“What are we looking for, Miss Marple?”
“Look! See that tree?” I pointed at the screen and the huge oak tree to the left side of the Tudor house, its great branches close to the upstairs window. “Was that Sophie’s bedroom? The killer could have climbed in through the window and stolen the remote.”
“That’s a lot of supposition, Daisy. Here at the police department we need to deal in cold hard facts.”
I sucked in a breath at his condescending tone.
“Plus a person would have to be pretty athletic to climb a big tree like that, shimmy along a branch, and pop in through a window.”
I thought of PJ Avery, hiking and climbing rocky cliffs up the sides of volcanoes in Nicaragua, but pushed the thought from my mind. Anyway, her passport stamp put her in the clear. “Does the report say if a remote was found on the scene or not?” I couldn’t help the hint of impatience that crept into my voice.
Serrano raised an eyebrow, but gestured to one of the detectives on the other side of the room. “Dodson. Come here.”
I recognized the detective who ambled over. It was one of Ramsbottom’s old cronies. Serrano had cleaned house when he took over, but Dodson was a holdover.
“Sophie Rosenthal,” Serrano said. “Insulin overdose last February. Remember seeing her remote anywhere? It isn’t mentioned in the report.”
“Yeah, it was there. On the bedside table.” Dodson splayed his legs apart and crossed his arms.
“Could someone have come in while she was sleeping?” I asked.
“Negative. The house was locked up tight.”
“Was the room cold when you went in? Colder than the rest of the house?”
“Yes, but—” Dodson blew out a breath, his eyes dark and glittering. “Look, I already told you. The house was locked up tight. Windows, too.”
“Who found the victim?” Serrano asked.
“Harriet Kunes tried to call her that morning and couldn’t get an answer, so she dialed 911. The victim’s nephew was away in Boston on business, so we had to break the door down.”
“Was there a visiting nurse or anyone else who might have had access?” I asked.
Dodson shook his head. “Sir, is that all? I’m kinda busy right now.”
I bit my lip. Sophie Rosenthal had died alone, in a locked-up house. Being an agoraphobic, she wouldn’t have gone into the outside world where someone could have had the opportunity to tamper with her insulin paraphernalia. The only people who had keys—PJ and Chip—were either out of the country or three hundred miles away.
“Where’s the stuff from the crime scene?” I demanded.
The husky cop glared at me. I probably wasn’t his favorite person for helping to put his old boss Ramsbottom in the slammer. He’d had a nice, cushy existence back then. Now he was actually having to put in a full day’s work.
“It wasn’t a crime scene,” he snapped. “There was no reason to suspect foul play, so we didn’t take anything.”
I slumped back in my chair.
Dodson smirked at me. “That Kunes woman helped the nephew clean a lot of the personal stuff out of the house. But she’s a goner now, too, so I guess you’re outta luck.”
As he ambled away, I grinned widely at Serrano.
Being the pack rat that Harriet was, there was still a chance. A slim one, but a chance, none the less.