Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(27)

The fatality rate in the U.K. was so high at the time that funeral homes ran out of body bags. I remember hearing the dire anecdotes from colleagues about not being able to order them from anywhere. Hospitals were storing the dead in refrigerator trucks, and some cemeteries resorted to mass burials in trenches.

There were no viewings or funerals. No graveside services in a peaceful resting place, no flying the bodies home to loved ones. Most people dying from the virus were cremated, the remains sealed inside cheap boxes shipped by mail or UPS. Such a parcel was delivered to Lucy, and I can’t think of anything colder or more callous.

She never got the chance to say good-bye, and I fear she won’t accept that Janet and Desi are gone. In a way, they aren’t if she didn’t witness it. If she never saw the bodies, she has no evidence really. Leaving her in a state of limbo, her family neither here nor there, and technology has added to the problem while making it better.

“See you in a few,” Benton says as I head to the door. “In the meantime, we’ll start getting things ready,” he adds, and I go on to give a few instructions.

Dorothy can set out the cheeses I’d planned for tonight. Sharp provolone, cheddar and fresh mozzarella. Also, the prosciutto, pickles, roasted red peppers and artichoke hearts.

“I’ll throw together a nice antipasto, warm up some garlic bread, and pick out just the right bottle of wine,” I promise before venturing out into the blustery dark.

Water drip-drips from trees that are a lush canopy over the driveway in warmer months when everything is green. A sharp wind gusts in fits and starts, leaves blowing everywhere. The temperature isn’t cold enough for ice but I pay attention as I walk briskly, wishing I’d bothered with my coat.

Fortunately, I don’t have far to go, the guest cottage tucked amid tall spreading firs, spruce pines and magnolias. It’s on the other side of a garden that must have been ignored many decades as overgrown as it was when we moved here. You wouldn’t know anything grand was ever there without reviewing old records as I did.

Working like an archaeologist, I carefully cleared out a dense morass of thorny shrubs, grapevines and creepers choking herb and flower beds. In the process I uncovered a marble griffin, a sundial pedestal and other treasures from the 1700s. There’s no telling how long they’d been out of sight and mind. I have a feeling the eccentric former ambassador who lived here last was unaware of what was hidden under his backyard thicket.

It also doesn’t sound like he did much to take care of the place, and I turn on my phone’s flashlight, detecting the sharp odor of fresh paint. Checking out my new dark-green wooden trellis, I imagine roses climbing over it in the spring. The garden will flourish again, and I’m thinking of adding a wrought-iron table and chairs. How nice it will be to sit out here having coffee.

Returning to the driveway, I text Lucy that I’m headed in her direction, and she doesn’t answer. But I’ve come to expect that when she sees me in the security cameras she monitors. Maybe she’ll come out to greet me when I get close. Or she might be preoccupied, tied up as she watches my approach.





CHAPTER 11

WET PAVERS ARE SLIPPERY beneath my booted feet, and puddles glower in the uneasy glow of gas lamps. I catch shadows moving in the corners of my eyes, the wind rushing and moaning. The hair pricks up on the back of my neck, and I have the feeling I’m being watched as I near Lucy’s cottage.

Her blackout shades are doing their job, and I turn off my phone’s flashlight, not wanting to make myself a bigger target. I sense eyes on me, something lurking in the dark foliage, but it’s my imagination, I’m sure. My pulse picks up as I look and listen, reminding myself I have good reason to feel jumpy after a day like this one.

Taking the brick path that leads to Lucy’s backdoor, I dig my keys out of a pocket. The boxwoods rustle nearby, the motion-sensor light blinking on as I step up on the wooden porch. I almost yell out loud when something brushes against the back of my legs, Merlin shadowing me again.

“You’re going to be the death of me, sneaking up like that!” I whisper, my heart hammering. “Goodness!”

Lucy’s Scottish fold cat stares up with full moon eyes, and he’s wet and most unhappy, making his muttering meowing sounds as if trying to speak. I’m alarmed that he’s outside with no collar, rubbing against me the way he does when he wants something. He’s unsettled and twitchy as I continue looking around, beginning to shiver.

“Merlin, it’s too cold and nasty to be out here. What’s happened?”

I rap my knuckles on the backdoor with its built-in acrylic cat flap.

“And where on earth is your collar?”

I knock again anxiously, my attention darting around as if any moment something hideous will sneak up.

“Stay here with me and I’ll get you inside.”

He mutters, weaving between my legs, and Lucy wouldn’t allow him to wander at will without his radio frequency identification (RFID) chipped collar that she 3-D prints for more than identification purposes. The radio signal is the cyber key that enables him to enter the cottage through the flap in the lower part of this door, and also the one leading into the basement of the main house.

Both high-tech portals are too small for a person to crawl through, while keeping out four-legged offenders like skunks, raccoons, opossums, and small deer and bears. Merlin can come and go autonomously. He can visit wherever he pleases without human intervention or a breach of security. But at the moment he’s locked out.