Free To the Manor Dead by Sebastian Stuart Page A

Esmerelda lives.”
    As Sputnik and I headed back to the parking lot, he called out to us: “Watch out for her … watch out for yourself.”
    And then he and Fred started yakking again.

I went home, went back to bed, woke up at around eleven, ravenous. I headed over to Abba’s, where I found George sitting at the counter. Before my butt hit the stool, he said, “Dwayne is divine , this is it , we’re thinking of eloping to Massachusetts.”
    “Wouldn’t that make him a polygamist?
    “I’m not going to get hung up on semantics.”
    “I saw Mad John this morning. He found one of your newts.”
    “ Shhhh! That project’s top secret. Did he really!?” he whispered.
    “Yes,” I whispered back.
    “That’s almost as exciting as Dwayne.”
    Pearl shambled over.
    “Morning, Pearl.” Blank stare. “Could I have whatever omelet looks good?”
    Pearl pursed her lips and slowly raised her little pad and pencil and wrote … and wrote … and wrote. Then she turned and zombie-walked away.
    A couple of minutes later, Abba brought out my omelet.
    “You two are not going to believe who called me this morning,” she said. “Vince Hammer’s office. He wants me to cater a small dinner party next weekend. It’s just Vince … and the Livingston family.”
    “Boy, he doesn’t waste any time,” I said.
    “The freak wants the farm,” George said.
    “Badly,” Abba added.
    “You’re going to need some help with that dinner party,” I said.
    “I am?” Abba said, cocking a skeptical eye.
    “You are.”

The Rhinebeck police station was in a small building on the edge of the county fairgrounds. The front room was wood-paneled, had a couple of driving-safety posters on the wall, felt deserted and very 1950s-ish. I stood at the counter. No one appeared. I could see down a hall with a couple of offices opening up off it. I heard a voice I recognized as Charlie Dunn.
    “… nah, gimme the suite with all the trimmings. And I want to go out on a fishing charter every single frigging day. Can you folks arrange that for me? … Good enough. See you next month.” Then he whistled happily, farted loudly, sighed in satisfaction.
    “Excuse me?” I called.
    After some shuffling, Charlie Dunn appeared in the hallway. He saw me and a look of annoyance flashed across his face, followed by a big, friendly smile.
    “Hi there, Ms. Petrocelli.”
    “Hello, Chief.”
    “What can I do for you today?” he said, reaching the counter.
    “I wondered if we could talk about Daphne Livingston’s death?”
    “Sure,” he shrugged.
    I waited for him to invite me back to his office. He didn’t.
    “Can you tell me what your investigation has shown?”
    “What investigation?”
    “Aren’t you going to perform an autopsy to determine the cause of death?”
    “You were there, you saw the cause of death. Poor old Daphne hung herself.”
    “Somebody could have done it for her.”
    “When was the last time you heard of murder by hanging?”
    “So … that’s it?”
    “That’s what?”
    “The case is closed?”
    “Far as I’m concerned.”
    “Where’s her body?”
    “Daphne was cremated. Those were her brother’s wishes. I understand he’s going to scatter the ashes in the gardens at the farm. It’s the end of an era around these parts. We were all so proud of Daphne, before she …”
    “Before she what?”
    “Listen, I gotta go supervise my officers, we got six escaped ferrets running around downtown.”
    “Don’t you think a possible murder is more important than escaped ferrets?”
    There was a long pause.
    “This was a suicide, plain and simple,” he said, giving me a smug is-there-anything-else-you-want-to-know? look.
    “Isn’t it possible that someone subdued Daphne, lifted her up to the rafters, tied the belt around her neck, and then let her drop?”
    “A lot of things are possible. You know, Ms. Petrocelli, I’ve known the Livingston family my entire life. They’re a distinguished family. This has been