“But where am I going? The motel again?”
“Afraid not,” I say, fishing my key ring out of my pocket. “Too many tourists in town. You’re going to stay at my place until we come up with something better.”
Christine looks either confused or interested. One of those.
“I’m going to bunk with the Ceepaks,” I add quickly. “Do you know the Sea Village Apartment Complex?”
“Sure. It used to be a motel, right?”
Christine is correct. But the motel owners realized they wouldn’t have to work so hard sanitizing toilets for people’s protection if they charged by the month instead of the week.
“I’m in one-eleven. There’s a parking spot right outside the door. Sorry about the bed. I forgot to make it this morning. Oh, you might want to pick up some toilet paper, too. I was running a little low.”
Christine surprises me with another hug.
“Thank you, Danny.”
She scurries off into the house.
“So,” I say, “should we call Dr. Kurth?”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak, shifting back into Robocop mode. “The rattling of his bed prior to his death adds fuel to my mother’s suspicions. It could have been death throes, the sudden, violent movements those dying often make immediately prior to their passing …”
“Or?”
“It could’ve been a convulsion, Danny. From cyanide poisoning.”
And so we call Dr. Kurth.
Ceepak has her office, home, and cell numbers.
Yes, over the past few years, we’ve kept the county medical examiner’s office kind of busy.
We finally reach her on her cell. At her daughter’s soccer game. Ceepak puts her on speakerphone.
“Sorry to disturb you, Rebecca.”
“What’s up, John?”
“We need a quick autopsy.”
There is an awkward pause.