Page 10 of A Fabulously Unfabulous Summer for Henry Milch

“So, I went and talked to Detective Lehmann,” I said, leaving it dangling there in the air.

“And?”

“He didn’t want to tell me much, but this is what I found out. He thinks Reverend Hessel was killed by a meth addict with a blunt instrument during a burglary attempt.”

“That makes sense, doesn’t it?” She seemed very pleased.

“I’m pretty sure there wasn’t any money taken, though. Detective Lehmann wouldn’t say, but I think if there were money taken, he would have.”

“Why does that matter?”

“I don’t think a meth addict would forget the money. They’d be desperate. I mean, even if all they got was whatever was in the reverend’s pockets. They’d still have taken it.”

“A drug addict is probably not very smart.”

There was a bit of sting in that. If I were a drug addict I might have been offended.

“He didn’t want to tell me whether the blunt instrument was something already in Reverend Hessel’s office or something the killer brought with him.”

“What difference would that make?”

“Well, if the killer brought the blunt instrument with them, then they planned to kill Reverend Hessel. Which does imply it was someone who knew him. If they used something in his office, then it was likely spontaneous. Which might still be someone who knew him or—”

“Yes, but you said it was a burglar. They didn’t expect Reverend Hessel to be there. So it had to have been… spontaneous.”

I wanted to say, ‘In that case what did they use and where is it?’ Instead, I said, “That’s probably right.”

Pleased with herself, Nana Cole smiled and said, “It’s tourist season. It was probably someone from out of town.”

“So, you’re thinking it’s someone who came up planning to hike and buy fudge and go boating, but at the last minute decided to add ‘kill a reverend’ to their itinerary?”

She gave me a withering look. Seriously, I felt my roots die.

“Is that all you found out?”

“He didn’t really want to tell me anything.”

“Well, that’s not worth a thousand dollars.”

“You’re going to welch on the deal, aren’t you?”

“It’s just not a lot of information.”

“I asked him to call you when he found out more.”

“And is he going to?”

“Absolutely.”

CHAPTER THREE

I don’t belong here. This is not where I should be.

I had those thoughts a lot. Seriously, I was completely wasted in Masons Bay. I suppose you’d call me a twink. Now, in case you don’t know, a twink is a young guy, thin, with excellent hair and mucho sex appeal. Some people use the term derisively, comparing us to the famous, over-processed snack cake. But since there are a whole lot of attractive men interested in twinks it’s not so bad.

Unlike a classic twink, my hair was brown (though sometimes I went blond), my eyes were brown and soulful (I get told that a lot) and my features symmetrical. Well, they were symmetrical until I’d smashed my face into a steering wheel. My nose had not yet recovered.

Tragically—since I was nearly twenty-five—I would only be a twink for a few more months. I really had no idea what I would do. The only plan I’d been able to come up with was moisturizing more and lying about my age.