Page 20 of A Murder is Going Down

Now

‘What did you mean about Elena in the wheelchair, by the way?’ Marianne asks, throwing me off my stride with the question I expected ten minutes ago.

‘Sorry?’

‘Patrick said that Felix put Elena in the wheelchair. What does that mean? What happened to her?’

‘It was an accident. Felix left a bag at the top of the stairs and Elena tripped over it and fell down the stairs.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is she a paraplegic?’

‘No, she can walk with a stick – she’s had a lot of physio. But she can’t walk long distances and she has a bad limp.’

‘Did she blame Felix?’

‘I never heard her say that.’

‘Was it really an accident?’ Marianne asks. ‘A wife has a bad accident at home with her husband and her husband dies soon after. It would make a good book.’

‘This actually happened,’ I remind her.

Marianne gives me another long look I can’t decode and I’m getting a little sick of them. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Go on.’

‘I’ve forgotten where I was.’

‘You and Patrick had this mad idea to invite Felix and Elena’s friends over so you could talk to whoever was there the night that Felix died,’ Marianne says immediately, proving that she’s been paying attention. ‘If thiswasa book, someone else would die at the party, you know.’

‘Nobody died.’

‘I saidif. He sounds cute, by the way. Is he cute?’

‘Who?’

‘Patrick, of course.’

I think about Patrick: the lean, string-beanness of him, the hair that always ends up over his eyes, the dimples that blossom on his cheeks the way weeds push up through cracks in a footpath.

‘Sure, I guess.’

Marianne smirks. ‘Knew it.’

Then

Three days later I’m at the party that nobody can call a party, because you don’t throw parties this soon after your husband’s death. Aunty Sam’s rose-pink kitchen bench is lined with empty wine bottles, abandoned glasses have left rings of condensation on the bookshelf and the music, something jazzy, so it’s definitely Aunty Sam’s choice, is getting louder.

It’s a decent turnout, with thirty-ish people packing out the living room. I couldn’t bring together half the number of people if I had twice the lead time, which is a bit bleak. Some guests are sombre and speak in hushed tones abouthow tragicandtoo youngandhasn’t Elena been through enough, while others are three drinks in and clearly settling in for A Session.

Aunty Sam brought a big-arse photo of Felix into the living room, only for Elena to return it to her room two minutes later. Fair enough. Staring at a photo of my recently deceased husband probably wouldn’t put me in the party mood either.

Patrick is either having fun or faking it better than anyone I’ve seen: he flits from one group to another, introducing himself, chatting and flirting with men and women indiscriminately. He’s abandoned his usual look – t-shirt and shorts with crew socks – for a button-up shirt and jeans, which makes him look almost old enough to take one of the beers chilling in the esky.

This charming version of Patrick is slightly off-putting, but I can see how it works, the way he inspires confidence in strangers to treat him like he’s the best friend they never knew they had. I’d love to know which version of Patrick is the real one: the funny but kinda rude one who claims he doesn’t care what people think, or the flirty charmer who tells everyone exactly what they want to hear. I’m hoping it’s the former – otherwise it’s possible I got talked into taking part in a murder investigation on the strength of a bike ride and nostalgia for stolen profiteroles.

When I’m not unspooling over that unwelcome possibility, I’m floating at the edges of the party, swappinghelloswhen I’m not telling gueststhe bathroom’s down the halland to the left. Mostly, I eavesdrop while pretending to clear glasses or refill the guacamole bowl.