Free Skirting the Grave by Annette Blair

you.”
    “I was sure I did last night. And I told you when it happened that he spoke through a voice changer, which made him sound like Vader with a bullhorn, and . . . he had a tone.”
    “Well, then.” Werner steered me in an unexpected direction. “Billings, throw the book at anybody with a deep voice . . . and a tone.”
    “You’re mocking me.”
    “You should know. You could win a Pulitzer for mockery; you could teach mockery as an alternative to swordplay or knife throwing. Turn it into an Olympic sport.”
    I raised a brow. “So you’re saying I’m sharp-witted?”
    “Sharp-tongued. Vast difference.”
    “I’ll show you the difference,” I snapped.
    He scanned the nearly empty squad room and lowered his voice. “Please do.”
    “Meanwhile, Isobel could be getting accosted by a couple of strangers.”
    “The dark suit is Mr. Quincy York, Isobel and Giselle’s father, who is running for first selectman of Kingston’s Vineyard. I’m counting on him to identify the girl he’s talking to and settling the question as to whether she’s your intern or not.
    “The tan suit is his campaign manager/right-hand man, Mr. Ruben Rickard. I’ll introduce you after they finish their talk. Listen to their voices, would you? And tell me if either of them is your caller.”
    I cupped Werner’s chin. “Voice mod-u-la-tor. To decipher that, I think we’d need a wiretap and a techno geek.
    “What the hell is going on here?” I asked, dead-ended in a secluded corner.
    “Mr. Rickard identified the dead girl as Mr. Quincy York’s niece, Isobel’s first cousin, Payton. They’re about to tell Isobel—or Giselle—about her first cousin.”
    “I’m so relieved that Isobel didn’t lose her twin, but I’m confused, too. Why get a second ID?”
    “We didn’t seek it out. Before Isobel arrived last night, we called Mr. York to inform him of Isobel’s death, per Ms. Robear’s ID. York and Rickard showed up today, because we didn’t know, before Isobel told us last night, that she had an identical twin. Rickard viewed the body and told us we made a mistake. It’s not one of York’s daughters but his brother Patrick’s daughter. York was as surprised as we were—and his relief perfunctory—that Robear gave us a bad ID.”
    “No fingerprint confirmation?”
    “No fingerprints on record for any of the three girls anywhere.”
    “Okay, so why did Rickard and not York view the body?”
    “Evidently, Rickard does all York’s dirty work.”
    “Oh.” I scrunched my brows and shook my head. “Still confused. How could Payton look so much like her cousins?”
    Werner urged me down the hall, back toward the squad room. “Isobel’s father and his brother, Patrick, married twin sisters. They say the three girls only look alike to the untrained eye.”
    “I wonder if Isobel ever loaned Payton her sailor dress.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing.” Could Payton have been the girl on the sailboat in San Francisco Bay?
    “She sure didn’t dress like a York for her train ride yesterday,” I said. “She must have been in disguise.”
    “You’re right. Rickard was appalled when he saw the clothes she’d been wearing. He said they weren’t hers.”
    I couldn’t believe I was thinking this, but if I could get my hands on them . . . I shuddered. “I assume her clothes are still being held as evidence?”
    “Absolutely. Why? Do you want a look at them?”
    Not in front of him, I didn’t. “Maybe when they’re released from evidence, in case Isobel wants them. Did both brothers have twins? I mean, is Payton a twin?”
    “No. The twins have one cousin, Payton, our deceased, born about a week after Isobel and Giselle.”
    “Have you located Giselle?”
    “She seems to be a happy wanderer. She’s not at the York family home or at her L.A., New York, Aspen, or Palm Springs condos. Her father hasn’t seen her in six months; but that doesn’t seem to be unusual for him.”
    “That’s a lot of condos.” Gee,