“Suspicious death out at Pasadan.” His frown pulled at the lines in his face.
Enid stood amazed. She had investigated thefts and fraud, households that tried to barter the same bags of grain or barrels of cider twice, or that reneged on trades. She’d broken up fights and tracked down assaults. She had investigated bannerless pregnancies—women who’d gotten pregnant either because their implants had failed or, more rarely, because they’d thought to have a baby in secret. Keeping such a thing secret was nearly impossible—to her knowledge no one ever had. Though she supposed if they had managed to keep such a secret, no one would ever know. If you asked most folk, they’d say a bannerless pregnancy was the worst of the work she did. The hardest, because she would be the one to decide if the case was an accident that could be made right, or a malicious flouting of everything the Coast Road communities stood for.
Murder had become rare. Much rarer than in the old world, according to the survivor stories. It still happened, of course; it always happened when enough people lived in close-enough quarters. But Enid never thought she’d see one herself. And maybe she still wouldn’t; suspicious death was only suspicious, but Tomas seemed grim.
“Maybe you’d better come in and explain,” she said.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
Tomas made himself at home in the kitchen, settling into a chair at the table.
Olive, still at the counter kneading bread, looked up. “Hey! Company! Can I get you some tea—” The bright greeting was habit; she stopped midsentence, her eyes widening. It was the uniform. Always a shock seeing it, no matter if an old friend like Tomas wore it.
“I’d love some tea, thanks,” Tomas said. “How are you, Olive?” His tone was friendly, casual—an everyday question, not the pointed one Enid and the rest of the household had been asking her for the last week, and so Olive was able to give him an unforced welcome.
“Just fine,” she said, wiping her hands on a dishcloth then scooping fresh leaves from their jar into the pot. “If this is about work, I can leave you two alone . . .”
“It’s all right,” Tomas said. “You’re busy—stay.”
Olive finished prepping the teapot, then went back to her dough, slapping the fourth batch into a smooth loaf, round and puffed and smelling of yeast.
“So what’s this about?” Enid asked. Suspicious death was frustratingly nonspecific.
“A committee member at Pasadan requested the investigation. Man in his thirties, no other information.”
“That’s maybe thirty miles south, yeah?” Enid asked. “Not a big place.”
“Couple hundred folk. Stable enough, mostly subsistence farming and some trade. Healthy community, everyone at regional thought.”
“But are they really thinking murder?”
At the counter, Olive stopped kneading and glanced over, blinking disbelief.
Sam wandered in then, barefoot, shirtless, all wiry body, brown skin, and ropy muscles. Her Sam was thin but powerful. Folk thought he was weak, until he hefted fifty-pound bags of grain on his shoulder with one hand. He stood fast in storms.
“Murder? What?” he muttered sleepily, then saw Tomas and the uniform. “Oh, it’s work. I’ll go.” He started to turn around.
“Stay, Sam,” Tomas said. “Have some tea.”
Sam looked at Enid for confirmation, and she hoped her smile was comforting. This would be all right; this was her job, after all. And Sam was family, part of what made her able to do the job. Someone to come home to.
“Morning, dear,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
He sank into a chair at the kitchen table and accepted a fresh mug from Enid. “Murder, you said?” He tilted his head, a picture of bafflement. Who could blame him?
Tomas continued. “No one’s said the word ‘murder,’ but they want us to check.” He turned to Enid. “You up for that? You’re due to carry this one as lead.”
“Well, yes. Someone’s got to, I suppose. But—are there witnesses? What happened?”
“Don’t know yet. They’ve saved the body. We’ll see what we see.”
“If they’ve got a body on ice, we ought to hurry,” she said.
“I was hoping to foot it in a couple hours, after we’ve had a chance to go through the records.”
Well, that was her day planned then, wasn’t it?
“Is everything going to be all right?” Olive asked.