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“No, I don’t. But I remember she also works for Hetta, keeping the Writer’s Lodge clean. So I just figured she might be a good place to start my investigation. Maybe she saw something or remembers something.”

“I highly doubt it,” said Gran, pursing her lips. “The woman is batty.”

“Why do you think she’s batty?” she asked after a pause. Gran sometimes had a habit of judging people too harshly, and being very vocal about it.

“Because she keeps singing to herself, that’s why. I caught her at it a couple of times.” She leaned closer, but still spoke loud enough so that everyone in the waiting room could hear her. “She sings to herself and wiggles that enormous butt of hers while she works. Can you believe it?”

Odelia smiled.“Plenty of people sing while they work, Gran.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“It’s because you have to answer the phone, and talk to people. Rohanna listens to music and sings along just to make the work go faster.”

“I’m telling you, the woman is batty. Either you work, or you shake your ass. You can’t do both, unless you’re an exotic dancer, and trust me, no one is going to pay good money to watch Rohanna Coral strip and hug a pole.”

“Gran!”

“What? It’s true.”

Shaking her head, Odelia went in search of Rohanna. She checked examination room number two, which served as a backup in case Dad’s workload became too much, and he called in the assistance of a colleague from one of the neighboring towns. She found Rohanna, earbuds in her ears, softly humming along with the music, shaking her tush, just like Gran said.

She was a large woman, and had a considerable tush to shake around, that was true enough, though Odelia didn’t see anything wrong with a woman enjoying her work. She tried to catch Rohanna’s attention, and finally walked up to her and gave her a tap on the shoulder. Rohanna removed the earbuds and eyed her askance, as if to say, ‘Whaddya want?’

“Hey, Rohanna,” she said. “Sorry to trouble you, but could I ask you a couple of questions about Paulo Frey and the Writer’s Lodge?”

If the name was familiar to the cleaning lady, she didn’t give any indication. Instead, she frowned and asked, “Who?”

“Paulo Frey? He was one of the writers who used to stay at the Writer’s Lodge. One of the regulars. He disappeared last year.”

Her frown deepened. It was obvious she didn’t like to be interrupted while working. Or perhaps her favorite song had been on, and she hated to miss the opportunity to sing along. “I remember him,” she finally said. “Isn’t he the skinny one who writes those gruesome thrillers?”

“He was a thriller writer,” she confirmed. Whether he was skinny was up for debate. Judging from the pictures she’d googled he looked pretty average.

“What about him? Did he finally decide to show up again?”

“Well, he did show up,” she said, wondering how to break the news gently. “Um, Rohanna, you might want to sit down for this.” She gestured at one of the chairs and Rohanna, shaking her head and clearly not happy about this, did as she was told.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

In a few carefully chosen words she explained that the police had fished the body of Paulo Frey out of the cesspit, and Rohanna was understandably shaken. She placed a hand on her voluminous chest, which was heaving dangerously.“Dead?” she cried, her voice rising. “He’s dead? But how?”

“He was murdered, Rohanna,” she said gently. “Someone murdered him and tried to hide the body.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, her face a mask of distress. “He was such a nice man. A great tipper. Used to leave me a sizable tip at the end of his stay. Said I was the best, on account of the fact that I always left a bottle of bourbon on his pillow when he arrived. Hetta wants me to leave chocolates, and I usually do, but Paulo told me the first year he hated chocolate. So I always left him one of those small bottles of bourbon.”

“I see,” she said. “So he was fond of drink, huh?”

But Rohanna wasn’t listening. She shook her head. “He was always full of stories and jokes. A real live wire. Whenever I was down at the lodge he used to tell me stories of his writing career. The most hilarious stuff. He once told me he had dinner with the President and the First Lady at the White House, and he and the President got drunk and decided to play golf on the White House lawn. In the middle of the night!” She looked up at Odelia. “Whodunit, Miss Poole? You tell me whodunit and I’ll kill the bastard.”

“They don’t know yet. The police only found the body yesterday.”

“How?”

Odelia explained about the laptop, and Rohanna nodded.“He was crazy about that laptop. It contained all of his manuscripts. All of his precious books. His entire life’s work. He never went anywhere without that laptop. It would have been impossible for that laptop to be down there and not…” She swallowed with difficulty, tears suddenly flooding her eyes, and broke off.