St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

door opened. Alma’s angular, aloof face appeared in the narrow opening. The maid didn’t say a word.
    “Miss Winifred is expecting me,” Carly said.
    Alma hesitated just long enough to make Carly angry before she stepped out of the way and grudgingly allowed the guest inside. Alma looked mussed and irritated, as though she’d been interrupted in the middle of some important task.
    “You’d be much more attractive if you’d smile,” Carly said pleasantly in the language Alma acted as if she didn’t understand. “Perhaps if you smiled more, you’d be married.”
    Alma’s eyes narrowed slightly, telling Carly what she already knew: the maid understood English quite well.
    “But not all women are suited for marriage, are they?” Carly continued in the same friendly voice. “Though it’s a pity you don’t have Miss Winifred’s resources. Being a housemaid at seventy sounds quite bleak.” Carly’s sympathetic smile was all teeth.
    Alma was forced to smile and nod in return, the timeless response of someone who didn’t comprehend a language—or wanted to appear not to understand.
    “Very good,” Carly said. “You’re quite pretty when you smile.” For a bitch.
    The maid turned abruptly and led the way through a living room, past a small kitchen-dining area, and through the double doors that combined Winifred’s bedroom with her sister’s rooms. With a curt gesture, Alma turned and walked away, her spine straight and her dark slacks rumpled.
    Carly took in the room with a glance. Sylvia Quintrell was a slight, motionless mound beneath the blankets of a hospital bed. An IV dripped fluid and medicines into her body. A feeding tube lay concealed beneath the blankets. The bed was positioned so that its occupant could look out over the patio gardens and pool. The murmur of Jeanette Dykstra’s muckraking talk show Behind the Scenes came from an old TV set.
    The room was hot enough to grow orchids.
    Winifred sat in a leather recliner next to the bed. She was wearing black—blouse, jacket, slacks, and shoes. It wasn’t out of respect for the recently dead Senator. Black was simply her preferred color.
    Her eyes were closed and her right hand was wrapped around her sister’s slack fingers. An old, heavy Indian turquoise ring and matching cuff bracelet rested uneasily on her lean hand and wrist. The silver gleamed with the soft patina of constant use.
    Slowly Winifred opened her eyes. They were dark, full of emotions. Carly wondered if the older woman would be willing to share those emotions with the family historian she’d hired, apparently over the protests of the rest of the Quintrells.
    “Sit down,” Winifred said, gesturing toward an overstuffed chair. “Take off your jacket.” She leaned forward and fed a chunk of piñon into the fire. “I keep the room warm for Sylvia.”
    Gratefully, Carly peeled off her jacket and hung it over the arm of the chair. “Thank you.” She looked toward the bed. “How is she today?”
    “Same as every day.”
    Right, Carly told herself. For now, I’ll shelve the topic of Sylvia Quintrell.
    Winifred shifted the recliner lever so that the chair supported her legs. The soles of her sturdy shoes were scuffed and worn. Her skin was pale beneath its normal olive color. She looked exhausted and determined in equal measure. Breathing seemed to be an effort.
    “We could do this tomorrow,” Carly said. “The funeral must have tired you.”
    Winifred waved a gaunt hand, dismissing the younger woman’s concern. “I’m fine.”
    Carly twisted the microphone pickup so that the tiny head was pointed toward Winifred. The sound quality would be uneven, depending on who was speaking, but she was used to that. She opened her laptop, called up the Quintrell file, and prepared to type as needed.
    “You’re aware that my recorder is on?” she asked.
    “You told me that whenever I saw you I should assume I’m being recorded,” Winifred said. “I have a good memory, Miss May. I don’t need any fancy gadgets to tell me what I heard a few hours ago.”
    Neither did Carly, but the recordings sure saved arguments over who said what and when.
    “I envy your memory,” Carly said, checking that the computer was ready to go. She had a digital camera, too, but didn’t want to start taking pictures until everyone was more at ease with her.
    “Where do you want to start?” Winifred asked.
    “That depends on what you want to accomplish. How far do you want to trace the