what to do either, except stay quiet. I drifted over to the French doors and leaned as close to the glass as I dared, not wanting it to be my lipstick Nelson had to clean off the window in the morning. But just as I got close enough for the reflection from the room to give way to the actual picture outside, something thwacked against the glass, right about even with my nose. I gasped and jerked back, splashing a goodly portion of brandy on my wrist.
As I debated in a split second whether to lick the brandy off, the door swung open and Detective Cook stepped in. She gave me a tight smirk I associate with cheerleaders who have just bedded the guy you’ve been pining after for an entire semester. “Excuse me.”
Since pointing out that she’d known exactly what she was doing and was enjoying it a little too much wasn’t going to accomplish anything, I smiled back. “No problem.”
We both paused a moment to silently call each other “bitch,” then moved on. I retreated in search of a napkin and a better vantage point while Detective Cook strode into the middle of the room to introduce herself to everyone. Detective Myerson entered almost unnoticed behind her and quietly closed the door.
Detective Cook recited her spiel about being sorry for our loss and didn’t bother to make it sound spontaneous, much less sincere, then asked Aunt Cynthia if there was a room in which she and her partner could speak to people individually.
“There are thirty-two rooms in this house but there’s no reason we can’t all speak freely right here,” Aunt Cynthia said.
Detective Cook shook her head. “Gracious thought, but bad procedure.”
“We’ve already given statements,” Mrs. Vincent said.
“Which have given rise to a couple of questions that I can either sort out here or we can discuss at greater length at … my house.” Detective Cook was enjoying the escalation of tension in the room. Piece of work.
“It was an accident,” Mrs. Vincent tried again. “She slipped and fell.”
“And you believe that because … ?”
Mrs. Vincent was not accustomed to people telling her when she was wrong, but she still recognized it when it happened. And didn’t like it one bit. She looked to Mr. Vincent for his reaction, but he was staring at some point past the detectives, maybe out the windows and to the pool, and didn’t notice.
The Vincents had been through enough, so I decided to be a good guest and redirect the heat for a moment. “Was Lisbet dead before she went into the water?”
It was a painful thing for most of the people in the room to hear, but Detective Cook was really ticking me off with her high-handed attitude and I wanted to cut to the chase. There didn’t seem to be much reason for jerking anyone around at this point.
Detective Cook turned slowly to look at me, giving me ample time to register her displeasure with my question and, given the narrowing of her eyes, my very existence. “Who are you again?”
“Molly’s a journalist. Molly Forrester. She investigated a murder in the city,” Richard said, offering my resume to be helpful and being anything but.
Detective Cook’s eyes narrowed so tightly that they might as well have closed. She was starting to like me just as much as I was liking her. I could tell.
“The Teddy Reynolds murder. Manhattan magazine ,” Detective Myerson said. I’d almost forgotten he was in the room.
“Yes,” I said, as neutrally as possible.
“How nice for you,” Detective Cook said, still not trying to sound sincere. She pointed at David. “I’d like to talk to you first.”
“Excuse me. You didn’t answer my question,” I persisted. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the information once I had it, but I wasn’t going to ignore the fact that she was trying to ignore me.
“Won’t know that until the autopsy,” she said, keeping her eyes on David. She gestured for him to stand up, which he seemed reluctant or unable to do.
Detective
As I debated in a split second whether to lick the brandy off, the door swung open and Detective Cook stepped in. She gave me a tight smirk I associate with cheerleaders who have just bedded the guy you’ve been pining after for an entire semester. “Excuse me.”
Since pointing out that she’d known exactly what she was doing and was enjoying it a little too much wasn’t going to accomplish anything, I smiled back. “No problem.”
We both paused a moment to silently call each other “bitch,” then moved on. I retreated in search of a napkin and a better vantage point while Detective Cook strode into the middle of the room to introduce herself to everyone. Detective Myerson entered almost unnoticed behind her and quietly closed the door.
Detective Cook recited her spiel about being sorry for our loss and didn’t bother to make it sound spontaneous, much less sincere, then asked Aunt Cynthia if there was a room in which she and her partner could speak to people individually.
“There are thirty-two rooms in this house but there’s no reason we can’t all speak freely right here,” Aunt Cynthia said.
Detective Cook shook her head. “Gracious thought, but bad procedure.”
“We’ve already given statements,” Mrs. Vincent said.
“Which have given rise to a couple of questions that I can either sort out here or we can discuss at greater length at … my house.” Detective Cook was enjoying the escalation of tension in the room. Piece of work.
“It was an accident,” Mrs. Vincent tried again. “She slipped and fell.”
“And you believe that because … ?”
Mrs. Vincent was not accustomed to people telling her when she was wrong, but she still recognized it when it happened. And didn’t like it one bit. She looked to Mr. Vincent for his reaction, but he was staring at some point past the detectives, maybe out the windows and to the pool, and didn’t notice.
The Vincents had been through enough, so I decided to be a good guest and redirect the heat for a moment. “Was Lisbet dead before she went into the water?”
It was a painful thing for most of the people in the room to hear, but Detective Cook was really ticking me off with her high-handed attitude and I wanted to cut to the chase. There didn’t seem to be much reason for jerking anyone around at this point.
Detective Cook turned slowly to look at me, giving me ample time to register her displeasure with my question and, given the narrowing of her eyes, my very existence. “Who are you again?”
“Molly’s a journalist. Molly Forrester. She investigated a murder in the city,” Richard said, offering my resume to be helpful and being anything but.
Detective Cook’s eyes narrowed so tightly that they might as well have closed. She was starting to like me just as much as I was liking her. I could tell.
“The Teddy Reynolds murder. Manhattan magazine ,” Detective Myerson said. I’d almost forgotten he was in the room.
“Yes,” I said, as neutrally as possible.
“How nice for you,” Detective Cook said, still not trying to sound sincere. She pointed at David. “I’d like to talk to you first.”
“Excuse me. You didn’t answer my question,” I persisted. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the information once I had it, but I wasn’t going to ignore the fact that she was trying to ignore me.
“Won’t know that until the autopsy,” she said, keeping her eyes on David. She gestured for him to stand up, which he seemed reluctant or unable to do.
Detective
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