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D.D. caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. The girl—Bonita—finally shifting her hand to reveal one finger. Which meant yes. As in yes, the cook had heard something and was lying? Or as in yes, Bonita hadn’t heard anything either?
For this system to work, D.D. realized, she had to do a better job with the questions.
“Did you notice a change in Mrs. Counsel’s behavior over the past few weeks?” she addressed the cook.
“No,” the woman said.
Yes, Bonita signed.
“Were you awake last night?”
“Nope,” the cook declared.
Yes, Bonita signed.
“What time did you go to bed?” D.D. zeroed in on the woman.
“Nine P.M. I have early mornings, prepping breakfast for the guests.”
Bonita hesitated. Maybe she didn’t know what time the cook went to bed.
“What time did you get up?” D.D. continued smoothly.
“When I heard the sirens. Four A.M.? Something like that?”
“And when did you hear the disturbance before that?”
“Two A.M.—” The cook caught herself. Too late she saw D.D.’s trap. “I’m a light sleeper,” the woman corrected quickly. “Maybe something woke me around two. But I didn’t hear nothin’ more. I peed, went back to bed.”
“You sound like you were close to Mrs. Counsel. That you cared about her.”
“She and her husband are good people. Ask anyone.”
Nothing from Bonita.
“Did you suspect she was a suicide risk?” D.D. asked.
“Never.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“’Round eight. She came to the kitchen to discuss the morning menu.”
“Did she seem off?”
“No.”
“Preoccupied?”
“No.”
“What’s for breakfast?” Kimberly spoke up from behind.
The cook growled, clearly tiring of this game.
“Biscuits with sausage gravy. The mayor’s favorite.”
“Who made that decision?”
