FOUR
The ground-floor windows were open and night breezes blew through, airing out the place, decreasing the scent ofdeath and decay, if not totally neutralizing it. The smell had been lessened by the removal of the contaminated items and bodies.
Upstairs, my tablet under my arm, I followed the sound of voices along a six-foot-wide teal and aqua hallway, a luxurious floral carpet runner underfoot in shades of persimmon and peacock. It muffled my footsteps as I stopped outside a bedroom, standing in the shadows, watching through the cracked-open door, listening in on the conversation inside. Three women were sitting on an oversized bed—way bigger than a king bed—a woven turquoise coverlet and piles of teal and persimmon pillows bunched up around them. The walls were the same shade as the hallway and green and blue vases and fancy bowls sat on tables, a white tufted chaise lounge near a window. Opulent. Decadent.
It must take forever to dust the room.
The women were crying and talking, an older woman rocking back and forth.
“I know, Mama,” one of the younger women said. “I know. You want a private service, but nothing we can do will make that happen. We have to have a public funeral and let the fans grieve along with us.”
“We ain’t got to do nothing until we get Stella Mae’s body back,” the mother said.
“We ain’t got to do nothing until we know about Catriona and if they charge her,” the other young woman said. She had a rounded belly with an outie belly button pressing on the fabric of her shirt, looking heavily pregnant. “Gimme another pillow. I been sittin’ in that RV so long I can’t feel my feet no more.”
The older woman was Stella Mae’s mom, Tondra, and the other two looked enough like Stella to be her sisters, pointy chins, dainty noses, narrow shoulders, long legs. I checked the names on the file that was being put together from reports sent to JoJo at HQ and found the names Sophee Anne Ragel and Josette Lynn Ragel Jenkins, and photos to go with the names. Sisters. Josette was the pregnant one.
“Yeah,” Josette said, stuffing pillows behind her lower spine. “That feels good. Them car people lie when they say their seats give lumbar support. Not for a preggers they don’t.”
I might shoulda felt bad for eavesdropping, but if they wanted privacy, they should have closed the door. Being nosy was in my job description.
“Catriona’s been with Stella Mae for a solid year,” Tondra said. “You’uns know there ain’t no way Catriona is responsible. She loves my baby.”
The dialect threw me again. Intellectually, I knew that the accent I thought of as strictly church-speak was a regional accent across large parts of rural Tennessee, but it still made me feel odd to hear it on a case a hundred miles from home.
“There’s love and then there’slove, Mama,” Sophee Anne said, something odd in her tone, “and love don’t mean the same thing to Stella as it does to us. You know that.”
“Don’t you’un be talking about the departed with a lack of respect. I won’t have it, not here in her own house. Stella was a God-loving, born-again Christian, and she told me she was now adhering to the straight and narrow.”
“Stella wasn’t perfect, Mama. And when the cops and the press fin—”
“Stop right there, Josie Lynn. That girl supported us and made sure we’d never hurt for nothing. She was a good girl.” Mama Tondra burst into tears and fell on Stella’s mattress, crying into the pillows.
I backed down the hallway and made sure my feet hit the wood to the side of the carpet runner as I returned. I hated to burst in on a moment of family grief, but that was my job, so I tapped on the doorjamb, stuck my head in, and turned on the church-speak. “Hey. I’m sorry as I can be for interrupting. But if you’uns all feel up to it, I got some questions for you’uns?” Imade it a query instead of a demand so I sounded simple and uncertain. People’s emotional guard went up at demands, but they were a mite less recalcitrant with apparent uncertainty. “Special Agent Ingram of PsyLED?” I held up my ID.
Tondra sat up, waved me in, and blew her nose on a tissue, wiping her face. “Come on in. I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she said. “But this is so hard.”
“I know it must be,” I said, crossing the room. “May I sit?” I gestured at a poufy, ultrafeminine, tufted, fringed velvet chair near the bed. As I walked, I took in the entire room, from the closet that was bigger than my entire bedroom (and that looked as if it had been trashed by a robber) to the burled wood furniture, to the marble-tiled en suite bathroom visible through a partially open door.
“Why not,” Tondra said. She rewiped her face and tugged the thick coverlet over her legs and feet.
I pulled my tablet and sent a quick text to T. Laine, telling her I had come upon the family and would initiate the preliminary questioning. I moved the chair a bit and sat so I could see into the closet and the mess on the floor. A pile of clothing had been dropped and all of it was a rich shade of fuchsia pink. Hanging on the rods were clothes of many colors. But all the pink was on the floor. Odd. Unless Stella Mae wore pink on the road? Onstage? I’d need to check that out.
I wished I had the unit’s empath, Tandy, or Margot—a former FBI agent, currently PsyLED probie special agent, who had truth-sensing abilities—with me. Both of them were better at questioning people, but I had orders to get things started, and T. Laine, who was a higher pay grade than me, had told me to start up a chat if the opportunity presented itself. I looked up and sighed. “I hate this part a my job. Trying to talk to family when they’re grieving.”
“You catch the monster what did this and you can question me all you want,” Tondra said, curling upright and crossing her legs into a yoga position beneath the covers. She had to be nearly as old as my mama, but she was as limber as a child, and her hair looked expensive, as if it had been styled and colored by someone from Hollywood. She introduced her daughters and herself and said, “Shoot.”
“Thank you. Some of these questions might sound personal, but I promise I’m not asking for no reason. First, have there been any threats on Stella’s life? Any harassing e-mails or letters or texts?”
“Dozens every day,” Josette said, her fingers scratching lazy circles on her belly. “She hired a security firm last year. They handle everything: tour security, electronic threats, and making sure the property is safe. And that includes making sure the horses are safe. The house has security—cameras, lasers, that kinda thing—mostly for when Stella was out of town. The barn is wired too.”
“I’ve got a card with the firm’s contact info in my bag somewhere,” Tondra said, pulling a leather purse to her and delving inside. Papers crinkled and heavier things rattled and scraped. “It’s here somewhere. I’ve done sent word to the company that they’re to be completely open with you on everything.”
Josette started to speak and stopped. I wondered why. “What about a will? Life insurance?” I asked.
“Stella Mae’s lawyer has all the legal documents. We’re the heirs,” Stella’s mama said, “and Catriona.”
I couldn’t keep the reaction off my face. “I thought she just met Catriona.”
