The Undertaker's Widow by Phillip Margolin Page A

campaigning in eastern Oregon. I don’t expect her back until Monday. Is there something I can do for you?”
    â€œYeah. It’s actually better if we don’t have to bother the senator. This is Gary Yoshida from our crime lab. We want to take another look at the bedroom.”
    â€œI’m not sure I can let you do that. Ms. Crease left me strict orders that no one but the cleaning people were to be allowed in the bedroom.”
    â€œHas the bedroom been cleaned up already?” Anthony asked, trying hard to hide his concern.
    â€œNo, sir. A crew is coming tomorrow morning.”
    â€œSenator Crease probably wanted to keep reporters out of the house. She wouldn’t want to interfere with our investigation.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re right, but I can’t let you in the room without talking to her.”
    â€œWhy don’t you phone?”
    â€œI can try. I have the number of her hotel in Pendleton. Do you want to wait in the living room?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œCan I get you something to drink? Some coffee or tea?”
    Anthony glanced at Yoshida. The forensic expert shook his head.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Anthony told the houseman.
    Anthony knew where the living room was from his official visit to the estate on the evening of the murder, but he let Allen direct him to it. The vast room was dominated by a massive stone fireplace. A Persian carpet, similar to the carpet in the entry hall, lay over the hardwood floor. Yoshida tried to be nonchalant, but as soon as Allen was gone, he said, “This room is almost as big as my house. We’re in the wrong business, Lou.”
    â€œI don’t know, Gary. The owner’s dead and we’re still ticking.”
    Anthony and Yoshida settled themselves on one of the large sofas that flanked the fireplace, and waited for the houseman to return. A fire had not been laid in the grate and the room was chilly. Anthony was beginning to regret turning down the offer of coffee when Allen reentered the room. The policemen stood up and met him halfway.
    â€œI’m sorry. Ms. Crease has already left the hotel and I have no idea when I’ll be able to talk to her.”
    â€œThanks for trying, but we really do have to see the room.”
    â€œI thought the investigation was complete.”
    â€œFor the most part, but we have a few loose ends to tie up.”
    â€œI don’t want to impede your investigation, but without Ms. Crease’s permission …,” Allen said hesitantly.
    Anthony tired of diplomacy. He was all for civility, but he was used to getting his way, like most policemen.
    â€œLook,” Anthony said sharply, “this is an official police investigation into the death of your employer and Senator Crease’s husband. You’re telling me the bedroom is going to be cleaned tomorrow. By the time you talk to Senator Crease any evidence in that room will be destroyed.We need to get into the bedroom and we need to do it now.”
    â€œAll right,” Allen said reluctantly. “You can go up. The room is locked. I’ll get the key for you.”
    â€œThanks. We won’t be long.”
    Anthony knew the way to the bedroom and he did not want the houseman tagging along, so Anthony told Allen that there was no need for him to accompany them. He sensed that Allen was relieved that he would not have to reenter the bedroom.
    As soon as Yoshida opened the door, Anthony started to envy Allen. The room had been sealed and the windows were closed. The stench of death still hung in the stale air.
    Anthony took a step into the bedroom, but Yoshida held out his arm to block him. Anthony stepped back into the corridor as Yoshida switched on the lights. The forensic expert stood in the doorway and slowly surveyed the room. He was carrying the Hoyt file in an attaché case. When he had seen what he wanted to see from the doorway, Yoshida walked over to the bed and set down the attaché