The Colton Ransom by Marie Ferrarella Page B

got to go see her,” Mathilda told the person, a maid, closest to her.
    “Can’t let you go up there just yet, Ma—Ms. Perkins,” the chief said, quickly correcting his slip of the tongue. He moved in front of the woman to block her path up the stairs. “The medical examiner hasn’t gotten here yet, and he needs to make his preliminary findings first.”
    “After he does, then can I see her?” Mathilda asked.
    The chief shook his head, looking just the slightest bit uncomfortable about refusing the woman’s request. “He’s got to take the body back to the morgue and do an autopsy on her first.”
    “What autopsy?” Mathilda cried in disbelief. “Why is he going to be cutting her up like she was some giant jigsaw puzzle? Don’t you already know how she was murdered?”
    Her question took the chief aback for a moment. “Well, it looks like she was shot, but we won’t know for sure until—”
    Mathilda waved his words away impatiently. “Shot, stabbed, strangled, bludgeoned, what does it matter? Any way you look at it, Faye’s still dead.” She tried to duck under his arm to gain access to the stairs.
    Drucker was quick to block her path to the stairs for a second time. She had better moves than the two who were part of his department’s team, the chief thought.
    It looked to Trevor as if a power struggle was going on that seemed to go beyond the obvious. The chief, who had authority on his side, seemed to be hesitant about establishing that point with the distraught housekeeper. Mathilda did have an intimidating quality about her when she dealt with the staff, but Drucker, after all, was the chief of police. That was supposed to trump any sort of minor dictatorial power the housekeeper could exert.
    “It might make a difference in finding her killer,” Trevor pointed out. “And the person or persons who took Avery.”
    Mathilda hardly seemed to hear him. Her attention was on the man blocking her way up the stairs. She appeared entirely focused on her one goal: to get to see Faye one last time. She made it seem as if she needed closure.
    “Faye was my best friend,” she cried. “I need to say goodbye.”
    Drucker was somewhat frustrated, like a man at the end of his options who didn’t know which way to turn to minimize the coming confrontation.
    “You can say goodbye after the autopsy. I’ll escort you to the morgue personally,” Drucker promised.
    She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something terse about his offer just before she rejected it, but instead, Mathilda surprised everyone—including, apparently, the chief, by saying, “You’re right, of course. I didn’t mean to challenge you, Chief. This whole thing has just thrown me completely for a loop.”
    Rather than take her apology in stride, the chief actually seemed relieved to Gabby as she looked on from the sidelines.
    “That’s understandable,” he agreed. Moving back to the center of the room, he announced in a loud voice, “I know you all have other places to be and other things to be doing, but if you can all just be a little patient, this’ll be over before you know it.”
    “Too late,” Trip quipped, a sneer all but consuming his thin, bony features. His complexion appeared that much pastier because of his dyed hair, which for all the world looked as if he’d used black shoe polish to achieve the color.
    His sister, Tawny, perched on the arm of one of the sofas in the living room, snickered.
    Gabby, whose nerves felt dangerously close to snapping, glared at the duo. “I’m glad you all find Faye’s murder such a chuckle.”
    A born protector, Amanda put one arm comfortingly around her younger sister’s shoulders. The show of unity was clear. They might approach things differently, but at the bottom they were sisters—that meant being there for each other should the incident indicate the need.
    “Hang in there, honey,” Amanda told her, her words loud enough for the two under discussion to hear.