Michele Droba was the person organizing the tennis extravaganza, and the woman who’d been found dead was her sister-in-law Isobel Droba. Michele’s boyfriend Christopher Bonarowski was a publisher of some renown but not famous enough to register on my personal radar. Then there were Marge and Tex, of course. And also Vena Aleman—a person with whom Dooley and I were intimately familiar, to our eternal regret, since she’s a veterinarian. In spite of adhering to some of the strictures of the Nazi Party, Vena had managed to ensnare a husband, a man named Glenn for some reason.
Also present in the house at this time were a Perlita and Nathan Gruner, who were something important in the art world according to the police officer. And Ona Konpacka and boyfriend.
“Ona Konpacka!” Dooley cried excitedly. “But we know Ona, don’t we, Max!”
“We most certainly do,” I said, well pleased by this surprise.
We’d met Ona on a previous case, where she was a suspect. She was a former supermodel, whose exceedingly good looks had been marred to some extent by a hack plastic surgeon, and I wondered how she’d fared since our last meeting.
We had arrived upstairs and were led into the room where the unfortunate victim had been found that morning. Isobel Droba was lying on the floor, partially obscured by the large bulk of the county medical examiner Abe Cornwall. The frizzy-haired medical professional was frowning as he studied the body, his electric hair standing on end as if he’d just stuck his fingers in a wall socket.
“So what’s the verdict, Abe?” asked Chase as he donned plastic gloves and booties.
“She’s dead,” said Abe curtly.
“I thought as much. What made her so?”
“Blow to the back of the head, most likely.”
“Most likely?” asked Chase, directing a glance to the window, which was broken.
“She’s also been stabbed, so it’s a toss-up. Could be the blunt-force trauma that killed her, or the stab wounds. I’ll know more once I get her on my slab.”
“Stabbed with a knife, was she?”
“I’m not sure,” said the coroner, looking distinctly unhappy. It was hard to say whether this was because of the early hour, or because the killer was making things difficult for him. “Some sharp object, at any rate.” He got up with a groan. “And before you ask, she was killed sometime during the night. I’d say between seven and five hours ago.”
Chase checked his phone.“That would put time of death between one and three.”
Abe didn’t deign him with a reply. “Did you know your mom and dad are here?” He was directing his question at Odelia, his face screwed up in curiosity.
“Yeah, I know,” said Odelia as she studied the body. “Tennis retreat,” she explained. “They have one of these every year. Same circle of friends.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” said Abe vaguely.
“Could be a breakin,” said Chase, pointing to the broken window.
“We better check if anything was stolen,” said Odelia. “Who found the body?”
The officer who’d been the first to arrive on the scene consulted his notebook. “A Mrs. Perlita Gruner. She and her husband Nathan are in the next room.”
Odelia nodded her appreciation.“Anything missing?”
“I’m not sure,” said the officer. “There’s no phone, no laptop, no wallet as far as I can tell. But whether they’ve gone missing…”
The inference was obvious: Odelia would have to find out herself if she wanted to know the answer to this question.
“Oh, and your mom wants to talk to you,” said the officer. “She was in the next room—the one over there,” he explained, looking a little sheepish. It isn’t often that relatives of the detecting duo were in the house where a murder took place.
“Looks like Marge and Tex are suspects,” I told Dooley as I glanced around the room.
“Suspects!” Dooley cried. “But why?! They’re not murderers!”
“You never know, Dooley,” I said. “Anyone can be a murderer.”
“But not Marge or Tex!”
I traipsed around the room, feeling the eyes of Abe’s team of crime scene technicians poking holes in my back. Nobody likes people trampling all over their crime scene, and pets even less—shedding hair where no hair should be. But I wanted to get a good overview of the scene. The poor woman had been killed in what looked like a pretty frenzied attack, and already I could tell that this murder business spelled trouble with a capital T for Odelia’s parents.
“There’s a drainpipe,” said the officer helpfully, pointing to the window. “So the killer could easily have climbed it and gained entrance that way.”
Odelia and Chase checked the veracity of this statement, and finally Chase nodded his agreement.“Must be the way they came in,” he agreed, then turned on his heel. “I’ll go and check for footprints.”
“And don’t forget about cigarette butts!” Dooley cried at the detective’s retreating back. He turned to me. “Footprints and cigarette butts. Very important clues.”
“Even more important is the murder weapon,” I said. “Or murder weapons, plural.”
“They haven’t been found?”
“No, Dooley, they have not.”
CHAPTER 12
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