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“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What were you doing on Elaine’s yacht? Is she all right?” But even as she asked, she knew. Her eyes widened with alarm. “Has there been an accident?”
Locke extended his hand, but came short of actually touching her. “Mrs. Ford, the body of a woman was discovered on the beach tonight, washed ashore. We believe it’s Elaine Conner.”
Talia gaped at them with disbelief, then covered her mouth and backed into one of the straight chairs flanking the console table. She bumped against the leg of it, rocking a crystal vase so hard it would have fallen off if Menundez hadn’t reacted quickly enough to stabilize it.
Locke was still talking. Talia had to focus on each word in order to comprehend what he was saying. “…ask if you knew how to contact Mrs. Conner’s next of kin.”
Talia wanted to wake up from this awful dream before it became any worse, but try as she might to force herself awake, the scene remained real, palpable, harsh. Her feet were freezing. Her ears were buzzing. Two heralds of dreadful news were looking down on her, awaiting a response.
“She…” She stopped, drew in two quick breaths, and tried again. “Elaine doesn’t have any living relatives. No next of kin.”
“Then we may need to impose on you.”
“Impose on me?”
“To take a look at a sketch and verify that it’s her.”
Talia stared up at them, but was too benumbed to speak. This could not be happening.
Locke said, “The coroner will make a positive ID, but it would be helpful if you could identify her from a sketch. We should be receiving it shortly.” He motioned to the iPad his partner held at his side.
Shakily, Talia stood up. “I’m going to get my shoes.”
“I’ll get them for you,” Locke said. She got the impression it wasn’t an offer out of kindness.
“I left them in my study. The room behind the stairs. My phone is on the end table. Please bring that, too.”
He left her with Menundez, who was younger, stockier, and more all-business. He wasn’t merely looking at her. He was scrutinizing her. To break the strained silence she asked him if it was still raining.
“Off and on,” he said.
Locke returned with her requested phone. Awkwardly he passed her one shoe at a time. She put them on, then, feeling only slightly steadier, stood.
“Better?” Locke asked.
“I’m fine.”
She knew she should probably ask if they would like to move into the living room and sit while they waited for the expected email, but inviting them to do so would make this visit seem even more official, and she was resistant to doing that.
Speaking in a low voice one would use to calm an anxious animal, Locke told her the time the 911 call had come in and the approximate location of where the body had washed ashore.
“Where the pier is?” she said. “That’s near the marina where Elaine’s yacht is moored.”
“It left the marina a little after seven this evening.”
“She took it out alone?”
“Would that be unusual?”
“Yes. She was adept at piloting it, but conscientious and careful. It wouldn’t be like her to take it out on a night like tonight, especially by herself. Maybe she loaned it to someone. Or it could have been stolen.”
“Mrs. Conner was onboard. Investigators have talked to several people who corroborate having seen her on deck.”
“Investigators?” She looked at Menundez, whose expression remained disturbingly impassive, then came back to Locke. “Do you think the woman found on the beach was the victim of a crime?”
“We don’t know yet. Several agencies are looking into it. Isle of Palms PD called us in to assist. A Coast Guard patrol discovered the dinghy.”
“Dinghy?”
