“You’re kidding me,” says David, setting his beer can down on a nearby table.
“Coaster,” says Judith.
David finds one. “You guys really went ahead and wasted our taxpayer dollars doing an autopsy on a ninety-four-year-old man?”
“Unbelievable,” mutters his wife.
“This is why Dad’s property taxes are through the roof.”
“When did you become so right-wing, David?” snips Michael.
“When he realized you liberals were bankrupting this country’s future,” says Judith.
“Your father,” says Ceepak, cutting off the family feud, “was, as we feared, poisoned.”
“What?” says David. “No way. That’s impossible.”
“To the contrary. Dr. Kurth found the evidence to be persuasive and conclusive. Someone slipped a cyanide capsule into your father’s medicines.”
“Christine,” mutters Judith. “I knew it. I told you.”
She glares at me. Hard.
“I hope you’re happy, Officer Boyle. Seems your hot little girlfriend is also a cold-blooded murderer.”
“Christine?” says Michael. “You’re insane, Judith. Why on earth would that sweet little nurse kill Dad-ums?”
“Because she’s psychotic.”
“Oh, come on …”
“Why did she attack my sister?”
“The woman is sick,” says David, swilling the dregs out of the bottom of his beer can.
Judith turns on him. “Shona? My sister?”
“No. I meant Christine. She has that STD. We never should’ve let Dad hire her.”
“Um, excuse me,” says Michael. “I believe you two were the ones who recommended Ms. Lemonopolous for the job. You even persuaded Dad to terminate that first gal, what was her name? Kaufman?”
“Kochman,” says Judith. “Joy Kochman.”