Collateral Damage by Michael Bowen Page A

minutes or so. We’d appreciate it if you could wait to review it and sign it before you leave.”
    Marjorie left the two detectives at the far end of the living room and strode toward the dining room, less in search of lobster paste on crustless bread than to stretch her legs. And to think.
    She didn’t know why it was important that the smoke had changed color, but that should be easy enough to find out. Criminalistics and Scientific Crime Investigation by Cunliffe and Piazza was buried somewhere in deep stock at Cavalier Books, and if that didn’t have the answer, Carrie could find a tome somewhere in Georgetown University’s libraries that would.
    From the look of it, the Baggie had been found outside in the snow, which might be interesting or might just mean that a band member had dumped evidence of contraband pharmaceuticals once it was clear the cops were coming.
    What was most interesting, though, was that three detectives and a scene-of-crime team had hustled out to Calvert Manor less than an hour after a patrolman learned that Preston Demarest had died in a room with a smoky fireplace. Marjorie wasn’t sure how this type of thing played out in country houses in Sussex or elsewhere in the land of English detectives. In suburban Maryland, however, the implication was clear: This wasn’t an arson investigation; it was a murder investigation.
    She ate a minislice of smoked ham on an egg roll for form’s sake. Then she ate another one because she was hungry after the first. She was actually eyeing tiny triangles of spinach quiche when she realized that she was unconsciously avoiding a painful visit to Catherine in the den. The upstairs had still been off-limits when everyone went back into the house, and Cindy had led Catherine into the den to rest while the sedatives worked.
    Collecting three sandwiches on a napkin, Marjorie quietly entered the darkened room. Catherine lay on the couch where Marjorie had sat during the conference call. Her shoes were on the floor. A pale blue comforter covered her from foot to chin. Beneath a damp, folded facecloth on her forehead, her wide open eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. On the telephone table at the head of the couch, a dove-gray teacup on a matching saucer sat next to a teapot under an embroidered cozy.
    Catherine didn’t react at all to Marjorie’s entrance. Marjorie went over to the couch and crouched beside the younger woman.
    â€œYou look like you’re being very well taken care of.”
    â€œCindy,” Catherine said, as if the two syllables required enormous effort.
    â€œWould you like to eat anything?”
    Catherine answered with a minute shake of her head.
    â€œIt’s a shame to let this tea go to waste,” Marjorie said. Putting the sandwiches down, she picked up the saucer. “It’s still nice and hot. Cindy must have freshened it up just a couple of minutes ago. Why don’t you try some?”
    Marjorie moved the cup close enough to Catherine for the fragrance of orange pekoe to waft toward her nose. The barest flicker of animation flashed in her eyes. She propped herself laboriously up on one elbow and sipped as Marjorie lifted the cup to her lips. The sip turned into several enthusiastic swallows before Catherine lay back contentedly.
    â€œThat was heaven,” she whispered in something much closer to a normal voice. “Thank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a sandwich?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Catherine said. “I’m afraid I’m about to drift off to sleep again.”
    â€œThat sounds like an excellent idea.”
    Marjorie put the cup and saucer back on the telephone table, replaced the compress on Catherine’s forehead, and tucked the comforter back around her shoulders. By the time Marjorie had gotten to her feet, Catherine’s eyes were closed and her breathing had turned rhythmic and peaceful.
    She knows,