Whatever. He’d earned a choice spot on my shitlist.
I finally found the street I needed and made my way down a street lined on both sides by identical duplexes. It could have easily been horrifying in an institutional and Conform! sort of way, yet I saw that the residents here found all sorts of ways to add character to the cookie-cutter structures and make their own place unique. Even through the driving rain it was easy to note personal touches, from carefully tended flower beds to small additions like gazebos or rock gardens, to choice of paint colors. I had no doubt that everyone who lived along this street was a renter, and it impressed me that, with rare exceptions, they all seemed to take pride in where they lived. I’d never lived in a rental a day in my life, and right now the biggest “personal touch” I gave my house was to keep the weeds hacked down to something that could resemble a lawn.
Derrel’s Dodge Durango and the St. Edwards Parish Sheriff’s Office crime scene van were already parked by the curb in front of my destination. I only saw one unmarked unit, which told me that this was the type of death that didn’t require a horde of detectives.
I parked behind the unmarked car, then pulled on a raincoat I’d picked up at Goodwill during my Gala shopping. On a normal-sized human it would probably hit mid-calf, which meant it was ankle-length on me. And when I paired it with the white rubber shrimp boots I currently sported, I had every confidence it would keep me awesomely dry. The only drawback was the polka-dots. Lots and lots of polka dots in varying sizes and in eye-searing colors. Fine. I’d be dry and visible.
Detective Abadie sat in the front seat of the unmarked car, typing on his laptop. I rapped hard on his window as I passed and gave him a big bright smile when he jerked in surprise. He raked a gaze over the raincoat, rolled his eyes, and gave me a sour look before returning his attention to his laptop in a pointed dismissal. I laughed and continued up to the house with the stretcher and body bag. Abadie didn’t like me—though he’d once clarified that he didn’t hate me, he simply didn’t like me, which somehow made all the difference in the world and made it particularly fun to harass him in any innocuous way I could.
This duplex had a small but tidy front yard and a utilitarian, no frills look about it. A couple of pieces of white wicker outdoor furniture and nothing else on the porch. Derrel stood there, out of the rain, and looked up from his notepad as I approached. “Nice slicker,” he remarked. “Four more days, right?”
I got the stretcher and myself under shelter, pushed my hood back and shook the worst of the water from my raincoat. “Is everyone counting down to my GED test date?” I asked in mock exasperation.
“Sure thing. There’s a big calendar down at Double D’s Diner.” At my shocked look he laughed. “I’m kidding, promise! Figured that might be a bit too much pressure on you.”
“Ya think?” I said, then gave a weak laugh. “I’m barely holding it together as it is.”
“You’ll do great,” he stated with such utter conviction that it was hard not to believe it.
“Thanks, Derrel.” I slipped my raincoat off and draped it over the back of a chair. “So, whatcha got here?” I asked with a jerk of my head toward the house.
His eyes dropped to his notes. “Brenda Barnes. White female, twenty-eight years old. Roommate found her dead on the bathroom floor about an hour ago. No obvious trauma.”
“Y’think it might be drug overdose?” Sadly, the death of someone that young was far too often the result of such a thing. I should know. Hell, it had been an OD that got me turned into a zombie.
But Derrel shrugged, shook his head. “Doubtful. No vomit or pulmonary edema. The roommate, Ginger Nelson, swears the victim wasn’t a user, and there were no pill bottles or other evidence of that.”
“I guess that’s both good and bad,” I said with a slight wince. “I mean good in that it wasn’t a bullshit way to die.”
“Agreed. So for now I’m not inclined to call it a suicide or an OD, though toxicology will show that for sure.” He closed his pad. “The roommate said she turned the victim over when she found her, so we don’t know what her original position was, but she stated that it looked like the victim simply fell to the floor.”
I nodded. Perfectly natural reaction to move the person to see if they were okay or to try and help them. It was only a big deal when it was a murder or anything suspicious, since moving the body could alter or wipe out evidence.
Derrel pulled out his phone and stepped away, no doubt to call Dr. Leblanc and give him the rundown. Pushing the stretcher before me, I headed inside. The décor within echoed the bare, no-nonsense feel of the exterior. Simple furniture: couch, loveseat, and coffee table, with scrapes and dings that spoke of their age. A modest-sized TV. A bookshelf made of cinder blocks and pine boards with an assortment of worn paperbacks, knick knacks, and framed pictures on it. Yet everything was clean and tidy, and I got the impression the “no-frills” look was due more to a careful hoarding of available funds than a lack of creative personality.
In the living room, a young, teary-eyed brunette in jeans and a t-shirt stood with her arms hugged around herself. The roommate, no doubt. Ginger. That’s what Derrel said her name was. I heard the click of a camera shutter, and a peek down the hallway told me that the crime scene tech, Sean, was still working.
The young woman looked over at me where I stood by the stretcher. “This is horrible,” she said, voice quavering. “She was so happy.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, hating how empty the words sounded. But I never knew what to say to the bereaved. I usually didn’t have to say anything, since Derrel was the one to handle that stuff. He always knew what to say. For that reason alone I wasn’t sure I could ever be a death investigator. I’d fumble it and say something inappropriate, or worse, start crying along with the grieving friend or relative.
But apparently my empty phrase of condolence was all right. Ginger let out an unsteady sigh and shook her head. “She’d just gotten a break, and then this. It’s like a cruel joke.”
“What kinda break?” I asked.
Ginger dabbed at her eyes with the wadded up tissue in her hand. “She’d been unemployed for nearly a year—one of the first to be laid off by the factory. Then she got the call to be an extra in High School Zombie Apocalypse!!”
“Two exclamation points,” I said, then instantly regretted cracking a joke about the movie.
But a small smile touched Ginger’s mouth. “She used to laugh about that too. Pretty silly, I know. Still, the laid off workers were given first dibs. Sure, it’s temp work in a goofy movie, but it paid well, and an extra grand or so makes a big difference when you’re barely scraping by, y’know? Brenda said it was like winning the lottery for a bunch of folks.”
I nodded in understanding. Barely scraping by and I were old buddies.
She sighed and crumpled the tissue in her hands. “And even beyond the money, she was having the time of her life. They’d even talked to her about doing a small part in another production.”
“I bet being in a movie totally rocked,” I offered.
She smiled a bit again. “Whenever Brenda got home she’d tell me all the cool little details.” She reached for a stack of pictures on the coffee table, pulled three out and handed them to me. “Look, here she is with and without makeup.”