court. But, to cut them some slack, I know how hard it can be to get cozy with a homicide detective.
With no answer presenting itself, I gladly retreated to where Tricia and Cassady still sat on a chaise, arms around each other. Everyone else was gone.
“They’re inside,” Tricia explained as she and Cassady scooted over to make room for me. “Mother insisted and she and Aunt Cynthia dragged Davey in. Dad’s calling Lisbet’s parents. They can’t hear it from a reporter.”
I hadn’t even thought about how the press was going to descend on this one, especially the tabloids. It wasn’t just the death, it was the setting, the circumstances, the number and kind of people who’d been at the party, all of whom would have something to say … It had huge potential for being really ugly.
“There’s nothing sensational here, just a tragic accident. Maybe they’ll leave it alone,” I said, trying to be reassuring.
“Wow, you get major points for optimism,” Cassady responded. “Who’s the angry blond?”
“Detective Myerson’s partner. I don’t think they get along very well.”
“Not a job that brings out the best in people,” Cassady ventured.
“Excepting Kyle,” Tricia said.
“Of course.”
We were too far away to eavesdrop on the detectives. Straining to hear, all I could pick up was the occasional consonant cluster from the ME floating on the night air. I noticed Myerson kept his eyes either on his notebook or on the ground, while Cook kept glancing from the ME’s face to Lisbet’s body.
I found myself, against my will, thinking of Jake’s wordless cinema as I tried to discern what information was being communicated. The gestures were pretty vague. Until the medical examiner brought her hand to her forehead in a sharp movement that I thought for a moment was a mock salute. But then she did it again and I realized she was demonstrating a blow to the head. The phrase “blunt force trauma” leapt to mind, despite my efforts to block it with commercial jingles and other meaningless padding available in my brain.
“Aw, crap,” Cassady said, realizing the same thing.
A compacted sob pushed out of Tricia. “Davey said someone killed her. I didn’t want to believe it.”
“The detectives already do.”
Detective Myerson tapped the handrail of the pool ladder. The medical examiner shook her head, then motioned over a technician and pointed to the handrail. Detective
Cook gestured to two uniformed officers and made a large, circular motion that encompassed the whole lawn. They had to be looking for a murder weapon now.
Tricia started shivering so hard I could feel the vibration through Cassady, who sat between us. Cassady rubbed Tricia’s arms and tossed her head at the house. “We should go in.”
Being an unexpected adjunct to a family tragedy is a delicate situation at best. Something about the grandeur of the setting and the Vincents’ impeccable manners made me want to rise to the occasion and come up with the perfect gracious thing to do or say that would get everyone to relax. But Emily Post doesn’t cover the aftermath of murder in her helpful little guidebook and even my experience with Teddy’s death didn’t yield anything helpful to offer as we entered a drawing room filled with silent despair.
This was a room I hadn’t seen yet, with wood and brass that shone from generations of careful polishing, walls painted such a deep green you expected dew to form on the baseboard, and dense Persian carpets that enforced quiet and reserve. I took my cue from the carpet and kept my mouth shut, except when taking sips of the Carlos I brandy that Nelson pressed upon everyone. There were plenty of champagne bottles still around, but it seemed inappropriate to drink something celebratory now.
Aunt Cynthia and Mr. Vincent were on separate phones, Aunt Cynthia browbeating a charter pilot she knew in Los Angeles and Mr. Vincent making arrangements with Lisbet’s parents. He looked far
With no answer presenting itself, I gladly retreated to where Tricia and Cassady still sat on a chaise, arms around each other. Everyone else was gone.
“They’re inside,” Tricia explained as she and Cassady scooted over to make room for me. “Mother insisted and she and Aunt Cynthia dragged Davey in. Dad’s calling Lisbet’s parents. They can’t hear it from a reporter.”
I hadn’t even thought about how the press was going to descend on this one, especially the tabloids. It wasn’t just the death, it was the setting, the circumstances, the number and kind of people who’d been at the party, all of whom would have something to say … It had huge potential for being really ugly.
“There’s nothing sensational here, just a tragic accident. Maybe they’ll leave it alone,” I said, trying to be reassuring.
“Wow, you get major points for optimism,” Cassady responded. “Who’s the angry blond?”
“Detective Myerson’s partner. I don’t think they get along very well.”
“Not a job that brings out the best in people,” Cassady ventured.
“Excepting Kyle,” Tricia said.
“Of course.”
We were too far away to eavesdrop on the detectives. Straining to hear, all I could pick up was the occasional consonant cluster from the ME floating on the night air. I noticed Myerson kept his eyes either on his notebook or on the ground, while Cook kept glancing from the ME’s face to Lisbet’s body.
I found myself, against my will, thinking of Jake’s wordless cinema as I tried to discern what information was being communicated. The gestures were pretty vague. Until the medical examiner brought her hand to her forehead in a sharp movement that I thought for a moment was a mock salute. But then she did it again and I realized she was demonstrating a blow to the head. The phrase “blunt force trauma” leapt to mind, despite my efforts to block it with commercial jingles and other meaningless padding available in my brain.
“Aw, crap,” Cassady said, realizing the same thing.
A compacted sob pushed out of Tricia. “Davey said someone killed her. I didn’t want to believe it.”
“The detectives already do.”
Detective Myerson tapped the handrail of the pool ladder. The medical examiner shook her head, then motioned over a technician and pointed to the handrail. Detective
Cook gestured to two uniformed officers and made a large, circular motion that encompassed the whole lawn. They had to be looking for a murder weapon now.
Tricia started shivering so hard I could feel the vibration through Cassady, who sat between us. Cassady rubbed Tricia’s arms and tossed her head at the house. “We should go in.”
Being an unexpected adjunct to a family tragedy is a delicate situation at best. Something about the grandeur of the setting and the Vincents’ impeccable manners made me want to rise to the occasion and come up with the perfect gracious thing to do or say that would get everyone to relax. But Emily Post doesn’t cover the aftermath of murder in her helpful little guidebook and even my experience with Teddy’s death didn’t yield anything helpful to offer as we entered a drawing room filled with silent despair.
This was a room I hadn’t seen yet, with wood and brass that shone from generations of careful polishing, walls painted such a deep green you expected dew to form on the baseboard, and dense Persian carpets that enforced quiet and reserve. I took my cue from the carpet and kept my mouth shut, except when taking sips of the Carlos I brandy that Nelson pressed upon everyone. There were plenty of champagne bottles still around, but it seemed inappropriate to drink something celebratory now.
Aunt Cynthia and Mr. Vincent were on separate phones, Aunt Cynthia browbeating a charter pilot she knew in Los Angeles and Mr. Vincent making arrangements with Lisbet’s parents. He looked far
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