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“No.”
“Didn’t bring the snake pole back, either?”
“No.”
“Tell me about how you found her.”
I did, including the part about throwing a shell—maybe more than one, I had been upset and was no longer sure—to get the buzzards away from her body. “I told all that to Officers Zane and Canavan.”
“I know you did. It’s in their report. Except of course for the stroller turning up the second time. That’s what you call new information.”
“I can’t help you with that. I was asleep.”
“Huh.” Down went the mask. He finished his water. Up went the mask. “Pete Ito says you’re planning on staying until September, Mr. Trenton.”
It wasn’t lost on me that he’d spoken to Mr. Ito. Nor was it lost on me that he had reverted to my last name.
“Plans change. Finding a dead woman being pecked at by buzzards can do that to a person. I have a reservation at the Bradenton Days Inn tonight and a flight from Tampa to Cleveland on Thursday. Transportation the rest of the way to my home in Massachusetts is TBD. Things are pretty crazy in America just now.”
Crazy. That word seemed to come out with more force than I intended.
“Crazy all over the world,” Pelley said. “Why would you come down here in the summer, anyway? Most people don’t, unless they’ve got free coupons from Disney World.”
If he had talked to Pete Ito, I was sure he knew. Yes, this was an interrogation, all right. “My wife died recently. I’ve been trying to come to grips with it.”
“And you… what? Feel like you’ve got it gripped pretty good just now?”
I looked at him dead on. He didn’t look like Wilford Brimley to me anymore. He looked like a problem.
“What is this about, Deputy Pelley? Or should I call you Mr. Pelley? I understand you’re retired.”
“Semi. Not a detective these days, but a part-time deputy in good standing. And you need to cancel your flight plans.” Was there a slight emphasis on the word flight? “I’m sure they’ll take the charge off your credit card. Motel room, too. I guess you could go as far as Barry’s over in the Village, but—”
“Barry’s is closed. I tried it. What’s—”
“But tell you what, I’d be more comfortable if you stayed right here until Mrs. Bell has been autopsied. Which is to say, Mr. Trenton, the County Sheriff’s Department would be more comfortable.”
“I’m not sure you could stop me.”
“I wouldn’t test that if I were you. Just a friendly piece of advice.”
I heard it then, faint but audible: Squeak and squeak and squeak.
I told myself I didn’t. Told myself it was ridiculous. Told myself I wasn’t in a story called “The Tell-Tale Pram.”
“Again, Mr. Pelley… Deputy Pelley… what’s this about? You’re acting like the woman was murdered and I’m a suspect.”
Pelley was unperturbed. “Autopsy will most likely tell us how she died. Most likely that’ll let you off the hook.”
“I had no idea I was on one.”
“As for what this is about—complicating matters, you could say—there’s this. Found it on the kitchen table when I went in her house this morning at six o’clock.”
He fiddled with his phone, then passed it over. He had taken a picture of a white business envelope. On it in neat cursive was To Be Opened In Event Of My Death and Alita Marie Bell.
“The envelope wasn’t sealed, so I went ahead and opened it. Swipe to the next photo.”
I did. The note that had been in the envelope was written in the same neat cursive. And the date at the top—
