Page 109 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Soaked to the Bone

I did as ordered, pointedly leaving the Beamer unlocked with the
windows down. If they wanted to search it without a warrant while I
was out of sight, they wouldn’t need a crowbar. Under the cop’s
Argus eye I approached the grand chandeliered entry to the massive
mahogany front doors of 669 Camino Costoso with trepidation. No
doubt G.F. would be blustering about his designer domain, denying
everything, demanding his lawyers be present and despising me for
not being there already, busily spinning damage control.
Wrong. Before I could get there, the doors opened and a gurney
rolled out, pushed by a person of indeterminate sex garbed in a
decontamination suit and rubber gloves. The body under wraps was
bigger than life: a bloated corpse. Having often had them in my face
as their owner lounged poolside issuing orders, I instantly recognized
the protruding feet as Fish’s.
I don’t clearly remember the next couple of minutes. The living
room was full of people, each doing a job independently of the
others, tools and equipment draped over the marble coffee table and
leather sofas. Organized chaos is how it looked to me. Very
disorienting in a familiar environment. I was passed from one person
to another. My purse was searched, my studio ID and driver’s license
scrutinized. When I finally had a self-aware thought I was sitting in
the kitchen on a barstool at the counter, a place I had spent many
hours cooling my heels while G.F. carried on who-knows-what
business on a phone in some other part of the house. Now I had to
wait for the police to process and release me. Or so I hoped.
But I was not alone. Next to me, wringing her hands, was Alma
del Banco, the housekeeper. I doubt if she had ever sat down in that
room before. She was agitated; who wouldn’t be? Of course, as an
immigrant, she had probably suffered more in the past from authority
figures than I or most native-born Americans. But it went beyond
that.
“Oh, Miss Sliner, I am so glad to see you! It is Mr. Fish. I found
him when I came to work, as usual, at eight o’clock this morning.
Out there in the hot tub. It was horrible!”
“Oh, my God, Alma! That’s awful!” I shuddered, craving more
gruesome detail.
“Yes, yes. It was him. So many times I worry about him sitting
alone in all those jets of very warm water, drinking until late at night.

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