Page 22 of A Murder is Going Down

We’re both startled, just a little, by the sound of the doorbell, but neither of us moves to answer the door. From our spot in the kitchen, we have a clear view of the front door and the outline of a figure on the other side of the stained glass.

‘Should we get that?’ I ask.

Patrick shrugs at me. ‘You’re the one who lives here.’

‘You’re staying here.’

‘Temporarily.’

Fair point.

A mechanical whirr announces Elena, who whizzes from the living room down the hallway to the front door.

When the door opens, there’s a man who looks around Elena’s age. He’s dark-haired and cute, dressed a bit like a lumberjack – but with hipster intentionality – and the way he bends down to hug Elena has a certain familiarity to it.The stranger says something to Elena we can’t hear and she says something back. (This is riveting stuff, I know.)

I nudge Patrick with my shoulder, meaningthis could be the affair guyand he nudges me back with his hip, which I interpret asno shit. His hip is so bony it might hurt if my own wasn’t so well-padded.

Elena and the Maybe Affair Guy are coming back up the hallway.

‘How are you holding up?’ Maybe Affair Guy says as he and Elena into the living room, not noticing Patrick and me gaping without so much as a newspaper or a pair of fake glasses to hide behind.

‘There are good days and bad days,’ she says, and if theyaresecret lovers they’re covering it well with these tedious platitudes.

‘I’ve got a great book on grief,’ he says, ‘really helped me when Sooty died.’

When they’ve gone, Patrick and I look at each other.

‘I hope Sooty wasn’t his dog,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t actually compare a dead dog to a dead husband, would he?’

‘Have you ever met a dog person?’

‘Okay, Sooty was definitely a dog.’

‘We’ve got to talk to that guy,’ Patrick says.

‘And say what?Are you shagging the widow?’

‘I’d word it a little differently. Maybe let me do the talking?’

‘You think you’re more diplomatic than I am?’ I ask, outraged.

‘I think I’m not going to use the wordshagging.’

‘Boningis the classier choice, you’re right.’

Patrick surprises me with a laugh that’s not even a laugh but a guffaw. There’s no other word for it. I didn’t think people guffawed in real life, but here he is doing it.

‘Follow me,’ he says.

Patrick takes us out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Elena and the Maybe Affair Guy are by the table. Elena seems on edge, although it’s hard to say whether that’s because she’s not in the mood to entertain a guest who compared the loss of her husband to the death of his dog, or because she’s not in the mood to make chat with her secret boyfriend at her dead husband’s quasi second wake.

I’m surprised by how little it bothers me to consider Elena might have been cheating on Felix. I’m a hypocrite, of course, because when I found out about Ben and Lilia I climbed so high up on my high horse I could have touched the sun.

‘Elena,’ Patrick says, giving her a smile so warm I’m tempted to take off my cardigan. ‘Can I do anything helpful, like get you two some drinks?’ He cranks the smile up another notch for the mystery man. ‘I’m Patrick, Elena’s brother.’

Maybe Affair Guy holds out his hand, as social nicety requires, his smile almost matching Patrick’s. ‘Adam,’ he says. ‘You look familiar, have we met?’

‘Were you at Elena’s wedding?’ Patrick asks.