“Somebody gave it to her? And she just didn’t know?” Andi whispered. Her gaze traveled back to the open doorway and the detective. “But the wrapper was near her hand.”
“Part of it. The foil would show some kind of print or mark, but it’s been wiped clean. It was just sitting beside her left hand, and it was just the piece with a bit of the warning. So where’s the rest of the wrapper?”
He was talking to himself more than to her.
“What are you saying?” Andi asked, her voice barely audible.
“I don’t know yet. The wrapper . . .”
Luke didn’t like the idea that was formulating in his brain, that someone had deliberately fed Trini the bar and then left the foil on the couch for the authorities to find, a kind of gloating, a See what I’ve done! meant to show how smart he or she was.
“Who knew she was allergic to shellfish?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Lots of people. She didn’t keep it a secret. She wanted people to know, just in case she missed something, so someone else might come to her rescue.”
“What about this boyfriend?” Luke asked.
“He’s allergic, too. She told me that.” Andi shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. “She was meeting him last night. I was supposed to finally meet him tonight. You think that’s his wallet?”
“He’s allergic to shellfish, too?”
“That’s what she said.”
“The police are going to want to talk to him. We need to, too.”
“The detective, Thompkins, already asked me about Bobby. If it’s his wallet, they know more about him than I do. He came to one of her classes and he was buttoned-down, not her type at all, and I think he wore glasses and maybe a hairpiece, but like I said, I never met him.”
“She was a Pilates instructor.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Look, I’m going to take you home, and then I’m going to try to talk with Thompkins some more. They may rule this an accident, but I want to be sure.”
“Luke ...”
He looked at her.
“My friend Trini ... her full name is Trinidad Finch.”
“Okay.” He was anxious to talk to the detective.
She didn’t say anything else but was looking at him hard. Luke ran her friend’s name through his mind and felt a zing of surprise, followed by the chill of realization. “Her last name is a bird, too.”
“Do you think ... I mean, am I crazy to think there’s a connection? That last note ...”
“But she’s not involved with Wren Development.” He heard himself and added, “If that’s what this is about.”
“‘It’s too bad when little birds have to die,’” Andi quoted, her voice shaking.
“Let’s go back to your place. I’ll talk to him after they’ve cleared the scene.”
“All right.”
*
September stretched her arms over her head. She was tired of paperwork and tired of the runaround on Aurora Lane. It was Saturday and she wasn’t supposed to be working, but Jake was busy with a rich client who’d sprung for a working weekend at a hotel and spa in Oregon’s wine country, not far from his own family’s vineyard, and though September had been invited to join them, she’d met the wealthy client before and had deemed him an obnoxious waste of space, so she’d declined. “Traitor,” Jake had told her, and she’d kissed him and told him to have a good time, if he could.
She’d then started the day curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee watching television shows mindless enough to make her realize she couldn’t remember when the morning news program turned into an Infomercial. She was inside her own head, thinking about Jake and his weekend, their engagement, but even those thoughts were eclipsed by the one really occupying her mind: the bones found in the Singletons’ basement.
So she’d gotten dressed and headed to the station. She wouldn’t be able to clock the overtime and she didn’t much care. George and Wes were working on call today and September and Gretchen were on for Sunday. If the detectives weren’t needed, they would stay home. If they were, that’s when the overtime kicked in. As a rule, most of Laurelton’s crimes could be handled by police officers. The cases that required detectives weren’t plentiful, which was why the department cutbacks were a worry. September had been lucky to be involved in several big cases over the last year and a half, and she and her fellow detectives had certainly had their share of work-related injuries that sidelined them for a while—the memory of a man stabbing at her caused her to inadvertently rub the scar near her shoulder—so the work level had been consistent. But now they were in a lull that, although great for the public good, wasn’t so great for her career.