Free Always Kiss the Corpse by Sandy Frances Duncan Page A

agreeing. Question: What’s worse than smiling your teeth out to get information? Answer: Scowling and staying stupid. Vanderhoek seemed to thaw, slightly. A big man. Not fat, but burly. Tall. A vote-getter description for a county sheriff. On his desk stood pictures of a prettyish woman, a prettier girl in graduation robe and mortar board, a pimply youth with a basketball. “You’re satisfied it’s suicide?”
    The sheriff shrugged. “Anyone who overdoses is a suicidal type. Suicidal stupidity or active suicide, it’s all the same to me.”
    â€œWhere did Vasiliadis die?”
    Silence for several seconds. “Where the body was found. The blockhouse at the cemetery.”
    â€œWhat’s a blockhouse?”
    â€œSmall shelter, open doorways and windows. Just barely a shelter.”
    â€œWho found the body?”
    â€œA kid. Twelve.” The sheriff rubbed his nose. “Not much fun for him.”
    True, thought Kyra.
    Vanderhoek thawed another degree and leaned back.
    â€œHow’d he get to the blockhouse?”
    â€œDrove. His car was right close by.”
    â€œIs that how you identified him?”
    â€œName on registration. But we had the positive ID from the X-ray lady.”
    â€œDid you check out his house?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œNo need. He lived alone.”
    â€œBut isn’t it important to—”
    â€œLook, Miss, this is a suicide. The next of kin was the mother. We informed her, okay?”
    â€œBut his house could’ve—”
    â€œWe’re not talking investigation here, okay? “
    â€œYes. Sure. Um—Sandro’s mother particularly noted his lack of facial hair. The coroner or whoever handled the autopsy, did he comment?”
    â€œNot that I recall.”
    â€œWas the autopsy thorough?”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t it be?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    The sheriff bristled. “Thorough as necessary.”
    â€œTo establish suicide, you mean?”
    He nodded. “Our coroner is always thorough.”
    â€œOnce it’s decided it’s suicide, that’s enough autopsy?”
    He nodded.
    She needed to push. The phone rang. He lunged. “Vanderhoek.” Pause. “Uh-huh.” Pause. “Right away. Bye.” He slammed the receiver down and stood up. “Got to go out, Miss, ahh—”
    Kyra stood too. “Rachel. Here you are.” She laid a Triple-I card on his desk. “We’ll complete our investigation and let you know what we’ve learned.”
    The sheriff’s mouth opened. No words came out.
    Kyra doubted he knew the phrase, such effrontery . But he was searching for some version of it. And did he have Miss Brady Adam phone him ten minutes into an interview?
    â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆ
    â€œSay I was only listening to Martin. I mean, like I’d had my eyes closed. I’d have had no sense of him at all, he was that flat.” Noel sipped his latte.
    â€œFlat how?”
    â€œPractically no timbre, almost no inflection, close to total mid-range. Would’ve been hard to tell if this was man or woman if I hadn’t been sitting right there. Or if I hadn’t read his name.”
    â€œMost people talk like that.”
    â€œNot like Claude Martin.”
    â€œMost men and women intone their words within a range of three or four notes on the scale, around middle C.”
    â€œCome on.”
    She added the contents of a packet of sugar to her latte. “That small range is about all you need. Except, when somebody’s talking, there’s more going on than just what’s audible.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œIt’s what we were talking about before, affect. It conveys what the speaker’s feeling. And it creates a mood in whoever’s listening. What you’re saying is Claude Martin’s voice held little emotional tone.”
    â€œI guess.” So Kyra’s voice must be