It took longer to get a response than Mary had anticipated. By the time she’d screamed twice, and no one had come running, she opened the bedroom door and tried again. “Help! Someone, help! Ella’s dead! She’s dead!”

Even that took longer than it should have. It was Henry Caron who reached her first, dressed in pajama pants and nothing more. “What’s going on?” he asked in his thick French accent. Mary might’ve forgotten she was upset that her friend was dead if she had stared at his chiseled chest for too much longer, but he pushed past her into the bedroom.

“It’s Ella! She’s dead!” Mary pointed at the...