Kissed a Sad Goodbye

few questions, Mrs. Lowell. If we could come in?”
    “Oh... of course.” She stepped back. “Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I was just putting dinner together and I think things have got a bit out of hand.”
    They followed her through a dining room that was painted a soft yellow and accented with the sunflowers they’d seen through the window, then into a comfortable kitchen that looked out on the back garden. A small girl stood on a step stool at the cooker, stirring something in a pan, and an older boy seemed to be trying to wrestle the spoon from her hand. The room smelled of onions, garlic, and spices, overlaid with the sharpness of cooking tomatoes. Spaghetti sauce, Kincaid guessed.
    “Give over, Sarah. You’ve got sauce all over the cooker.” The boy made another grab for the spoon but the girl snatched it back and turned with a howl.
    “Mummy! I wanna stir !” Tomato sauce dripped from the spoon to the floor in patterns like blood spattering.
    “All right, you two, that’s enough.” Jo Lowell removed the spoon from her daughter’s fist as she scooped her off the stool, then swiped the floor with a kitchen towel from the roll on the worktop.
    The boy flushed to the roots of his red hair. “I was just trying to help. It’s not my fault she’s made a mess. You always—”
    “Harry, please.” Jo Lowell’s exasperation made it clear that this was an oft-played scenario. “Would you take Sarah out into the garden for a few minutes?”
    As if alerted by something in his mother’s voice, the boy turned and really looked at them for the first time. “But—”
    “Harry.” Jo’s tone was firm.
    With a last glance at them, he capitulated. “Okay, okay.” Taking his sister by the hand, he said as he led her towards the door, “Come on, Sarah. I’ll let you bat.” Gemma smiled as the garden door banged after them. “A great sacrifice, bowling to your little sister.”
    Jo shook her head. “Harry’s life seems to be full of trials these days. But you don’t want to hear about that. Please sit down.” She gestured towards the breakfast alcove to the left of the back door, then turned to the cooker. Steam billowed from a large pot behind the saucepan. “Let me just turn these things off.” As she adjusted the knobs, the gas flames dwindled to blue, then sputtered out. She turned and leaned against the cooker, arms folded across her chest. “Can I get you something?”
    “No, we’re fine, thanks,” Kincaid said, studying Jo Lowell as he pulled out a chair for Gemma. A smudge of tomato sauce adorned her tee shirt, and her jeans were stained with splotches of paint; a cotton scarf held her dark auburn hair back in a careless ponytail. She wore no makeup and her skin was slightly freckled. He thought she looked a bit too thin, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well. Although attractive, she bore little obvious resemblance to the dead woman in Mudchute Park. But then there was the boy’s hair.... He seated himself so that he could see out the large window into the garden. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions about your sister.”
    “My sister?” Her surprise seemed so genuine that he wondered what she had been expecting.
    “Her fiancé, Reginald Mortimer, has made a missing persons report. He said he’d rung you?”
    Jo gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Yes, he did, but I just assumed Annabelle was still narked with him and had made herself temporarily unavailable.”
    “Then this has happened before?”
    “Well, no, it’s just that last night...”
    Before Jo’s hesitation could develop into real caution, Gemma interposed. “What happened last night?”
    “They were here—Reg must have told you—and I think they had a bit of a row. That’s Annabelle’s way if she’s cross with you—she cuts you off for a bit.”
    “Is that why they left? Because they’d had a row?”
    “Why do you want to know?” asked Jo Lowell. “Look, I think you’d better tell me what’s going—”
    “Have you any idea what the row was about?” Kincaid said, not yet willing to be deflected.
    “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Shifting her stance against the cooker, Jo clasped her hands together.
    “This was a dinner party?” prompted Gemma. “Celebrating anything in particular?”
    Through the open door, they could hear Harry’s continuous grumbling and Sarah’s high, strident voice making the occasional response. Jo glanced