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“But she was alone?”
“Yes. I was right outside the door. No one went in or out.”
“The windows?”
Barbara’s gaze met mine. “She’s an Alzheimer’s patient, Grace. There were no windows.”
Chapter 20
“Why are you questioning me about my mother’s death?” Barbara asked. “It was pretty cut-and-dried.”
Except for the scream, the choking, the mask of fear upon dying, and the lack of a heart, but I decided to keep that to myself. However, one thing I couldn’t keep to myself, no matter how much I might want to, was the autopsy I’d ordered.
“There’ve been more than the usual number of deaths in town over the past few days. Doc Bill has been asked by the CDC—” At her blank stare I elaborated. “The Centers for Disease Control want him to do some tests.”
“Why?”
“Hard to say. But I authorized an autopsy on your mom as well as the others.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t ask me.”
“It had to be done right away.”
“Is there some kind of epidemic?” Her hand fluttered up to rest, trembling, at the base of her throat.
How had I known that would be the first question? Maybe I was psychic.
“Doc assures me nothing’s contagious. The tests are just a precaution.” I spread my arms, trying for the good-old-boy grin my father had used so well. “You know how those folks from Atlanta are.”
To the citizens of Lake Bluff, Atlanta was a strange and foreign land, a place of crime and dirt, one that dazzled the youth of our town into absconding down the mountain, then spit them back out when they were ruined.
Claire had come home from Atlanta a ghost of her former self. If it weren’t for Mal, I wasn’t sure she’d have been able to get over what had happened to her there.
Playing the Atlanta card usually worked to bring people into an “us against them” partnership. I just wasn’t sure how many times I’d be able to get away with using it today.
“Did Doc find anything?” she asked.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that. It’s an ongoing investigation.” I stood. “Until we’ve come to some kind of conclusion, I won’t be able to give you any answers.”
“As soon as you know—”
“Of course.” I headed for the door. “One more question—was there anything different about your mother recently?”
“Besides her thinking I meant to kill her every time I walked in the room? Or the charming way she started to keep her shoes in the refrigerator and the milk under her bed?”
“Sorry,” I said. “We’re just looking for a pattern.”
“To what?” Barbara threw up her hands.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Can’t tell me. Never mind.” She patted her hair. “I need to go.”
/> “Thanks for your time.”
Barbara shut the door behind me a little harder than necessary, and I headed for the residence of the next name on the obituary list.
The interviews were all eerily similar. Walking down Center Street after the last one, I was cataloging those similarities in my trusty notebook when I bumped into someone.
