When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(61)

“Bonita,” she said firmly, then held the girl’s gaze until she finally nodded.

D.D. straightened to standing. “I will need to see the records Mrs. Counsel had for all of you. This is a murder investigation. All details matter.”

“Murder investigation?” The cook’s arms fell to her sides in clear shock. “But the mayor—”

“What did you hear last night?” Kimberly, ambushing beautifully from behind.

“We didn’t, of course—”

“The mayor and his wife fight?”

“No, never. Two most loving—”

“Did you know about the kidney transplant? Tell us about Mrs. Counsel’s kidney transplant.” Kimberly, her voice stern.

“What? I mean, of course. The operation was a long time ago. Afterwards, I worked with Mrs. Counsel to prepare a renal friendly diet. No pesticides, no red meats, or added salt and sugar,” the cook rattled off, seeming to check off each item on her fingers. “High in fiber, lots of beans and leafy green vegetables. I’m a real cook, you know. Got a degree from a culinary institute and everything. I could work at some fancy restaurant if I wanted to. But I like it here. And the mayor, Mrs. Counsel, they take care of their own.”

“So you heard nothing last night?” D.D., forcing the cook to turn back around to address her. “No sounds of disturbance, perhaps an altercation?”

“Absolutely not.”

D.D. caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. The girl—Bonita—finally shifting her hand to reveal one finger. Which meant yes. As in yes, the cook had heard something and was lying? Or as in yes, Bonita hadn’t heard anything either?

For this system to work, D.D. realized, she had to do a better job with the questions.

“Did you notice a change in Mrs. Counsel’s behavior over the past few weeks?” she addressed the cook.

“No,” the woman said.

Yes, Bonita signed.

“Were you awake last night?”

“Nope,” the cook declared.

Yes, Bonita signed.

“What time did you go to bed?” D.D. zeroed in on the woman.

“Nine P.M. I have early mornings, prepping breakfast for the guests.”

Bonita hesitated. Maybe she didn’t know what time the cook went to bed.

“What time did you get up?” D.D. continued smoothly.

“When I heard the sirens. Four A.M.? Something like that?”

“And when did you hear the disturbance before that?”

“Two A.M.—” The cook caught herself. Too late she saw D.D.’s trap. “I’m a light sleeper,” the woman corrected quickly. “Maybe something woke me around two. But I didn’t hear nothin’ more. I peed, went back to bed.”

“You sound like you were close to Mrs. Counsel. That you cared about her.”

“She and her husband are good people. Ask anyone.”

Nothing from Bonita.

“Did you suspect she was a suicide risk?” D.D. asked.

“Never.”

“When did you last speak to her?”

“’Round eight. She came to the kitchen to discuss the morning menu.”

“Did she seem off?”

“No.”

“Preoccupied?”

“No.”

“What’s for breakfast?” Kimberly spoke up from behind.

The cook growled, clearly tiring of this game.

“Biscuits with sausage gravy. The mayor’s favorite.”

“Who made that decision?”

“Mrs. Counsel.”

“Who wasn’t preoccupied or distracted?”

“I said she wasn’t!”

“Though she killed herself just hours later.”

“She wouldn’t do such a thing—” Again, the cook seemed to realize the trap. “I mean, I never saw any signs.”

“What do you think happened?” D.D. asked curiously.

Her change in tone seemed to catch the cook off guard. “What do you mean? I heard she was found hanging. There was a note. Suicide is suicide. What else could’ve happened?”

“What else indeed,” Kimberly commented from behind.

“Do you believe Mrs. Counsel committed suicide?” D.D. repeated. “Just hours after talking to you and ordering breakfast.”

“Sure,” the cook snapped.

No, Bonita signed. While Hélène made an agitated sound in her throat. The cook glared at both maids. They immediately turned their attention to the floor.

“Who else was here last night?” said Kimberly, now by the walk-in fridge.

“Eight guests. Mayor Howard. The girls and me.”

“Where does the help sleep?” Kimberly again.

“We have rooms in the basement. Nice rooms.” The cook shot Hélène a look.

“Do you each have your own room?”

“Yeah, they’re good rooms.”

“And in the summer? Clearly this place requires more than two maids during high season?”

“This house was built in the day and age of live-in servants. There’s plenty of space.”

“I want to see your rooms,” D.D. said.

“Ask the mayor. It’s his house.”