Dead By Dusk (15 page)

Dr. Barello, the local coroner, was still feeling somewhat irritated that there had been so much as a suggestion that he couldn't handle an autopsy on poor, sweet, young Maria. Leave it to big-city people to have such an aura of superiority!

But he had the law on his side. Maria was staying right here, and he would have Dr. Antinella assist him.

There wasn't a big hospital in the town, but their small facility was up-to-date. State funding had done a lot for them—along with the fact that they didn't have a terrible overhead, that no one in this region was out to cheat anyone, or to make a great deal of money off the misfortune of others.

Barello admitted to himself that there was not often a cause for an autopsy in the town—people usually died of old age. But the service had been performed before, and would be again. He had known Maria since she was a baby, and he would be tender with her, as would Antinella. She was one of their own.

Nor would the autopsy wait. He didn't care if he and Antinella worked all night.

At six, as arranged, he met Dr. Antinella in the basement morgue area of the small hospital. The police were there as well, since the police photographer was doubling as the morgue photographer. Pictures were taken of the remains with scraps of clothing still on the body. Then Dr. Barello ordered everyone out except for the photographer, and pictures were taken of the bloodied remains after the remaining clothing had been tenderly removed.

No assistant was called to bathe the body; Dr. Antinella, the girl's physician since her birth, performed that task as well, with equal respect and tenderness.

Scrubbed and masked, the doctors arranged the autopsy tools on a table by the gurney, then set about searching the flesh for signs of death as well as clues. It was while they were thus engaged that the door opened and closed.

Barello looked up angrily. “We're not to be disturbed!” he announced, and frowned. What the hell was the man doing there, in the autopsy room? What was he? Among the morbidly curious? Disgraceful.

“Get out!” he said, outraged. How on earth had the man gotten in to begin with? Though small, the hospital employed security guards, four of them, one man for each shift and an extra to allow for days off and holidays. Knowing what was going on, the young student on the night shift had been seated at the desk at the morgue door.

Antinella looked up as well, outraged. Maria did not deserve any disrespect now.

“There will be no cutting,” the man said.

“What?” Barello said.

“No cutting. Sew her back together,” the man said, walking on into the room.

“Yes, we'll carefully sew her back together,” Antinella said, and looked at Barello. And Barello nodded.

An hour and a half later, he found that he was sitting at the desk himself, filling out the death certificate and the autopsy report.

He had no memory of the arrival of the man, not even a subconscious suspicion that anyone had interrupted his work with Antinella.

All that filled his mind was the thought that they had made Maria look beautiful again. Somehow, all the right things had been done. They had taken scrapings from her nails. There were vials filled with all the samples the police would expect; it had all been done correctly, professionally, and by the book. No big-city law or medical man could find fault with their procedures in the least.

Cause of death—an encounter with a wild animal, apparently a wolf, despite the fact there were few in the area, and there hadn't been a documented case of such an attack in . . . well, in eight or nine hundred years, at least.

The poor girl.

Barello knew Maria's fiancé, just as he knew Maria. The boy hadn't murdered her. She had been killed by an animal or animals.

But how was it that she had been discovered, buried deep in the earth, and at the excavation site?

Barello shook his head. That was a matter for the police. Perhaps one of the townsfolk had found her . . . and despite the agony of her mother knowing that the girl was missing, the person thought it would be better to hide the body, and let the mother believe that the girl had run away, seeking a life in a larger place, with greater promise.

Antinella came out of the morgue.

“She is . . . finished for the evening?”

“Yes, resting upon the gurney, sheeted . . . in the cold,” he said sadly. “Tomorrow, we'll bring her to the funeral home . . . they will embalm her, and she will rest in peace.”

“Yes. The poor girl. Imagine! Wolves attacking, now!”

“Yes, wolves attacking. The police will have to put out warnings for anyone traveling out to the cliffs.”

“Poor, poor girl!” Barello said.

“Poor, poor girl,” Antinella agreed.

 

 

He stood on the beach. From there, he had an excellent view of Lena Miro's door.

He waited, biding his time. He had always found it fascinating to stare at the water. If only . . . well, there was no “if only.” And still, he enjoyed the view, and the feel of the air.

And then . . .

He saw the maid.

She saw him.

He moved along the path, not even hurrying. The woman just stared at him, like a doe caught in the headlights. She moved aside, allowing him entry, holding the door open for him.

He smiled, and thanked her.

It didn't matter. She would never remember that he had been there.

He entered the cottage, and quietly closed the door behind him.

And started up the stairs.

 

 

It was nearly nine when they met for dinner.

By the time Stephanie came into the restaurant, the others had gathered, Liz Henderson among them. Arturo was at the table, and he was very sad, telling them that there was some news that was a relief, and still sad—and dangerous.

The doctors had just finished with the body of Maria Britto.

“I have to say, I was very, very worried myself!” Arturo was telling them. “The way she was found . . . but there is not a murderer loose among us. Dr. Barello—the coroner—is certain that she was killed by wild animals. And there! There is where people must worry, and be very, very careful!”

Grant, already seated, stared at Arturo as if the man had gone insane.

“Animals buried the girl?” he said incredulously.

“Well, no, no, of course not!” Arturo said. He shook his head, sighing sadly. “The police will investigate. Right now, they believe that someone found the girl in a horribly ravaged condition and thought that the kindest thing would be to cover her up.”

“Without reporting that she was discovered?” Grant said.

“She was in sad shape.”

“I know,” Grant said flatly, “but that makes no sense. I'm pretty sure that psychologists and psychiatrists around the world believe that closure in the event of the disappearance of a loved one is far kinder than letting a parent, child, spouse, or any loved one spend the rest of their life wondering what happened!”

“Yes, that's reasonable,” Arturo said. “But . . .” He shrugged. “As I said, the police will search and investigate until they have the answers. In the meantime, and this is most important for you, Grant—be careful! Maria must have gone near the dig site, because there are no wolves in town, I can assure you!”

“I'm sorry, it still makes no sense,” Grant said. “A normal person, coming upon that body, would have been horrified. Their first instinct would have been to get the police, get help! And how do you just happen upon a body at a dig? There are people around—even at night, the campsite isn't that far from the excavation areas.”

“Yes, but . . . well, maybe someone was just thinking about the girl's mother—and thought she'd be too horrible to find,” Drew suggested.

Grant shook his head. “Sorry—to me, it just doesn't jell.”

“Yes, but again, there's really not anything
we
can do about it,” Suzette said. “Except that, Grant, Arturo is right—you have to be very careful out there.”

“Right,” Grant murmured.

He still wasn't buying it—any of it, Stephanie thought.

“You still think we should go with the show tomorrow night?” Stephanie asked Arturo.

“I think we have to go with the show tomorrow night,” Arturo told her. “We have people coming in—they arrive in Naples tomorrow morning, and they'll be here by early afternoon.” He brightened slightly. “I will send you some nice red wine—local, naturally. It makes everything better.”

He left them.

“It just still seems rather in bad taste,” Stephanie murmured.

“Stephanie, the local people are trying very hard to make a success out of this place. They won't be here, of course, but we're planning the show for Americans, and they will come and spend money. It's important for the community,” Suzette reminded her.

“I guess,” Stephanie murmured.

“Hey, Liz, you're doing great, by the way,” Doug said.

“Amazingly so,” Drew agreed enthusiastically.

“I told you she'd be fine,” Clay said quietly.

“Well, thank you, all of you,” Liz said. A waiter brought the wine. There was no pouring of it into one glass to be tasted—this was Arturo's suggestion. It was going to be great. Glasses were passed all around.

“Wait,” Grant said, looking across the table. “To Liz—for being in the right place at the right time. It's a little like a miracle.”

He sounded genuine. He was not. He was suspicious of Liz, and of Clay. Stephanie determined to ignore him. He was the strange one these days.

“To Liz! With thanks,” she said.

Liz Henderson graciously accepted their toast, and told Stephanie then that the dressmaker had brought her costume to her room, and that it was fine. They all agreed that they were ready.

“Hey, has anyone checked in on Lena lately?” Suzette asked.

“I was over there earlier,” Grant said.

“How was she?”

He hesitated strangely. “More energetic than I expected.” He shook his head. “She needs to see a doctor elsewhere.”

“The man here is supposed to be very good,” Clay said. “He studied in Paris, Rome, and the States, before deciding that he wanted to be his hometown physician.”

“Yes, but . . . I don't know. We'll have to see, I guess,” Grant murmured.

Their conversation turned to the show. Grant gave Stephanie his suggestion for lighting, and told her that he'd be managing that and the music cues from the booth, so they'd have to be careful to see that their own props were placed correctly. Everyone agreed that they'd have no difficulty being responsible for their own pieces.

“Anyway, if we lose something, it will still fit into the improv,” Drew said.

“True. The best thing about these shows is that it's possible to make anything work, as long as you remain in character,” Grant said.

Arturo sent dessert to the table, and the waiter, bringing espressos, assured them all that it was decaf. Stephanie noted that they were the last ones dining. She glanced at her watch. It was midnight.

She yawned, excused herself, stretched, and rose. “I hadn't realized it was so late.”

“Wait up—everyone gets walked to their cottage, right?” Grant said.

“Everyone? How can we all walk one another?” Drew asked.

“I'll get Stephanie back, Clay can see to Liz, and Drew and Doug can see to Suzette,” Grant suggested.

“Good,” Drew said, grinning. “And then, Doug, you can walk me back. I'm not big on wolves myself.”

“We're not going to run into a wolf on the beach,” Doug said, grimacing.

“There are different kinds of wolves, you know,” Suzette reminded him.

“True, but apparently, none of you thinks of either of us as the other type,” Drew said. “Sadly! So . . . come on, Suzette, let's get you tucked in.”

“Hey, what about Lena? Shouldn't we check on her?”

“I'll go see her,” Stephanie volunteered.

“What if she's sleeping?” Grant asked, a little sharply.

“I have a key to her room,” Suzette said. “She has one to mine, too. We thought it was a good idea when we checked in—we're both pretty capable of misplacing them, and that way, we wouldn't find ourselves locked out.” She dug in her purse and handed the key to Stephanie. “You can give it back to me sometime tomorrow, okay?”

“Yep. Good night, then,” Stephanie said.

They all started out the back together. Grant was silent as they headed for Lena's. “What's wrong with you?” Stephanie asked him.

“Lena was very, very strange before,” he said. “I'll wait downstairs for you, if you don't mind.”

Stephanie frowned, looking at him. “You don't want to see her for yourself?”

“As I said, she was very, very strange.”

“How?”

Grant stopped walking, waiting until he was certain the others were out of earshot. “She tried to . . . come on to me.”

“What?”

“Believe me, I don't mean this as any kind of an ego trip. She tried to . . . come on to me,” he explained again.

“Grant, she likes you—she was just flirting. She's sick, remember?” Stephanie said.

“Stephanie, she grabbed me!”

“You're sure?” Stephanie asked, staring at him, and very surprised by the situation. Lena just wasn't the type. She might flirt and laugh, but . . .

“Yes, I'm sure.” He took the key from Stephanie's fingers and opened the door. “You go on up. I'll be right here.”

Grant was behaving odder and odder. Still, Stephanie didn't want to argue with him any more that night. She wondered briefly if he would say such a thing in the hopes of making her jealous, but she just didn't think so. And still . . .
Lena
doing such a thing? Even if Stephanie had assured her that she and Grant were no longer a couple, Lena wasn't the type to be . . . lascivious.