Mourn not your Dead

by a half-empty bowl of cereal but made no move to resume eating. “I’m glad you’ve come,” she said a bit awkwardly, clasping her hands in her lap. “I wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday, letting Geoff go home and all.”
    “Geoff’s friends were responsible for that. He seems to have quite a few.” Kincaid pulled up a chair in the breakfast nook, and Gemma did the same, but she still found it odd to be sitting so casually in this room.
    “I don’t think he realized until last night. He never thinks he deserves people caring about him.”
    Watching the expression on the girl’s heart-shaped face, Gemma wondered if Geoff felt he deserved Lucy’s love— for she suddenly had no doubt that love him Lucy did and with all a seventeen-year-old’s capacity for passion.
    “Lucy,” said Kincaid, “do you think you could help us out with something, since your mother’s not here?”
    “Sure.” She looked at him expectantly.
    Gemma wondered how Kincaid meant to handle this. When they’d stopped in at the station, a quick check of Gilbert’s impounded diary had confirmed Kincaid’s memory. When he asked, with exaggerated patience, why he hadn’t been informed of the connection, the constable in charge mumbled something about “just assuming the commander had rung his wife.”
    “First rule of a murder investigation, mate,” Kincaid had said, an inch from his face, “which you should have learned at your guv’nor’s knee. Never assume.”
    Now he tackled the other, unspoken, assumption first. “Is your mum in the habit of working late, Lucy?”
    She shook her head, her hair swinging with the movement. “She likes to be here when I get home from school, and she never misses it by more than a few minutes.”
    “What about the night before Alastair died? Was there anything unusual about that?”
    “That would have been Tuesday.” Lucy thought a moment. “We were both home by five or so, and then later Mum watched an old movie with me.” She shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
    Kincaid straightened the table mat, aligning it precisely with the edge of the table. “Did Alastair ever ring your mum at the shop?”
    “Alastair?” She looked baffled. “I don’t think so. Sometimes he’d have his secretary ring here and leave a message on the answerphone if he were going to be delayed. And sometimes he didn’t let her know at all. Alastair wasn’t one to put himself out for people,” she added. “Even when Mummy broke her wrist last summer, he didn’t leave work. Geoff went with me to pick her up from the hospital. I only had my learner’s permit then.”
    “How did it happen?” asked Gemma.
    “Driving along the road that runs through the Hurtwood. She said she hit a monster pothole, and the wheel jerked so hard it snapped the bone in her wrist.”
    “Ouch.” Gemma winced at the thought.
    Grinning,. Lucy added, “It was her right hand, too. I had to do everything for her for weeks, and she didn’t like it a bit. Poor Mum. Kept her from biting her nails, though.”
    Kincaid glanced at his watch. “I guess we’d better not wait for her any longer. Do you mind if I make a quick call from Alastair’s study, Lucy?”
    When he’d gone, Lucy smiled a bit shyly at Gemma. “He’s very nice, isn’t he? You’re lucky you get to work with him every day.”
    Nonplussed, Gemma searched for a response. A week ago she would have agreed easily, perhaps even a touch smugly. She felt a pang of loss so sharp that it took her breath, but she managed a smile. “Of course I am. You’re quite right,” she said finally, trying for conviction, then did her best to ignore Lucy’s puzzled expression.
     
    “WELL?” SAID GEMMA WHEN THEY REACHED THE LANE AGAIN. “I think we can be fairly sure that it was Malcolm Reid that Gilbert called.”
    “I should’ve twigged sooner,” Kincaid said, his face set in an irritated frown.
    Gemma shrugged. “That’s a bit pointless. Like saying you should remember what you’ve forgotten. What’s next?”
    “I’ve got the Reids’ home address, but first, let’s give Brian a try.”
    Leaving the car in the lane, they walked to the pub, but found it shut up tight. Kincaid’s knock on the door brought no response. “First thing Sunday morning’s not the best time to beard a publican in his den, I suppose. I remember Brian saying he wasn’t a morning person.” Turning away, he added, “We’ll have to come back, but just now let’s