Killer Cocktail by Sheryl J. Anderson Read Free Book Online

standing poolside, not far from a dead body, barefoot, in my Nick & Nora cami and drawstring pants, was less than helpful in my effort to establish credibility with the professionals on the scene. This weekend had been intended as a getaway, not a hook-up opportunity, and I had packed accordingly. Good thing. A lacy chemise would have really sent the wrong message to Detective Myerson, who already seemed perplexed by me. At least I’d left my Washington Redskins sleep shirt at home.
    As soon as what David had said sunk in, Tricia, Cassady, and I had rushed out to the pool with him. I’d grabbed my cell phone as we went, but David said he’d already called 911, after finding Lisbet in the pool, dragging her out, and trying CPR. Still, we all flew down the stairs focusing on the vain hope that he might be wrong, that Lisbet was somehow alive.
    But once we saw her, there was no question. She was lying at the side of the pool, her body unnaturally neat and symmetrical as a result of David’s CPR efforts. Her wet hair clumped on either side of her throat, her skin was still wet but already too pale, her dress was ripped at the shoulder,
and she was barefoot. It looked like a Helmut Newton photo shoot gone irrevocably bad. Even so, I felt for a pulse because it seemed to be a place to start.
    “She’s dead.”
    Tricia shrieked in surprise and I gasped pretty hard as Aunt Cynthia walked out of the pool house. She was wearing a red silk robe and matching mules; she’d been getting ready for bed, too. Lisbet’s Marc Jacobs pumps dangled from one hand and an open bottle of champagne was clutched in the other. “I’ve called the police,” she informed us.
    “I already did,” David said weakly.
    “David, do you know what happened here?” Aunt Cynthia asked with a cool detachment that either came from shock or an effort to keep larger emotions at bay.
    Shaking his head, David started to crumble. “I was looking for her and she was in the water and I tried …” Tricia put a protective arm around him and he didn’t finish.
    Aunt Cynthia nodded slowly. “I thought I heard people in the pool, which struck me as curious at this hour.” She held up the champagne bottle and the shoes. “She must have decided to go swimming and hit her head or was just too impaired.”
    “But she’s fully dressed,” Tricia pointed out.
    “Alcohol encourages stupid choices,” Aunt Cynthia said as though that was the end of the discussion. I couldn’t believe how composed she was, standing over a dead body and talking like a public service announcement. How drunk was she?
    I didn’t get a chance to ask because the paramedics arrived and the noise of their arrival brought Mr. and Mrs. Vincent down. The paramedics didn’t have to do much to confirm that Lisbet was dead and they tried not to move her any more than necessary to preserve what might wind up
being a crime scene. Mrs. Vincent almost fainted, but Mr. Vincent, like his sister, reacted with glacial composure. But his was shot through with anger, even though he mainly seemed furious that something had happened without his permission and outside his control.
    When the heavy hitters—the medical examiner, the county homicide detectives—started arriving, Mrs. Vincent tried to get David to move inside, but he refused to budge. He said he needed to keep an eye on Lisbet. So he sat hunched on a chaise lounge; his mother sat beside him, her arms wrapped around him, trying to keep him warm and calm. She seemed to be losing on both fronts.
    I could understand. The night breeze off the water was starting to get to me, as was the enormity of the situation, and I was several steps removed on the emotional involvement scale. Still, I was trying desperately not to shiver. I kept my jaw clenched and hoped the detective didn’t take it as a sign of obstinacy or belligerence. He had already gotten plenty of that from Mr. Vincent and Aunt Cynthia, who had talked to him with the clipped tones of