And as she walked in, immediately she halted. For a moment, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. For there, spread out across the carpet, Isobel Droba was lying in a pool of blood. Her chest was covered in blood, too, and so was her head. Her eyes were open and vacantly staring into space.
Tex knelt down next to the woman and felt for a pulse. But it was obvious that she was dead. His curt shake of the head confirmed this.
“Best if we don’t touch anything,” said Marge. She glanced around, her eyes immediately drawn to the window for some reason. Glass was on the floor, the window broken and open, a cold draft lowering the temperature in the room.
“We better call your brother,” said Tex as they retreated to the door.
Marge closed the door, careful to use the sleeve of her pajamas as she did. To the crowd that had gathered outside, she said,“I’m afraid something happened to Isobel and it’s important we don’t enter the room or disturb the scene.”
“Scene? You mean crime scene?” asked Max Stinger. The plastic surgeon was amongst the only ones dressed already, the others all donning dressing gowns.
“I’m afraid so,” said Marge.
Michele was staring at her, wide-eyed.“You mean Isobel is…”
“Dead,” Tex confirmed.
“Oh, my God!” Ona cried, hugging herself. “This isn’t happening!”
“Let’s all try to stay calm,” Marge suggested. “And until the police arrive, no one leaves the house. They’ll want to talk to all of us.”
“How did she die?” asked Max Stinger, a look of concern on his face. He was directing his question to Tex, one medical professional to another.
“I’m not sure, actually,” said Tex, bringing a hand to his white mane.
“There’s a lot of blood,” said Perlita in a quaky voice. Her hands were shaking, Marge saw, and her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. “There’s blood everywhere!”
A murmur of surprise raced through the small group.“You mean she was—she was killed?!” Ona cried, her voice rising a full octave.
Perlita nodded.“So much blood,” she repeated tremulously.
“That means the killer could still be in the house!” said Ona.
“There’s a broken window,” Marge said. “Maybe… a burglar?”
“I’m not staying in a house with a killer!” Ona said, starting to remove herself from the group. “I’m leaving! And I would advise all of you to do the same!”
“You’re not going anywhere!” a clear voice rang out. They all looked up. It was the voice of Vena Aleman, and it brooked no contest. “We’re all staying right here until the police decide otherwise. And that means you, too, Ona.”
“But…”
“No buts. A murder has been committed, and the police are going to want to question each and every one of us. So we’re all staying put. Is that understood?”
Nods of acquiescence all around. When the veterinarian spoke, everyone listened, whether they be pets or pet parents or in fact anyone. Vena had that presence and that authority. In another life she could have been a cop, Marge thought, as she gave Vena a grateful nod, which the vet returned in kind. A stampede for the exit was the last thing they wanted.
And so she picked up her phone, and called her brother.
CHAPTER 11
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I was asleep at the foot of the bed when the sound of insistent ringing brought me out of my peaceful slumber.“The doorbell, Max,” said Dooley sleepily.
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. It’s hardly a big secret that cats are not in the capacity to open doors. We rely on our humans for such menial tasks. In this instance, however, both humans were conked out on the bed, after they’d gone to bed at a late hour, owing to some TV show they’d insisted on binge-watching. I could have told them this was a bad idea, but apparently the show was so good they didn’t care whether such a late-night session would leave them tired and grumpy the next morning. Instant gratification, I think this is often called.
The fact that Grace had become a more regular sleeper lately, and didn’t wake us all up at all hours of the night, might have had something to do with this. The little girl now went to bed at an early hour, and mostly slept through the night. And so her folks had started taking advantage of the fact by staying up late.
“Nothing that a good cup of coffee won’t fix,” Odelia had told me when I’d made careful murmurings about persisting with this reckless folly.
I don’t mind watching television, of course, but this habit of watching hours and hours of the same show frankly strikes me as a complete waste of valuable time. There are so many other things one can do. Such as there are: birdwatching—one of my favorite pastimes and something I like to devote great chunks of my own time to—or listening to the sounds of a minor critter trying to dig a hole through the outer wall of our home. Or even watching a spider crawl up the living room wall—sometimes they need several attempts to get all the way up there.
“Is that your phone?” Chase finally murmured.
“No, I think it’s yours,” Odelia returned halfheartedly.
For a moment all was quiet, then the ringing started up again.