Sisters have an emotional patois only we can understand – we can speak fluently to each other only using eyes. What our eyes were saying right now was A detective? Why?

The detective summoned us into the backyard a few moments later. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he growled in a ten-pack-a-day voice. He peered at the world from beneath veined, saggy eyelids and his hair appeared to have been groomed with salad tongs. ‘When there’s an unexpected fatality, we usually rely in the first instance on good old-fashioned door-knocking and talking to friends and family. When suspicions are aroused, we tend to work backwards from the scene where the death occurred,’ he monotoned, utilising the brute vocabulary of his profession. ‘An officer has spoken to your mother’s neighbours. Apparently, some of them overheard a quarrel here yesterday.’

Our secret sisterly ocular semaphore resumed its bewildered broadcast.

‘Do any of you have any plans for the next few days?’

WTF? our eyes said to each other, more loudly this time.

‘I’ll probably just be sitting around tweezing my stray facial hairs,’ Emerald replied, before adding, curtly, ‘We have a funeral to organise, so obviously we’ll be here. Why do you ask?’

‘We’d just prefer it if you didn’t leave the area while we conduct our inquiries.’

Inquiries? The whole house was suddenly smudged with unspoken thoughts.

‘We’ll need to investigate and send our reports to the coroner, who will make a decision about whether to hold an inquest.’

‘An inquest?’ Emerald remarked, brusquely. ‘Why?’

‘Sleeping pills and alcohol have been located in the vicinity of the dead body. Toxicology reports take a while, so, in the meantime, it’s routine to determine the approximate time of death as well as any possible motives, alibis . . .’

‘Alibis?’ Amber repeated, wide-eyed with disbelief.

‘Yeah, well, usually the victim’s will is a dead giveaway. As in, who’s gonna benefit?’ The detective smiled without warmth. He now stood like a conquistador, with his scuffed black shoe on the pebblecrete lip of the pool.

Emerald put her lips through a series of gymnastic contortions. I thought she was going to cry, then realised she was merely trying to hold back from a giggling collapse.

‘How can you find this funny?’ Amber asked, agog.

‘How can you not?’ Emerald rebutted, emitting a raw, guttural bark. ‘Mum’s still making our lives a misery – even from beyond the bloody grave.’

I laughed then too, a bravura burst, bordering on mania. ‘You see, Detective, our mother was to parenthood what myxomatosis is to rabbits,’ I tried to explain between bouts of mirth.

This simile set Emerald off once more. Her explosion into a barrage of throaty howls caused Amber to also succumb, windmilling her arms to keep her balance as she rocked back and forth.