Page 20 of Chosen Path
He stepped into the room. The plaid couch on which Corrine Wolf had died was flush against one wall, centered under a large gold-framed mirror. A glass-topped end table sat on either side of the couch. The light from the lamps bounced off the mirror and cast a glow, almost like a halo, over the dead woman.
Corrine’s corpse listed to the left end of the sofa. Her left elbow dangled over the sofa’s arm at an awkward angle, indicating that full rigor had set in. Based on the degree of rigor mortis, she’d been dead at least ten to twelve hours.
Bodhi crouched in front of the sofa and studied the dead woman. She wore a long flannel nightgown with a quilted dressing gown buttoned over top of it. Her feet were covered by heavy wool socks. He shifted his focus to her face. Her eyes were closed. Something glistened on her face, near the corner of her mouth.
He leaned in for a closer look. Mucus, most likely. His eyes traveled down her neck, right shoulder, and outstretched right arm. Her right hand was curled into a fist that rested on the couch cushion. Something white poked out from between her index finger and her thumb. He squinted at it. He was fairly certain that if he pried her hand open, he’d find a used tissue. He remembered the nasty cough that both Hope Gardener and Molly had mentioned.
Could Corrine have coughed herself to death? It was a possibility, he knew. He recalled a journal article in which the authors had undertaken a review of complications associated with coughing. Bodhi’d been mildly surprised to learn there were multiple ways to die from coughing. While rare, it happened.
Ideally, there would be an autopsy. At a minimum, he’d need to examine the dead woman’s body under better lighting to venture an opinion. If she had died as the result of a violent coughing fit, it meant she wasn’t part of whatever death cluster might exist in Scandia Bluff.
He sat back on his heels and imagined how her last minutes of life might have gone. She was dressed for bed, so why was she sitting on her couch? Perhaps her cough had kept her up and she’d decided to sit up for a while and read, watch television, or have a cup of tea or a glass of water. It was a plausible scenario—except for the fact that no book or magazine rested in her lap, there wasn’t a glass or mug sitting on the coaster on the end table, and the television was dark and quiet on its stand across the room.
Had she just been sitting there, doing nothing? He, of all people, could hardly fault her for that. Sitting with a quiet mind was an art. Perhaps she had been praying or meditating or simply breathing. At least, until she wasn’t.
May you be at peace.He took one last look at the dead woman and wished her well, then dug his mobile phone out of his backpack to call Molly and let her know she’d lost an eighth patient.
CHAPTERTEN
Whosoever being rich does not support mother or father
when old and past their youth,
let one know him as an outcast.
The Buddha, The Outcast, Snp 1.7
* * *
Hope leaned to one side to peer out into the waiting room and listened hard. Doctor Hart had left the exam room to take her phone call but had left the door open. Hope could see her standing in front of the big bay window with her back to Hope as she whispered into her cell phone in a low voice. Hope couldn’t make out the doctor’s words, but her tone was somber and resigned.
After a few moments, she ended the call and returned to the examination room.
“You were right,” she said without preamble. “Corrine is dead.”
“I know.” She hadn’t thought for a moment that the woman could be anything but dead.
Doctor Hart eyed her. “You said you found your mom?”
“Yes,” she croaked, forcing out the word as it tried to stick in her throat.
“I’m so sorry. That must have been difficult.”
The doctor’s voice was gentle and full of an understanding that made tears prick at the corners of Hope’s eyes. “It was. Very.”
“Doctor King’s going to wait for the police at Corrine’s house. In the meantime, your color’s returned. What do you say to a cup of tea in the kitchen? Or I could make you some soup.”
Hope forced back her tears and lowered herself from the exam table to her feet. “Oh, no, I couldn’t impose, Doctor Hart.”
“At this point, I think you can call me Molly—if you’re comfortable.”
“Uh, okay, Molly. I appreciate the offer, but I should really go. I’m already late for work.”
She plucked her coat off the hook on the wall and fumbled with the buttons, cursing her stiff and clumsy fingers.
“Hope.” Molly rested her hand on Hope’s forearm.
“Yes?”
