Presley looked from me to the sheriff as she stuffed the tissue back into a pocket, as if she was confused by exactly what part of all of this we didn’t understand. A moment later, she covered the distance, took both of my hands in her own, and gazed into my eyes, trying to communicate some deep-seated fear. What she was telling us was not mere superstition to her. No, this was real, applicable in the day-to-day. Like how some Southerners paint porch ceilings “haint blue”to keep the ghosts away or cover mirrors during a wake to keep the spirits from getting trapped. Such cultural practices were silly to me, a person more drawn to science and strategic intervention, but I couldn’t deny that they were very real to some people.
As I stared into Presley’s unblinking eyes, I could almost feel the fear radiating from her. I tried to calm her with logic. “You said that your family is Catholic, right? I was raised as a part-time Baptist, but from what I understand, they don’t exactly believe in magic.”
“It’s not magic. It’s spiritualism,” Presley countered, as if I should be able to easily parse out the difference. “And my family in Sardinia certainly believes. They call it themalocchio, the evil eye. Perhaps you would call our beliefs a combination of folklore and Catholicism, but to them, to me, it is very real.”
Charlie and I glanced at one another. He was certainly doing a better job at keeping his face unreadable.
“Mybisnonnagave Brett themalocchiothe few weeks we were in Italy. He’d been suffering from headaches and stomach pains ever since.”
“Was he taking any kind of medication for the symptoms?” I asked, knowing the coroner would be able to tell us but that wouldn’t be until tomorrow at the earliest.
“No,” she hesitated, her eyes flickering. “But he had actually taken up a new diet regimen.”
“Supplements?” Maybe that would explain his death. I thought of a sweet cocker spaniel I’d treated whose owner had unsuspectingly overdosed the dog on iron supplements. Thankfully, the pup had recovered, but it had been a long road back. Perhaps I could convince Presley that there was no curse.
I was about to start in about the dangers of unregulated supplements when Presley shook her head. “Twenty-hour fasting. He would eat from ten o’clock in the morning until two in the afternoon, and then nothing again until the next morning.”
Hmm… okay. Back to possible murder, then.I thought of the drink he’d held in his hand. That had not been water inside the glass.
“Did he drink while fasting?” I asked. “What about alcohol?”
She titled her head. “He couldn’t give up liquor. He would decide to lay off for a day or two, but most evenings he had a drink… or two or three.”
“What was he drinking this evening?” I asked.
“And how much?” Charlie followed up.
“He had three beers at the game, and when we arrived, he ordered a cocktail from the bar and then drank most of my glass of wine. I’d just brought him a cup of bourbon before he…” Softcrying began again, and she looked at both of us as if imploring us not to judge Brett—or her—too harshly.
His stomach pains and headaches sounded much more like the effects of alcohol, a lack of food, or even a medical condition, not a supernatural curse, but I didn’t think now—with her dead almost-fiancé lying before us—was the time to argue.
Charlie stepped forward. “Ms. Lombardi, we understand, and we appreciate, your input.” He ushered Presley away from the body and closer to the stage curtains that would lead her back into the ballroom. “You should sit tight while we make a few notes, and I’ll find you soon if I need to ask further questions.”
Presley’s eyes traveled to the gurney one last time before she bowed her head and stepped through to the other side of the red velvet.
Charlie came back to my side and gestured for the medics to enter and finish loading up the body.
“So,” I started. “Should we fly in her great-grandmother for questioning?”
Charlie ignored my quip.
“Sorry,” I quickly corrected. When a situation was harrowing, the things jumping around in my head became more erratic, but that was part of how I processed things. “You handled that well.”
“Thanks.” Charlie gave me a curt nod. “Even that kind of testimony can actually help an investigation. It gives us context, if not of the victim then of the people closest to them.”
That was a reasonable explanation, I supposed, but his tone was so frozen that I couldn’t help but wonder if, besides my stupid joke, I’d done something really wrong in the past half hour.
Charlie stared at the floor and began to pace. “On first appearances, it looks pretty straightforward, like the victim choked on something. But he was presumably fasting. He wasgrabbing at his throat, and there was a trickle of blood in his mouth caused by…” His words trailed, uncertain.
“He could’ve bitten his tongue before I started compressions,” I suggested before reconsidering. “But surely I would’ve noticed. I mean…” I cringed. “At one point my hands were in his mouth.”
Charlie nodded as he processed this. “Maybe the blood is evidence of internal bleeding?”
“But what could’ve caused that?”
“No idea.” Charlie sighed. “But it sounds like we need to single out those who were either in contact with his drinks or anywhere in his vicinity when the victim became distressed.”
“Makes sense,” I said, beginning to feel more like we were on the same wavelength again – even if it was only because we were talking about potential murder.
