the last time she was in her house or someone else did.”
“The window in here faces the street.” She’s reading e-mails and wiping her nose with a tissue. “Maybe she was in the habit of leaving the lights on in the dining room so it looked like someone was home.”
“Most people wouldn’t leave on a crystal chandelier and crystal sconces when they go out, especially if they were leaving town. It’s a real pain to replace the bulbs.” I’ve seen what I need to see in here, and Burke is barely listening.
I walk out of the dining room and across the entryway, waiting for what’s next as I wonder how much of what’s happening was masterminded by Benton. How much is he allowing? Burke is walking me through this house because she intends to walk me through something else.
“If it was her habit to come and go in her car, it might have made more sense to leave lights on that illuminate the garage.” I tell her my thoughts anyway, feeling uncannily the way I did earlier today when Jill Donoghue played her games with me in court.