Page 69 of Unnatural Death

“What the heck?” Fabian stares at the plastic container I’m holding. “I was wondering why there were holes in the lid. Figured you were air-drying something. Where’d he come from?”

“The scene at Buckingham Run,” I reply.

“Entomology evidence?” He takes the container from me, holding it up to the light. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

“He caught a ride with us. It’s too cold to leave him outside,” I reply as the cricket ventures out of his hideaway box. His big dark eyes stare through plastic.

“Hello there,” Fabian says to him. “It’s not the Ritz but nicer than most things around here, tiny friend. Way better than being in the snow. And you need anything? I’m your guy.” He returns the container to me. “When I was a kid, one of my girlfriends used to have pet crickets. She’d give them names like Banshee, Zombie, Voldemort. All of us would watch horror movies together.” “That figures.” Marino is typing a text. “Let’s see if Norm answers. He probably won’t. If we don’t get decent security around here pretty soon, something really bad is going to happen.”

“It’s top on my list to discuss with the governor,” I reply.

“Only the males chirp, by the way,” Fabian says. “They can bewatch cricketsand very protective.”

“Sounds like bullshit,” Marino replies.

“What else has gone on in our absence besides the trespassing drone and all the rest?” I ask Fabian. “Did you hear from Fruge about the dentist? What about any luck with the Nokesville case?”

“I haven’t talked to Fruge. But I did spend time on the phone with the Prince William County investigator, Wally Jonas,” Fabian explains.

“Talk as we walk,” I reply, and the three of us head down the corridor.

“I don’t think the Mike Abel death is high on the list of priorities,” Fabian explains. “I get the impression that mostly it’s been a squabble between insurers and lawyers. Wally told me there’s nothing new to report, but any questions you have, Doctor Scarpetta? He recommends you talk to the widow. She’s going to be your best source. Bonnie Abel, forty-three years old—”

“Talk to her about what?” I interrupt.

“About her son and what might have happened on August fifth when he supposedly wasn’t home. Wally said he’s suspicious the kid is hiding something. Possibly, he was home after all. Maybe he witnessed what happened and for some reason has kept it to himself …”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Marino is visibly annoyed that I’d have Fabian looking into anything.

“The tractor death in Nokesville three months ago,” I answer, and Marino wasn’t with me on that occasion.

He and Dorothy were spending their anniversary weekend at a resort on the Chesapeake Bay. Fabian was the death investigator and transported the body to the morgue in one of our vans. We were told the victim’s wife was out of town visiting family when the three-ton tractor flipped over, trapping Mike Abel under it from the neck down.

His injuries were devastating, and he died quickly at the scene. I was there when rescuers hoisted the tractor off him. He was still warm and limber as in life, and I could smell his sweat when I examined him in the cornfield. I remember the weather was hot and humid. He was wearing overalls with no shirt. His sunglasses were still on, his Bass Pro Shops baseball cap not far away in the dirt.

* * *

“For a while I heard from lawyers, insurance claims adjusters, an investigator from the Department of Agriculture. But never the widow,” I tell Marino and Fabian as we follow the corridor, passing labs and workrooms, the observation windows dark.

“I’ve not gotten any calls about the case from anyone in the past month or two, I’m pretty sure,” I explain. “The tractor death didn’t enter my mind until we were flying over the dairy farm this morning and I realized how close it is to the Mansons’ place and the scene inside Buckingham Run.”

“The widow, Bonnie Abel, is an accountant. Her son, Ledger Smithson, is from her first marriage.” Fabian continues telling us what he knows.

“As in aledgerbook?” Marino asks. “That’s what an accountant names her kid? Guess she wanted to make sure he got picked on in school.”

“The biological father was a financial advisor,” Fabian says. “Bonnie handled his firm’s bookkeeping until the office building burned to the ground with him in it eight years ago.”

The fire started while he was working alone at night, drinking bourbon, possibly falling asleep with a lit cigarette, Fabian explains. This was in Williamsburg where Bonnie and Ledger were living at the time. Next, she moved in with an attorney whose Piper Cub crashed into the ocean not long after. Two years ago, she interviewed for the bookkeeping job at Abel’s Dairy in Nokesville.

“Mike Abel, forty-nine, dated a lot of women but never married and no kids,” Fabian tells us. “It didn’t take long before Bonnie and Ledger were living in his house.”

“She must have a way with the guys,” Marino says. “What does she look like?”

“Pamela Anderson pretty based on photos I’ve seen. She hasendless legsandbig ideas, as my mom would say,” Fabian replies with air quotes. “Based on some of what I’ve seen on her social media, she’s got some extreme ideas. I don’t believe we vote for the same kind of people.”

“Did Wally Jonas indicate whether Bonnie and Mike Abel might have been acquainted with the couple one farm over? Brittany and Huck Manson?” I ask Fabian as we near the elevator. The ceiling light that was flickering this morning has been fixed, and the floor has been mopped, not a drop of blood anywhere.

“It’s hard to imagine they didn’t at least run into each other from time to time,” Marino adds.

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