corner. Set up as if to play or practice were three sets of drums and several types of cymbals; a rack of things that looked like kids’ rattles; three electronic pianos and organs; a series of bells, xylophones, and glockenspiels; and a white baby grand with the Bechstein logo above the keys. There was a body in a spreading wet circle in front of one case of instruments and a larger wet place in the carpet near her, the dampness extending beyond the taped outlines applied by the local LEOs.
“Stella Mae Ragel,” T. Laine said, identifying the DB.
I walked closer to the body and paused before taking three steps back. I did not need to see it again. It reminded me of bodies pulled from rivers, the skin slipping away from gooey, almost soapy tissue beneath.
Avoiding the wet spots, my bio-suited feet shushing on carpet that puffed with dust, I moved to the wide double French doors and partially opened the closed shades that covered the multipaned windows. Beyond the doors was a pea-gravel drive. I pretended to study the view, though that was more to give myself time to process what I had seen than to look out. Beyond the glass-paned doors I could see part of the barn, a large watering trough, the horse walking machine, and a length of four-board white-wood post-and-rail fencing. There was also what looked like a swimming pool with a horse in it, and two young girls standing on the cement edge, attending it.
The horses had a swimming pool. I shook my head.
Five teenage girls were sitting on top of the fence, watching the house. I made a mental note to get their names, get the names of everyone in or near the house in the last two days since Stella Mae got home from her tour.
With my stomach back under control, I closed the blinds and rejoined T. Laine, who was still standing near the body. It looked as if it had been dead for days, maybe lying in a steam room. She was wearing a three-quarter-sleeved T-shirt and jeans and was lying facedown, her hands under her torso as if she had tried to catch herself when she collapsed. The flesh I could see was at the neck, jaw, one elbow, the bottoms of her bare feet, and her dried crinkled hair. The body was swollen, stretched, dark with lividity, the skin bubbly under the surface. I couldn’t see her face and I was glad of that.
I took one last look at the body and turned away, sucked on the mint. Tried not to breathe. Tried not to see the body on the back of my eyelids every time I blinked.
Pointing at the tape outline and the wet carpet, T. Laine said, “The housekeeper was there. Sound booths and production room are this way.”
Breathing through the handkerchief in my mask, I followed her to the side and saw two tiny booths, not much bigger than my new shower at home, with a single metal chair, microphones, music stands, and headphones. A third room was larger, with a drum set and an electronic keyboard inside. Across from them was a room with a computer and a board with switches, sliders, and knobs, like I had seen on TV, except smaller and more compact.
Reading my mind, T. Laine said, “Brand-new soundboard with all the electronic bells and whistles, installed while Stella was on tour. The bath was upgraded too—Carrera marble all the way. The carpet in this entire lower level is spanking new, created specifically for deadening sound.”
“It’s awful dusty.”
“No. It’s disintegrating.”
“Oh. Okay.” I thought about the site and how much we didn’t know. “So people were in here while she was gone? Doing construction?”
“Yes. Dozens. They finished two weeks ago. I’m trying to get a list and find out if any of the construction crew are sick or missing, if anyone was a practitioner of some kind of arcane arts. The other body and the tour swag are in here.”
I still didn’t understand what swag was, but I followed T. Laine to the open door of a storage room, where she put out an arm to block my way. The stench that boiled out was worse than that in the main studio area. “The deputies got still shots, which I’ve uploaded to the case file, but we don’t need to spend time in there unnecessarily, even with the null pens.”
“Oh,” I said again. I managed to swallow my tongue back into place