Chapter 6
NOW
On a small street like Kenny Lane, populated entirely by busybodies, the arrival of a paramedic vehicle generates much hubbub.
As I stand outside Ishaan’s, talking to the paramedic, every resident appears, huddling around Pete the Greek, who is issuing “facts” about what had happened with enough authority that even I start to question myself.
“Heart attack,” he says. “Else broke in through the window and performed CPR.”
For pity’s sake, Peter. The back door had been unlocked, so there was no need to break in, and as for CPR—even if it hadn’t been clear that Ishaan was long dead, that would have been a stretch for me.
I did manage to roll him onto his side and listen for breathing and a heartbeat as I’d seen done countless times on television, and frankly that was ghastly enough.
It wasn’t the fact that he was dead so much, more that it was Ishaan.
I was okay with death. Ishaan’s wasn’t the first dead body I’d seen.
Unlike the last one, there was no cracked skull or blood-spattered walls.
Apart from a trickle of blood that came from one ear, it appeared to be a neat, orderly, natural-causes death.
I left him on the floor and called 000, before opening the door for Daphne.
“Anything else of note?” the handsome young paramedic asks.
His name, he told us a minute ago, is Anthony. Daphne and I had exchanged a meaningful look. He is tall, tanned, and unmistakably buff beneath his uniform. It irks me how young people think we don’t notice this kind of thing as we age. We may be old, but we have eyes.
“What does ‘of note’ mean?” Persephone asks.
The child has no regard for personal space.
Her warm little body presses against me hard enough that it very nearly pushes me off-balance.
She smells of something too sweet, like deodorant or cheap perfume or bubble gum.
By her side is Ishaan’s demonic dog, barking again.
“It means … perhaps he mentioned something to you—like taking a particular medication or experiencing chest pains?”
“He’s a big fan of vitamins,” Persephone says.
“He’s a big fan of this dog,” Daphne adds.
I glance down at the dog. “What will happen to Nugget?”
Anthony shrugs. “If there’s a friend or family member who wants her, she might go to them. If there’s no one, they go to the local rescue center.”
All at once, as if understanding, Nugget stops barking.
“You heard that, did you?” I mutter. “Good.”
Mrs. Nguyen arrives home in the middle of the chaos, and takes in the scene.
She lives on the other side of Ishaan with her husband, Mr. Nguyen.
At a guess I’d say they are in their forties, but we all refer to them as Mr. and Mrs. because we cannot pronounce their first names for love or money.
Mrs. Nguyen runs the nail salon on the high street by day and works at her parents’ Vietnamese restaurant several nights.
Mr. Nguyen doesn’t do anything much, and whenever I come across Mrs. Nguyen she tells me all about how she’s going to leave him to join a women’s commune, and I pump my fist in solidarity, and we go on with our respective days.
“I’ll explain,” Persephone says to Mrs. Nguyen. “Don’t listen to Pete the Greek, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Persephone leads Mrs. Nguyen toward the huddle of residents.
At the same time, I watch Joan slip away from the huddle and sidle up to Anthony the paramedic. Odd woman. Her movements are so stealthy and so quiet I can’t help but be intrigued.
“What happened to him?” she asks him, sotto voce.
“Hard to say,” Anthony says. “The coroner will determine for sure.”
“The coroner?” Joan says. Her eyes boggle ever-so-slightly with excitement. “So there are signs of foul play?”
Joan, it appears, has cast herself as Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote.
“The coroner needs to take the body and determine cause of death, but given his age,” Anthony says, “and what I observed, I would say there’s nothing to suggest … foul play.”
Admirably, his face remains straight.
“Still,” she says, “you can’t rule it out.” Her eyes widen and she juts her chin in my direction. “If you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Anthony says. He glances from Joan to me and back again, uncertain of the dynamic he’s dealing with.
“She’s the one who found him,” Joan cries. “Have you considered the possibility that it’s because she knew where to find him?”
All eyes dart to me. For the love of God.
“You think I killed Ishaan?”
A few meters away, Pete the Greek and the group of residents have stopped talking and are pretending not to listen. Persephone outright gawps.
“I won’t pretend to know the details,” Joan says.
“Then you have no business making accusations.” Daphne’s voice is quiet, but full of menace. Persephone comes and stands beside her, perhaps in solidarity.
A white van pushes its nose onto the street. CORONER is written on the side in discreet green font. Anthony waves at the driver and points in the direction of Ishaan’s house.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” Anthony says to Joan, “but I have to speak to the coroner. If you have concerns, you need to speak to the police.”
“I’ll speak to my nephew,” Joan calls after him as he wanders off. “He’s a partner in a law firm.”
“So let me get this straight,” I say to Joan. “You’re suggesting that I murdered Ishaan, left him to rot on his kitchen floor for a while, then climbed the fence to discover him?”
“Well, that’s silly!” Persephone says. “Elsa wanted him to be alive because she wanted Ishaan to do the old person interview instead of her! I was the one who told her he was dead!”
“That’s true,” I say. “Have you considered that Persephone could be the killer?”
Persephone’s jaw drops. Daphne puts an arm around her. “She’s joking, poppet.”
Joan shakes her head. She’s facing away from me, projecting her words as if she’s on stage. “All I’m saying is that she should be investigated. She’s dangerous.”
“I agree,” I say. “But do you really think she could kill someone? She’s just a child.”
Persephone gives me the stink eye.
“Joan,” Pete says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough.”
Joan shrugs him off. “Why is no one listening to me?”
“Because Elsa isn’t dangerous,” Persephone explains. “She’s too old to be dangerous.”
Mother of God …
“What is wrong with you people,” Joan cries, fully descending into madness. “Don’t you know who she is?”
Silence falls upon the little group.
As Joan’s gaze travels slowly and purposefully toward mine, I feel the knowledge settle over me—as quick and heavy as a storm cloud. The reason Joan scurries away every time she sees me. The reason she’s hell-bent on trying to force me out of the street. I’m a fool for not seeing it sooner.
Joan has known who I am all this time.
I open my mouth, praying for something clever and cutting to fall out of it.
I’m a long study in clever and cutting. Instead, there’s only a noise—something like a croak.
For a moment I think—horrifically, ridiculously!
—that I might cry. It’s an indignity of old age, the way your body can betray you in an instant like this, with no warning.
Daphne puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Joan,” Pete says firmly. “Enough.”
This is the moment the police car pulls onto the street.