‘We have a serious situation,’ I told Heather. ‘Please ask Elaine to meet me in the Tranquility Garden right away.’
Elaine didn’t waste any time. She joined me in the garden where I had settled myself down next to Nancy, keeping her occupied with one-way small talk.
‘What’s wrong?’
I gestured with my head. ‘Over by the rowboat.’
Elaine took a few steps in that direction and pulled up short. ‘Jesus! Is he…?’
‘Very.’
‘This is dreadful, simply dreadful,’ she said after taking a closer look at the body. ‘I’ve never, not in all my years…’ She took several deep breaths then blew them out slowly through slightly pursed lips. ‘We’ll need to find Tyson Bennett and inform him right away. He’ll want to begin damage control. And locate Safa, of course. Oh, Lord, poor Safa!’
Elaine thrust her hands into the pockets of her scrubs and rocked back and forth on the soles of her sensible shoes. ‘First the Health Care Quality people, then the lawsuit and now this. It’s bad, Hannah, very bad.’
‘What’s bad?’ Nancy wanted to know. ‘What are we talking about? Have I forgotten something?’
‘Come on, Nancy,’ Elaine said, seguing smoothly from unit manager into caregiver mode. ‘It’s almost time for dinner. They’re serving lasagna today, and I know how much you like lasagna.’
Nancy offered me her empty paper cup then stood up. ‘I make lasagna with meatballs. Frank likes it that way. Meatballs and lots of mozzarella cheese. Do you like meatballs… I forget your name.’
‘Hannah. My name is Hannah.’
‘Hannah,’ she repeated thoughtfully as Elaine linked her arm in Nancy’s and started to draw her away.
Suddenly, Nancy jerked her arm free. ‘Is someone in trouble?’
Elaine bowed slightly, then cocked her head so she could look straight into Nancy’s eyes. ‘No, no one’s in trouble. Why?’
Nancy waved in the direction of the open field then chugged off. ‘There’s a police car,’ she trilled. ‘Maybe it’s Frank!’
Elaine shot an oh-help-me look over her shoulder and trudged after her.
I scuttled further on down the walk until I was even with the pavilion. I could see the police car now, just pulling into the parking lot. Elaine waved both arms over her head to attract the driver’s attention then chopped them in my direction, like a flight attendant pointing out the emergency exits.
The head gardener of Calvert Colony was going to have a conniption, I thought, as I watched first the dark blue Crown Vic, then an ambulance, and finally a white Chevy crime scene van bounce across the field, ripping up the lawn and sending divots flying. One by one they braked to a halt about twenty feet from where I stood.
I introduced myself to the patrolman, who emerged from the Crown Vic, and showed him where Masud’s body lay. I withdrew to the shade of a cherry tree while he, too, ascertained that the gentleman was dead, a fact that was confirmed for the fourth time by one of the paramedics who knelt by the body, pressed his fingers against the victim’s neck then shook his head. The paramedic waved off his partner, who had been busily hauling a gurney out of the back of the ambulance, then went to talk to the driver of the crime scene van while the patrolman dealt with me.
‘Let’s sit down for a minute, shall we?’ he suggested.
After we got settled on the bench that Nancy and I had so recently vacated, the patrolman eased a notebook out of the breast pocket of his navy blue uniform, jotted down my name and contact information then asked me what happened.
So I told him.
While we talked, two guys from the crime scene team began cordoning off a wide area around the body with yellow tape. I was busily explaining Nancy Harper’s condition – yes, somebody’d been with me, but no, she hadn’t seen anything and wouldn’t have been a reliable witness in any case – when a familiar voice drawled, ‘So, we meet again, Mrs Ives.’
The last time I’d seen Detective Ron Powers he’d been coordinating the investigation into the abduction of my grandson, Timmy. He was a little bit grayer around the temples now, perhaps, but had the same serious gray eyes and the same half-inch scar that only emphasized the resolute squareness of his jaw. A veneer of designer stubble gave the detective a rugged, outdoorsy look, but I didn’t know whether he was being fashion forward or whether it was due simply to the lateness of the day.
I managed a smile. ‘It’s a curse, Detective Powers.’
‘Did you know the victim?’ His eyes flicked to a notebook in his hand. ‘Masud Abaza?’
‘Vaguely. I know his wife, Safa, much better. They own one of the town homes here at the colony. The folks at reception can tell you which one. I’ve never been to their home. Masud seemed to prefer his own company.’
One of the crime scene techs called Powers over, so the detective excused himself. They stood over the body, consulting calmly, as if seeing a body pinned to the ground with a stalk of glass like a butterfly on a specimen board was an everyday occurrence.
When he finished talking to the tech, Powers rejoined me. ‘Can you think of anyone who hated Mr Abaza enough to do this?’
While waiting for the cops to arrive, I’d made a mental list. ‘There was a whacko in a balaclava who Masud caught spraying graffiti on the musalla.’
‘Musalla?’
‘It’s kind of a prayer hut.’ I waved. ‘Over there. I’m surprised you don’t know about the graffiti. It was reported.’
‘Vandalism’s not my department,’ Powers said, scribbling.
‘Masud and Mister Balaclava got into a tussle, but by the time I arrived on the scene Masud was dusting himself off and the guy in the balaclava had disappeared into the woods.’
‘Anyone else?’
From a life-long, in-depth study of television crime drama I’ve learned that the spouse of a murder victim is always the first suspect, so I thought I’d set the record straight on that point from the get-go. ‘Not his wife. Safa seemed to be devoted to the guy. They’d been married for thirty-some years.’
Powers raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Where have I heard that before?’
‘He was having some sort of running disagreement with the chef, Raniero Buccho, though,’ I hastened to add. ‘On two occasions, I overheard them arguing.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘The first time, I’m not sure. I wasn’t close enough to make out their words. But the second time Masud seemed to be reaming Raniero out for being a little too friendly with his wife. Because of their religious beliefs – they’re Muslim – he found Raniero’s behavior disrespectful. Although Masud’s definition of “disrespectful” was pretty broad.’
‘As in…?’
‘Well, simply talking to Safa, really. Smiling, joking, touching her arm. That kind of thing.’
‘Did Mrs Abaza have a relationship with this Raniero guy?’
I flashed back to the day I’d surprised Safa alone in the kitchen with Raniero. Although I’d been slightly suspicious at the time, Safa was a friend, and I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. She could have been consulting with the chef about the menu, as she had claimed.
I kept my eyes steady. ‘As I said, she seemed devoted to her husband. She converted to Islam for him, you know. She’s going to be devastated.’
Powers nodded. ‘I’ve sent an officer to find her.’
‘You’re not going to make her…’ I started to panic, thinking how I would feel if I had to see Paul lying dead on the grass with a glass spike driven through his chest.
‘No. We have your identification – that’s good enough for now. She can do the formal identification later, or another family member can, after we get him, uh, cleaned up.’
‘They have a son, and a daughter, maybe one of them would…’ I paused to get the little wheels within my brain spinning. ‘I’m not sure where the son lives, but the daughter is local. Chevy Chase. Potomac. Someplace like that. Sorry, I’m blanking. Maybe the son can identify his dad?’