It was only a matter of minutes before the ambulance arrived, no sooner hung up the phone, they could hear the sirens coming. And then almost just as quickly ….the paramedics pronounced Fiona Bishop dead.
And then it was a whiplash of events that followed.
Before the police showed up Grant and Faun sat stunned on the Bishop’s couch next to each other, staring into the room they sat in; the main part of the downstairs was their sitting room; a lavishly furnished room much like the bookshop with the addition of a harpsichord and a standing harp; there were bookcases everywhere filled with books; and books piled on the floor in neat stacks all over the hard wood floor. The colors were deep earthy tones of dark browns and greens with an occasional brick red here and there…. snd sitting there, it was impossible not to imagine Fiona walking through the room and laughing about something she heard someone say at the shop….
“Did you smell any carbon monoxide?” Grant suddenly asked her out of the blue
For a moment Faun tried to remember ….
“No actually,” she said thoughtfully
“Neither did I,” he said ponderously
Then she sat bolt upright and looked at Grant,
“King Leopold!”
Grant sat up too and faced her—he would have stood but he was still in shock and the sudden head rush he got sitting up m, prevented him from standing up just yet.
He looked at her then away, biting his lower lip as he then played absently with his facial scruff; he considered this. Then he looked back at her,
“he can’t have gone too far, he doesn’t like rain—plus, he’s a mastiff—he’s almost taller than you, someone would have seen him, I should think, and maybe taken him in….” and now he stood up feeling more confident that he could. He turned to look out the window, “it’s likely a good thing he wasn’t here or he’d —maybe be dead ….too,” still as he said this he began walking around the huge room and searching outside through each window, trying not to panic over another crisis, “god,” he said, “that’s all we need now….”
“The neighbors all know him….” Faun stood up too and began doing what Grant was doing but it was pitch dark out with the exception of the other houses across the street with their lights on —as it was now half past seven in the evening.
And then the lights of the police cars lit up the road as they looked out.
“It’s the police!” Faun gasped
Grant glanced at Faun and walked straight to the front door where only moments ago the paramedics had rolled Fiona Bishop out on a stretcher; sheet over her face.
Grant did a quick inhale. Then out. Then stood by the door and watched from the window as four cops got out of two police cars from where they had parked; right out front on the curb. They left their lights flashing on the top of their cars and the spinning, luminous, red cast an eerie light on the evening. It was a formidable image to watch from the living room window of the Bishop’s house. Past the chess pieces, they stormed through, pushing wide the gate and not shy about the pieces they wore on their hip.
Three very loud knocks followed,
“Police,” the biggest of the four stated through the door—Faun could see him clear from the window
Grant opened the door.
In loud pounding footsteps they entered the house, all looking around suspiciously before settling their attentions on Grant and Faun.
“Officer Sullivan,” he held up his badge with terrifying authority and narrowed cold blue eyes on both of them.
And then it was a long grueling duration of questions, all asked bluntly in fast succession before getting their statements; and in the middle of this —another authority made his entrance; arrogantly cutting in and interrupting the cops’ procedures
“Who are zese people?” the oily little msn asked Officer Sullivan with a heavy French accent; he wore a long black trench coat and he had dark greasy hair with an odd mustache
“I’m sorry—and you are?” Grant asked the oily little man
“I am Chief detective Pierre Reaux!” the little man straightened his back to make himself appear taller as he looked up at Grant, “and I will be investigating the events of tonight!”
It seemed quite unbelievable that any of this was happening; it was like something out of the mystery section, Faun was thinking
“Did he say Poirot?” Faun looked up at Grant wondering if maybe this was a surreal dream
Grant wasn’t sure either and looked back at Faun wondering the same thing
Chief detective Pierre Reaux heard this though and sneered, and with an insulted tone and heavy sarcasm said as he looked down his nose at them,
“I am not from Belgium—I am from Montreal!”
Faun had a moment to wonder to herself ‘so what are you doing here?’ and rather unimpressed by the man’s arrogance— instead of caring to be embarrassed that he caught the reference (it had to be the shock from the evening) Faun felt outraged! Grant had just found his family member dead —and now this little twit shows up!
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