Page 144 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Soaked to the Bone

perceive, after years of callously dumbing-down our own sensibilities?
Hadn’t G.F. been ‘harvesting’ Tim’s brain? Hadn’t Jo Castor been a
nurse prior to her disastrous marriage to Fish? But there was no time
to dig into that—a commotion was apparent outside the room: raised
voices; both male and female, to judge by the pitch.

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The lieutenant was already going through the door when I turned
to locate the audio source. Her reaction time must be almost zero:
maybe that’s how she gets away with being a maniac behind the
wheel. I trailed in her wake, peripherally aware that a uniformed
officer immediately stepped into Fish’s bedroom and closed the door.
Labelle was framed in the double-doorway between the living room
and kitchen. My curiosity and assumption of continuing status as tour
guide to the damned drew me toward her. But another policeman
blocked me, gesturing for me to stop in my tracks and remain silent.
I guess they learn all those hand signals when they do time directing
traffic after getting caught with their fingers in the cookie jar.
So I could see part of what transpired in the kitchen, as one might
through a narrow-angle camera lens. And I heard just about all of it:

Alma: [Not visible, but vocally unmistakable; long string of Spanish at
rapid pace and high volume]
Fern: [Hands to ears, crying] Stop her! Stop her! I don’t want to
hear any more of this! I can’t understand it, anyway!
What happened to Mr. Fish?
Labelle: [Planted firmly between the two women, her multi-tasking attention
severely challenged] I am Lieutenant Gramercy, metropolitan
police. [Shows badge]
Fern: I don’t care who you are! Get me away from this crazy
woman! Let me out of here!
Labelle: Both of you: unless you want to continue this at a police
station, please be quiet. [An offstage hiss or simply the last
verbal steam escaping, then silence] Thank you. You are Fern
Grotteau?
Fern: Yes.
Labelle: Did you visit this house yesterday?

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