Delia, rising to depart.
“Indiscreet! What a good word! I will remember it. Now I will be indiscreet on a different subject, Sergeant. Your clothes are very bad. Very, very bad.”
Her best poker face didn’t betray her; Delia looked curious. “Are you qualified to judge?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I was model in New York City. TV commercials. My face was on some billboards. My legs too. Davina Savovich, but as model I was just Davina. About you, Sergeant. You need to lose at least thirty pounds,” the high, remorseless voice went on, “and seek the right exercises to get a waistline at least. Wear slacks to hide your legs, they are beyond all hope. When you lose the weight, come back to me, and I will dress you.”
By this, the tiger bonnet was on and its ribbons tied beneath Delia’s chin; Uda was holding the door open, her black curranteyes lit with derision. Delia stepped out on to the mat and turned with a brilliant smile.
“It is a miracle to me, Mrs. Tunbull, that nobody has ever murdered you ,” she said, and stomped off to her car.
“Impudent bitch!” she yelled to the freezing air as she wrenched open the Ford’s door. In the driver’s seat, she turned the rear-vision mirror down to regard her face in its framing bonnet; her fury died. “What rubbish!” she said as the car moved. “My dress sense is impeccable. Aunt Gloria Silvestri says so, and look at her! The best-dressed woman in Connecticut, according to the Hartford Courant . That skinny bitch is a fashion ignoramus.”
However, she was still tending to stomp when, on the off-chance, she called in to the morgue on her way to her office. Luck at last! There at a desk, carefully writing up notes, was Dr. Gustavus Fennell, Deputy Coroner. He was as anonymous as many in the business of handling the dead tended to be: neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, fair nor dark. Mr. Average And Totally Forgettable.
“Gus, did you post John Hall?” she asked.
Down went the pen; he considered the question. “Yes.”
“Did the body bear any bruises, bites or scratches? The sort of marks a man might have if he tried an unsuccessful rape?”
“No, definitely not.”
“Could bruises develop post mortem? Is he still here?”
“In the big room. We can look,” said Dr. Fennell, getting up. “It would be unusual for post mortem bruises to developon a clear, unblemished skin at autopsy,” he said, ambling to the wall that held the cold room door.
“Business is brisk,” said Delia, gazing at several occupied gurneys.
“Two additionals from unexpected murders make a difference. Were it not for Mr. Hall and Dr. Tinkerman, it would have been an average weekend intake. There was a shoot-out in Argyle Avenue, but the rest are just routine investigations requested by puzzled G.P.s.” He peeled away John Hall’s sheet.
Gloved, they examined the body together, front and back, from head to toes and in between.
“Not a sausage,” said Delia, stripping the rubber off her hands. “I had a funny feeling that would prove to be the case. His stepmother is accusing him of trying to rape her last Friday.”
“Shades of Phaedra and Hippolytus,” Gus said with a chuckle.
“You know your Greek mythology, sir.”
“Yes, but it’s an extremely rare woman willing to back up her accusation by killing herself, which is what Phaedra did. Perhaps your Phaedra killed this Hippolytus?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past her. Thank you, Gus dear.”
“So,” she said, reporting to Abe in his office, “I can assure you that if Mrs. Davina Tunbull tells you John Hall tried to rape her, she’s lying. I’ve had Gus Fennell add a post scriptum to the autopsy report stating specifically that the body bears no marks of teeth, nails, fists or feet. What an extraordinary case this is!People lying so blatantly you wonder about their mental competence. It’s been like that from the start, Abe. Were I Millie, I think I would have shrugged and not bothered to
“Indiscreet! What a good word! I will remember it. Now I will be indiscreet on a different subject, Sergeant. Your clothes are very bad. Very, very bad.”
Her best poker face didn’t betray her; Delia looked curious. “Are you qualified to judge?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I was model in New York City. TV commercials. My face was on some billboards. My legs too. Davina Savovich, but as model I was just Davina. About you, Sergeant. You need to lose at least thirty pounds,” the high, remorseless voice went on, “and seek the right exercises to get a waistline at least. Wear slacks to hide your legs, they are beyond all hope. When you lose the weight, come back to me, and I will dress you.”
By this, the tiger bonnet was on and its ribbons tied beneath Delia’s chin; Uda was holding the door open, her black curranteyes lit with derision. Delia stepped out on to the mat and turned with a brilliant smile.
“It is a miracle to me, Mrs. Tunbull, that nobody has ever murdered you ,” she said, and stomped off to her car.
“Impudent bitch!” she yelled to the freezing air as she wrenched open the Ford’s door. In the driver’s seat, she turned the rear-vision mirror down to regard her face in its framing bonnet; her fury died. “What rubbish!” she said as the car moved. “My dress sense is impeccable. Aunt Gloria Silvestri says so, and look at her! The best-dressed woman in Connecticut, according to the Hartford Courant . That skinny bitch is a fashion ignoramus.”
However, she was still tending to stomp when, on the off-chance, she called in to the morgue on her way to her office. Luck at last! There at a desk, carefully writing up notes, was Dr. Gustavus Fennell, Deputy Coroner. He was as anonymous as many in the business of handling the dead tended to be: neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, fair nor dark. Mr. Average And Totally Forgettable.
“Gus, did you post John Hall?” she asked.
Down went the pen; he considered the question. “Yes.”
“Did the body bear any bruises, bites or scratches? The sort of marks a man might have if he tried an unsuccessful rape?”
“No, definitely not.”
“Could bruises develop post mortem? Is he still here?”
“In the big room. We can look,” said Dr. Fennell, getting up. “It would be unusual for post mortem bruises to developon a clear, unblemished skin at autopsy,” he said, ambling to the wall that held the cold room door.
“Business is brisk,” said Delia, gazing at several occupied gurneys.
“Two additionals from unexpected murders make a difference. Were it not for Mr. Hall and Dr. Tinkerman, it would have been an average weekend intake. There was a shoot-out in Argyle Avenue, but the rest are just routine investigations requested by puzzled G.P.s.” He peeled away John Hall’s sheet.
Gloved, they examined the body together, front and back, from head to toes and in between.
“Not a sausage,” said Delia, stripping the rubber off her hands. “I had a funny feeling that would prove to be the case. His stepmother is accusing him of trying to rape her last Friday.”
“Shades of Phaedra and Hippolytus,” Gus said with a chuckle.
“You know your Greek mythology, sir.”
“Yes, but it’s an extremely rare woman willing to back up her accusation by killing herself, which is what Phaedra did. Perhaps your Phaedra killed this Hippolytus?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past her. Thank you, Gus dear.”
“So,” she said, reporting to Abe in his office, “I can assure you that if Mrs. Davina Tunbull tells you John Hall tried to rape her, she’s lying. I’ve had Gus Fennell add a post scriptum to the autopsy report stating specifically that the body bears no marks of teeth, nails, fists or feet. What an extraordinary case this is!People lying so blatantly you wonder about their mental competence. It’s been like that from the start, Abe. Were I Millie, I think I would have shrugged and not bothered to
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