Page 14 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

Since the Naught family had apparently made an outing to a winery that day, I had some time to kill before I could interrogate—er, interview them. And I had an idea of how to do it.

I made the drive out to Clatsop Parcel and Freight again. The old warehouse and attached office building didn’t look any better today. Those dismal strands of tinsel fluttered dispiritedly in the breeze. The warehouse parking lot held a mixture of cars—drivers and warehouse workers who were still trying to fulfill last-minute deliveries. The office parking lot, on the other hand, held a single car, which caught my attention—what had dragged in an office employee on a Saturday?

My last, unauthorized entrance to CPF hadn’t exactly gone as planned. I thought an encore might lead to me spending my first Christmas in the county clink. And while there was something romantic about that idea—me, a rebellious trespasser, and Bobby, the servant of law and order, two star-crossed lovers holding hands on Christmas Day through the bars of a cell door—I think Bobby would have preferred a non-incarcerated boyfriend for our first Christmas together. So, I parked in the office lot and tried the front door.

It was locked.

On the other side of the glass, the office was dark, but if I shaded my eyes and smushed my nose against the glass, I could make out someone moving around inside. I knocked. Then I rapped a little more insistently on the glass. And then I shouted, “Hi! Hey! Hello!” It was the kind of assertive social interaction that made me break out in hives.

I could barely make out the figure inside waving for me to go away.

I kept up my tapping-rapping-hallooing.

Let me tell you: two minutes of that kind of stuff feels way longer than you’d think.

Finally, the person on the other side must have realized that dealing with me, however annoying in the short term, was infinitely better than putting up with that for the next hour. They moved toward me, and a deadbolt thunked back, and the door opened a few inches.

She was White, middle-aged, and she had graying hair cut short and combed into stiff little wings on either side of her head, which kind of looked like a flight helmet and kind of looked like the standard haircut some ladies got after A Certain Age. She had a phone pressed to her ample, uh, bosom, as she said through the cracked door, “We’re closed.”

“I just need to talk to Luz. To Ms. Hernandez, I mean.”

She gave a scoffing little laugh. “Good luck.”

“It’s very important.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said, trying to close the door.

I gripped the handle and did my best to keep it open.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m handling an emergency.”

“Is there anyone here who can help me?”

“No,” she said. “Now please let go—”

At that exact moment, I saw Luz. She was hurrying across the warehouse parking lot toward a beat-up old Civic. I released my grip on the door, and the woman let out a startled cry as the door slammed shut.

I hurried after Luz.

Her blond quiff looked bedraggled in the sunlight—with a distinctive orange tint that no real blond had ever had. She was jingling a set of keys in her hand, and she walked with her head down and her shoulders turned in.

“Luz?” I called.

No response.

I picked up the pace, and as I drew closer, I called again, more loudly, “Luz?”

She flinched and whirled around. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she had that rough, overnighter look that no amount of coffee can totally get rid of. She held her keys in a fist, the sharp edges turned out like an improvised weapon.

Holding up my hands, I said as calmly as I could, “Hey, it’s me. Dash. Uh, Chaz, remember? From yesterday?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Funny you should ask. Hoping to talk to you, actually.” The breeze picked up, and the cold cut through my coat and made me shiver. “Do you have a minute? Maybe we could step inside?”

“No!” The word was too sharp and too fast. She took a breath, wiped her free hand on her thigh, and said in a painful attempt at normal, “No, I can’t. I’m—I’ve got to go.”

“Uh, right. Well, I wanted to ask you about the drivers’ routes. I know you don’t know their routes, but I was wondering who might—”

“I can’t talk to you.” She hurried around to the driver’s side, the keys clinking as she sorted through them. “I’ve got to go.”

“I just wanted to know who assigns—”

“I’m sorry,” she said as she threw the door open. “I’m late.”

Before I could argue, she threw herself into the Civic, slammed the door, and sped away.

I tried not to dwell on it, but the fact that the Jinx St. James plan had worked better than mine was a bitter pill to swallow.

Without any other genius ideas, I wound my way back to Hemlock House and convinced myself to take advantage of the time. I needed to make some progress on this novel. At the bare minimum, I needed to make some decisions about the plot. And I was going to make those decisions today. I was going to be efficient. I was going to be pragmatic. I was going to lock down this outline so I could start writing.

At least, that was the plan.

Quicker than I could believe, night had fallen, and it was time to pay a visit to the Naughts. The glow from the Christmas lights softened the shadows behind me as I drove away from Hemlock House, and then I entered the forest, and darkness closed around me.

It had been a gray, gloomy day, and it made for an even gloomier night. The fog was thicker than usual among the Sitka spruce. And even though it was cold enough that I had the Pilot’s heater all the way up, it apparently wasn’t cold enough for ice, because when the headlights swept across ferns and hanging moss, drops of water glistened. I thought about turning on the radio or playing some music on my phone. But I didn’t. Instead, I started thinking about Bobby again.

Until now, I had successfully avoided ruminating on the absolute weirdness of our interaction in the cruiser earlier that day. But now, alone in the SUV, I couldn’t avoid it anymore. What had happened? I’d complimented him on how he’d handled Sissy—I mean, I thought it was a compliment. I knew Bobby was good at his job. I knew Bobby took pride in being a good deputy. And while I knew comparisons could be seriously bad news, I couldn’t help thinking about how Bobby’s ex, West, had been so un supportive of Bobby’s career. They’d fought about it. A lot. If you could call it a fight, when West got angrier and angrier, and Bobby nodded and agreed and got quieter and quieter.

Like how in the cruiser that morning, he’d said, Thanks.

And then that was it. The conversation had pretty much been over.

It made me want to say all the words that would have gotten Rudolph kicked out of the reindeer games. It didn’t make any sense. Bobby and I hadn’t been fighting. We’d been doing the opposite of fighting. (Actually, maybe the opposite of fighting was, um, adult time, but you know what I mean.) I’d been trying to be positive and supportive and encouraging about Bobby’s career. I had always tried to be supportive. Even when Bobby and I had only been friends, I’d known how much it meant to him to be a good deputy.

Oh my God, I thought. Were we in a fight?

The thought was so disorienting that I actually couldn’t think of an answer. With West, it had been obvious because West had been so vocal, so angry. But Bobby’s behavior had been the same. I remembered the way he’d said, Can I turn off the lights , and I felt that same sense of disorientation as another thought spun around me: Was Bobby fighting with me ?

No.

That was—

I mean.

But he couldn’t . Bobby didn’t pick fights. Bobby didn’t get mad. Bobby was patient .

I took several deep breaths. My heart was racing. My hands felt stiff, and my joints throbbed like miniature pulse points. Flop sweat had broken out under my arms, and that familiar tightness closed around my chest.

Maybe it was because of Ryan’s stupid username, but the realization that bubbled up was: You’re about three french fries short of a full-blown panic attack .

(People say that, right?)

Part of me thought I should pull over. Another part of me thought if I pulled over, I would have a full-blown panic attack. Instead, I lowered the window. The cold air rushed in, wet and bracing with the smell of balsam. Against my flushed face, it felt wonderful. My eyes stung, and I blinked them clear. Then the tires bounced as I started to go onto the shoulder, and a fresh—and more immediate—fear ran through me. I brought the Pilot back onto the road.

Drive, I told myself. Just drive.

It wasn’t as easy as that. Thoughts kept bubbling up. But I drove, and I managed to stay on the road.

When I pulled up in front of Millie’s house, I parked and killed the engine. My hands had stopped shaking; now they felt numb. I couldn’t tell if my pulse was racing. My eyes were so dry they felt gummy, and I realized one of the Pilot’s vents was blowing right in my face. I angled it away from me.

I should go home, I thought. I wasn’t in any condition to be investigating. I should go home and call Bobby and—

Apologize? For what?

But Bobby wouldn’t be home. He was working another double, and then he’d have Christmas Eve off, which worked out perfectly because he had to work on Christmas, so we were going to do all our celebrating on Christmas Eve, and—

And I could see it, everything we’d talked about and planned, not only Christmas but—but everything. Everything I’d planned, even if I hadn’t said it to him. Hadn’t said it aloud to anyone. Because Bobby was a prize, and I didn’t want to scare him off by saying something insane like, You’re perfect, and I’m never going to let you go .

And at the same time, I could hear him rolling over in bed, in the dark. Hear him saying, Thanks .

How long had that kind of stuff been going on with West before Bobby reached his breaking point? How long before even Bobby, who was so responsible, who was so controlled, who wanted so badly to do what was right, which for Bobby meant fixing things—how long before even Bobby couldn’t do it anymore?

I reached for the keys that were still in the ignition; I didn’t have a plan, but going inside was better than sitting here.

And that was when the front door of Millie’s house opened.

In the yellow rectangle of light formed by the doorway, Christine appeared first, then Millie. Christine called back over her shoulder, “We’ll be back in one minute. You keep playing!”

Then the door swung shut, and Millie and her mom stood there. In the porch light, they were like partially finished drawings: the outline of their heads, their shoulders, a hint that the artist was going to play with shadow and light.

If you ever needed proof that I’m a bad person, here it is: I slid down in my seat.

“What is wrong with you?” Christine said. Millie didn’t respond, and there was a sharp sound that at first I thought was a slap, and then I realized it was Christine clapping her hands. “You can’t stop talking for five seconds, and now you don’t have anything to say? I asked you a question.”

“But he’s cheating—”

“No, he’s not!” It was close to a shout. When Christine spoke again, it was with the only slightly lower volume of someone who was almost literally trying to swallow their anger. “No, he’s not. And even if he was, who cares, Millie? It’s a game. Elliott is your sister’s guest.”

“And Keme is my guest.”

It wasn’t a tone I was familiar with from Millie—a surprisingly adolescent challenge.

But Christine clearly was an old hand at it. “We’re not talking about that boy. We’re talking about—”

“His name is Keme.”

“We are talking about,” Christine repeated, enunciating each syllable clearly, “your behavior tonight. When we were having a very pleasant conversation, you wouldn’t stop interrupting—”

“Because nobody was asking Keme any questions.”

“And then you kept asking those ridiculous questions—”

“Because it doesn’t make any sense. He said his condo had a view of the river, and then he said he could see the Rose Garden. He can’t have both!”

Another of those sharp claps came again. The silence that followed made me think of the way candles guttered.

In what Will Gower would have called a lethal tone , Christine said, “You have been unbearably rude tonight. Jealousy is not a good look on anyone, Millicent. You might think about how it makes you look to behave like that in front of that boy.” I heard the front door open, and Christine said, “Do you know what would be nice? It would be nice if once—once!—somebody else could be the center of attention.” Then, she called out with artificial cheer, “Elliott, don’t go anywhere! I want you to tell Matthew all about that stock thingy you were explaining to me.”

The door shut, and then there was silence.

And more silence.

Was she crying? I couldn’t hear anything, but I thought she was. She must be, right?

I didn’t have much experience with Millie crying, but I suddenly realized one of my core convictions in life: anybody who made Millie cry deserved to be slowly flattened under a steamroller.

I probably would have sneaked a peek—or done something even stupider like gotten out of the SUV to check on her—but I’d sunk down so far that my spine was L-shaped and I was mostly in the footwell.

That was when I heard the front door open and close again.

On a night as still as this one, even Keme’s voice carried. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Millie said, her tone too bright and teetering. “I’m fine.”

Then no one said anything.

“I was about go back inside—”

“She shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

More of that silence.

Look, I didn’t want to eavesdrop. If anybody else had overheard my most intimate conversations with Bobby, I would have spontaneously combusted, and then I would have collapsed into dust, and then my ghost would have swept up my remains and dumped them into a dustbin. (It’s from an episode of The Simpsons .) But I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. I couldn’t even turn on music or try to read because I was on my way to becoming permanently pretzel shaped.

“It’s fine,” Millie said with that same see-sawing certainty that everything is okay . “She’s just stressed about Christmas.”

“She’s not just stressed. She does it all the time.” He paused. “I’m going to say something.”

“No, Keme, come on. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me.” And then, his voice husky with emotion: “I love you. Everything about you is a big deal to me.”

“I know. I love you too. I just want everyone to have a nice Christmas and get along.”

“We can’t get along. Not when she—she bullies you like that. Not when your sisters are mean to you right in front of me. And they all pretend I can’t hear them, like I’m not even there. Jeez, Millie, your mom wants me to be the donkey. ”

“This is a big change for them,” Millie said. “They don’t know you yet. They’re going to love you once they get to know you.”

Keme’s silence was its own answer.

“We have to keep trying,” Millie said. And then in a burst of enthusiasm I was more familiar with, “We can tell them you applied to ARCADIA!” I didn’t hear anything, but Keme must have shaken his head because Millie said, “Why not? Everyone will be so excited for you—”

“No, Millie. They won’t. And I don’t know why you—” Keme cut off with a sharp sound. “I thought we were done with that. I’m not doing that. I’m not going to that stupid school.”

“Keme, that’s what people do after high school.”

“Not you.”

“But that’s because I’m not smart.”

“Yes, you—”

“You’re so smart , Keme. You’re a million times smarter than me. You have to go to college.”

“Why? So I can get a job? So I can make a lot of money? So I can end up like those two jackanapes in there?”

(Side note: Keme did not say jackanapes.)

“That’s not—” Millie tried.

“So your mom will finally like me because I drive a Range Rover?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you don’t want to end up like me—”

“Quit saying that!” Keme’s shout made me start, and I cracked my knee against the dash. When he spoke again, his voice was only slightly more under control. “The only reason you say stuff like that is because of your mom.”

The silence grew. And grew. I could almost see it, spreading outward from the epicenter.

“I think I’m going to call it a night,” Millie said, the words stiff.

“I’m trying to help you—”

“No, you’re not. You’re mad because you never have to do anything you don’t want to do, and now you do. Well, don’t worry about it. You don’t have to be in the Christmas pageant. You don’t have to spend time with my family. You don’t have to go to college. You can do whatever you want, Keme.”

The boy didn’t answer.

Then his steps started to move away.

Millie called, “Where are you going?”

But there was no answer again.

“You can’t walk. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Nothing.

“Keme, come on. It’s freezing.”

I inched up from my seat in time to see Keme’s silhouette shrinking toward the end of the block. His back was to us, and he was shaking his head. Millie, with the grainy porch light still sifting down onto her, stared after him. And then she went inside.

Somehow, I managed to unbend my spine. I got upright in my seat and reached for the Pilot’s keys. I couldn’t drive right up and offer Keme a ride; he’d immediately suspect something. But I could loop around, wait for him to come out on a bigger street, and happen to drive by…

Yeah, I thought. That’ll work.

Honestly, it probably wasn’t a huge deal. Keme would be able to get back to Hemlock House. He had his own ways of getting around Hastings Rock that he’d never shared with me—I wanted to think he owned a bike, but I had the terrifying suspicion that hitchhiking was more likely. Either way, the reality was that unless Keme called or texted for a ride, there wasn’t much I could do. If I showed up unexpectedly, he’d probably indulge in every hitchhiker’s favorite pastime: killing the driver and hiding the body.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt if I stayed in the area, in case he needed something—and so I could make sure he got home safely.

Before I could start the Pilot, though, the front door to Millie’s house opened again, and Millie emerged. She glanced left and right and then hurried toward the street.

I watched her and tried to figure out what I was seeing: her head was down, her shoulders turned in, and she was carrying a plastic bag close to her side. The word that came to mind was furtive . The second word that came to mind was sneakery .

And Millie wasn’t a sneak. I mean, it was almost biologically impossible for Millie to be a sneak. (Imagine a spy who did all his work through a megaphone.) Millie was transparent to a fault, as a matter of fact.

So, what was she doing?

My first thought was that she was going after Keme. But if so, she wouldn’t look so…suspicious, would she? Where else could she be going? If Millie were a different type of person, I could see her going to a bar after a fight with her boyfriend. Or to a girlfriend’s house. Or maybe a late-night, uh, rump call. (Is that the polite term for a booty call?) But Millie wasn’t that kind of person. Millie was a Last Pick, which meant I knew all her friends, and I had the sneaking suspicion she wasn’t going to visit Indira so they could drink wine and give each other mani-pedis while they watched…I want to say Clueless ? (That’s my new ship, by the way: Mindira.)

Millie’s Mazda3 started up. The headlights came on. And she pulled away from the curb.

I sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness from all earnestly good and patient deputy-boyfriends everywhere, and then I started the Pilot and went after her.