Kissed a Sad Goodbye

and peered in the windows. Maybe tomorrow she’d have a chance to buy the music books Wendy had recommended, and at next Saturday’s lesson—assuming this case allowed her to go—she would actually start playing the piano.
    Last night, after putting Toby to bed, she’d dimmed the lights and poured a glass of white wine from the open bottle in the fridge. Then she’d stood, hesitating, looking out into the twilit garden. As much as she valued her all too infrequent opportunities for solitude, she’d felt itchy, unable to settle; she wondered if a few minutes’ quiet chat with Hazel would help her erase Annabelle Hammond’s image from her mind.
    As she’d quietly let herself out of the flat and made her way across the garden, she blessed the chance that had led her to the Cavendishes. Hazel had not only offered to care for Toby, along with her own daughter, while Gemma worked, but she’d become a much-valued friend as well. In many ways, Gemma felt closer to Hazel than she did to her own sister, for she’d learned blood was no guarantee of sympathy or common interest.
    She’d found Hazel and Tim sharing a quiet moment at the kitchen table, drinking mugs of hot cocoa. “I’m interrupting,” she’d said, one hand still on the doorknob. “I’ll just say good night.”
    “Don’t be silly. Come and sit down,” Hazel had said, patting the chair beside her. “I’d offer you cocoa, but I see you’ve brought your own tipple,” she’d added with a I glance at Gemma’s wineglass. “Hard day?”
    “A right bugger.” Gemma had wandered over to the table but hadn’t sat. “And you can imagine what Toby was like after a day at Cyn’s. He fought going to sleep like it was the end of the world, then passed out from one second to the next.” Touching the soft knitting wool in Hazel’s basket, she’d added, “Would you mind if I went into the sitting room for a bit?”
    Tim had looked up from his paper and smiled. “Help yourself.”
    She’d wandered into the sitting room, drawn by the piano. Sliding the cover back, she’d run her fingers lightly over the keys just for the smooth feel of them, then pressed a few randomly, listening to the notes vibrate and die away.
    She couldn’t imagine that she would ever be able to string the notes together in a way that would make music—and after her talk with Wendy Sheinart, she found herself trying to work out why she had such a strong desire to do so.
    There had been a case the previous autumn that had unexpectedly opened up the world of opera for her, and she’d found herself fascinated... and since moving into the garage flat, Hazel’s wide-ranging collection of CDs had allowed her to sample everything from piano concertos to improvisational jazz... and then in the spring there had been the street musician with the clarinet, who had drawn her to listen whenever she passed the Sainsbury’s on her way home from work. An odd coincidence, she thought fleetingly, that Reg Mortimer had described a busker with a clarinet, but surely it was no more than that.
    Having asked her why she wanted to play the piano, Wendy Sheinart had accepted her fumbling attempt at an explanation with a smile. “You don’t have to understand it,” she’d said. “I think perhaps a need to make music is innate with some of us, and background and experience don’t figure into it. And it really doesn’t matter. I just wanted to be sure you were doing this for you.'”
    “Here we are.” Kincaid touched her arm, and with a start Gemma realized she’d been about to walk past the doors to the morgue. He gave her a quizzical glance. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not all here this morning?”
    Gemma smiled and pushed the bell for admittance. “Sorry. I was gathering wool.”
    “Then I envy the sheep.”
    The door swung back and they identified themselves to the ponytailed young man in spectacles.
    “Dr. Ling’s expecting you,” he informed them as he ushered them in.
    Kincaid frowned. “Dr. Ling? Would that by any chance be Kate Ling?”
    “In the flesh,” said a white-smocked woman as she emerged from the postmortem room. Dark hair as straight as broom bristles framed her pale, oval face and swung just above her shoulders. The pathologist’s dark eyes gleamed with the wicked humor Gemma remembered. They had worked with her in Surrey the previous autumn, on a case that had resulted in the death of one of Gemma’s friends and the near-fatal injury of another.