Page 17 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

When I woke up the next morning, my head felt like it was packed with birdseed. (And in case the simile isn’t clear, that’s not a good thing.) It was ungodly early—before nine!—and somehow, I was even more exhausted than the night before. My joints were stiff, my eyes were gummy, and my skin felt like I’d traded down to a smaller size.

Normally, after a night as bad as the one before, I would have lazed about. I would have stayed in bed, staring up at the canopy, thinking about why Nathaniel Blackwood hadn’t installed one of those airport-style people-movers to carry me to the kitchen, and in general, feeling sorry for myself.

But I couldn’t do any of that because Bobby was asleep next to me, breathing softly. And since Bobby had to go to work in a few hours, I was determined not to wake him. That meant no binging Netflix, no mindlessly scrolling on my phone, no flopping onto my stomach and then onto my back again, pretending I was trying to sleep. Instead, I slipped out from underneath the covers as smoothly as I could—which wasn’t all that smoothly, actually; it took me a couple of weird, shimmying humps because I was trying not to pull the blanket off Bobby. By the time I finally got free, I was exhausted and thought I should probably lie down for a while.

But no, I told myself. My personal watchword was resolve. And fortitude. And resilience.

Besides, I could take a nap on the chesterfield.

I showered and dressed in my usual assortment of joggers, T-shirt (this one had the cover art for the original Super Mario Bros. ), and a hoodie, and then I went downstairs.

Low voices came from the kitchen, and when I pushed through, the smell of coffee and freshly baked sugary something met me. Fox and Indira were packing up loaves of Indira’s cinnamon streusel bread. Fox was dressed like a merchant marine had somehow conceived a baby with a T. rex . Their top layer was some sort of voluminous, pebbly trench coat thing that looked like maybe it was alligator skin (but was probably vinyl, because Fox wouldn’t have worn alligator skin), and underneath, they wore some kind of stiff white suit coat, complete with epaulets and brass buttons. They even had a jaunty little cap. Indira, on the other hand, wore her usual sweater and slacks.

I opened my mouth to inquire about the bread.

“On the counter,” Indira said.

I wasn’t quite ready for words, so I shambled over, helped myself to the waiting loaf of cinnamon streusel bread, and poured myself coffee from the carafe. As the sugar and caffeine hit my bloodstream, I made a noise.

“You slept ten hours,” Fox told me.

“No, actually, I didn’t.” I helped myself to another slice of bread. “I did that thing where it looks like sleeping, but you only feel more awful in the morning.”

“We heard about Paul,” Indira said. “Fox checked on Christine at the hospital, and I talked to Millie this morning.”

“You checked on Christine?” I asked.

“Did you know,” Fox said with a smirk, “you’re apparently not much of a sleuth?”

I groaned.

“If you can’t find ice cream in a hospital—”

“It was ten o’clock at night,” I said. “Where was I supposed to find ice cream?”

“—how are you ever going to catch a murderer?” Fox’s grin got bigger. “Not that you’ve caught one in months .”

They even sounded a little like Christine at the end—simultaneously scandalized and satisfied, the way people sounded when you failed to live up to their expectations exactly as they’d suspected all along.

Changing the subject seemed wise, so I asked, “How’s Millie?”

“She’s not doing well,” Indira said. “She seems to think this is all her fault.”

“Yeah, I talked to her about that. It’s not her fault. Whatever happened last night—” I stopped myself.

“What did happen last night?” Fox asked.

I told them about finding Paul and Millie’s report of seeing someone in a Santa suit.

“Why were you following her?” Indira asked.

So, I told them about Paul’s social media.

“You think Millie stole those packages?” Fox said. “Millie wouldn’t steal a stick of gum.”

“No, I don’t think Millie did. But I thought someone in the Naught family might be responsible. I was going over there to talk to them, and then Millie came out, and she was acting so suspiciously…I don’t know, I wanted to see what was happening.”

“You thought someone in the family was stealing those packages? Or you still think that?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. It didn’t come up when I was talking to the sheriff last night, but—” I stopped, took a bite of bread, and chewed slowly. After I’d swallowed, I said, “Is it crazy to think it might be Ryan?”

“Yes,” Fox said.

Indira’s expression, though, became thoughtful.

“I like the Naught boys as much as anyone,” Fox said. “They’re big kids—all they want to do is play, and once you get past their manic energy, they’re sweethearts.”

“In that case, you probably like them more than most people,” I said. “I saw them fight over a Happy Meal once.”

“They’re definitely not burdened with a lot of higher-order thinking,” Fox said. “And what you’re describing—watching Paul’s live streams to learn about valuable packages, then stealing the packages, and then tracking down Paul and attacking him to cover it all up—it’s way too complicated for Ryan.”

“Okay, that was my thought too,” I said. “But then, last night, Paul was still kind of conscious when we found him, and he was trying to tell Millie something like, ‘We were wrestling.’ That sounds like he got confused, but he remembered Ryan.”

“It sounds like he got smashed on the head,” Fox said. “That boy was out of his gourd; he could have said he was Princess Diana.”

I looked at Indira.

She still wore that distant look, but she shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine Ryan doing it.” She hesitated, and then she said, “The sisters, on the other hand.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “I didn’t even think about the sisters.”

“Because of your internalized misogyny,” Fox said.

“I’m not a misogynist!”

“Oh, then it’s just because you’re a bad detective.”

I stared at them. Agape.

“Don’t tease him,” Indira told Fox. “He had a hard night.”

“Plus he’s got the yips,” Fox told Indira. “That’s why he hasn’t solved a mystery in so long. Couldn’t even find the ice cream.”

“There wasn’t any—it was ten o’clock—it hasn’t even been two months!” I finally managed to sputter my way to “And why doesn’t anybody give Bobby trouble about not solving a murder?”

“Because Bobby doesn’t sit around all day picking lint off his underwear.”

“That was one time! And I was trying to decide if I could save them!”

“All right,” Indira said. “Fox, would you take these out to the van?”

Fox was grinning as they grabbed the tray of bread and headed for the door. Their vinyl-alligator-skin-cape-thingy-slash-trench-coat made a lot of crinkling noises as they left.

Then Indira looked at me.

So, I know I go on and on about how sometimes she has this really witchy energy. It’s the lock of white hair, sure. And it’s the fact that sometimes, she literally knows what you’re thinking. And sometimes it’s because when she looks at you, it’s like you’re being hypnotized, and I found myself about to spill everything, what was actually bothering me: the weird maybe-fight with Bobby, and the fact that I hadn’t seen him, really seen him, in so long, and how it all made me think about that horrible time after he’d broken up with West, and basically my working theory that somehow Bobby and I were making all the same mistakes, and even though I could see what was happening, I couldn’t seem to stop it.

Instead, I blurted, “Millie and Keme had a fight. A real one.”

Indira’s dark eyes softened. Her mouth relaxed, and I realized a moment later that it was shock.

I knew it wasn’t any of her business. But it wasn’t mine either. And in its own way, it had been as upsetting as my own uncertainty about things with Bobby.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “They’re obsessed with each other. Keme literally waited for years to date her. And now it seems like they’re arguing all the time.”

Indira began gathering up waxed paper and rolls of cute holiday tape and foil bread pans—all the accessories for packing up the bread—and arranging them neatly at the end of the counter. When she spoke, her voice had a control and detachment that I recognized, but that I hadn’t heard in a long time from her.

“Dating someone is very different from being their friend, as you know.”

“Well, yeah.” I mean, I did know that. It just sounded extra…wise when Indira said it. “But it’s like they’re talking past each other, or like they can’t even hear each other. And they used to be best friends.”

“Every relationship is complicated. And I’m a firm believer that unless you’re part of that relationship, then you don’t have a full picture of what’s going on. You overheard a couple of conversations, Dash. If someone happened to overhear a couple of conversations between you and Bobby, isn’t it possible they’d walk away with a mistaken impression of your relationship?”

I wanted to say no . I wanted to say that if someone overheard my conversations with Bobby, they’d probably come to the perfectly correct conclusion that, to borrow a Fox-ism, my cheese done slid off my cracker, and that Bobby could (and probably should) do a lot better.

But what about over the last few days? The way Bobby had asked if he could turn off the light. The way he’d said, Thanks .

Indira must have read the emotion on my face because she said, “They’ll be all right, Dash. They’re still figuring things out.”

“But I don’t want them to figure things out. I want them to be young and happy and in love. I want things to be easy for them because they’re so cute together and because they’re perfect for each other.”

Indira nodded. She smiled, and it was a small, sad smile. And then she stroked my hair.

It wasn’t something she did often—I wasn’t even sure if she’d ever done it before. But all of a sudden, I was about to cry.

“Things are going to be okay,” she said, drawing me into a hug. “Did you hear me?”

And because I never quite recovered from being thirteen years old, I mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”

Laughing, Indira squeezed me once more and let me go. She checked my face, her own expression growing serious again, and she said, “Do what you can do, Dashiell. You have to learn to let the rest go.”

I nodded, and she left.

It was one of those conversations that feels heartwarming and encouraging and reaffirming until two cups of coffee later, when you realize you can’t actually do anything.

First, I wanted to talk to Paul, but I had the feeling that getting past Christine—not to mention trying to find a way to get him alone so I could squeeze some answers out of him—would require either a flamethrower or a magical sword (+3, minimum. Vorpal optional.) (That’s from Dungeons and Dragons.) (God, how am I such a nerd? If Bobby ever finds out, I’ll probably never have sex again.)

Talking to Ryan was an option, but while it would be tempting to ask him where he’d been when Paul was attacked, I didn’t know how I’d confirm his answer. The same problem went for Angeline and Kassandra. The Naught household was too busy, and if one of them had wanted to slip out, it would have been easy to disappear for a while without anyone noticing they were gone.

Since going back to the CPF warehouse seemed like a good way to get myself arrested, and going back to the Turnleys seemed like a good way to get myself killed, I decided my best option was to stick with my original plan: Paul’s list.

Besides, it was better than another day spent hitting my head against the wall with my manuscript.

Once I was settled in the den (blankie, coffee, etc.), I pulled up the picture of Paul’s list and read over it again. I recognized a couple of the names, but none of them was anyone I knew well. Most of the names didn’t even ring a bell. Hastings Rock was a small town, but it wasn’t like I was a social butterfly, and I tended to know only the people who moved in my circles. (Which sounds better than saying I hadn’t met anybody I hadn’t been forced to meet.) About two-thirds of the names had been crossed off, which suggested to me that Paul had been working his way down the list.

I picked the first name I recognized—Dawn Skidmore, who owned and ran the Keel Haul General Store with her husband Eddie—and placed a call.

Dawn answered on the second ring with a none-too-enthusiastic “Keel Haul.”

“Hi, Dawn, this is Dash Dane. I was—”

“I told you: they don’t make those candles anymore. They were for kids’ birthdays, and they were a fire hazard.”

Once—one time—I had politely asked if the Keel Haul could order me some of the trick candles that light themselves again when you try to blow them out.

“Okay, well, I’m pretty sure they’re not only for kids’ birthdays,” I said. “That’s like saying those bouncy castles are only for—” I heard myself getting off track. “And with appropriate adult supervision—” It took an effort to drag myself back to the matter at hand. “Actually, I was calling about something else. Did Paul Naught stop by to talk to you yesterday?”

In answer, I got a grunt.

“I don’t know if you heard last night, but Paul was attacked, and I’m trying to find out—”

“He get killed?”

That cranked her motor. (God, please let that not mean something, uh, adult.) Gone was the sullen reserve. In its place—and not much better—was ghoulish interest.

This was the woman who thought she was the expert on children’s birthday parties.

I mean, on general birthday parties. For people of all ages.

“No,” I said, “Paul’s fine.”

If you’ve never heard a disappointed grunt before, they’re really something.

“But I was wondering if you could tell me what he wanted to talk to you about.”

“I’ve got customers,” Dawn said.

“Right. Fine. Well, I’ll be right down so I can ask you in person.” (Talk about an empty threat.) “Oh, and I’ve got the mail-away for those self-lighting candles from an old MAD magazine, so I’ll bring that too.”

She said something not quite under her breath that was definitely not appropriate for a kid’s birthday party. “He was asking about that package. The one that got stolen.”

“What about it?”

“He wanted to know if somebody stole it. I said yes, that’s why I reported it stolen.”

“That’s it?”

A few hacking noises came in answer. Then she said, “He kept asking questions. Wouldn’t leave it alone. I told him what I told the company: some bozo in a Santa suit grabbed it off the porch.”

“You saw him?”

“Doorbell camera. I’ve got a line of people waiting, you know.”

It took me a moment to reorient myself to that particular sentence. I had my doubts about throngs of customers queuing up for service at the Keel Haul, but I figured that meant my time was running short.

“That’s it?” I asked. “Anything else?”

“He wanted to know what it was.”

“That you got delivered? What was it?”

“Not that it’s anybody’s business,” Dawn said with a little snip, “but it was a waffle iron. A real nice one, too, from Williams-Sonoma.”

“Do you know—” I began.

But there was the distinct clatter of a receiver dropped into its cradle, and the call disconnected.

I sat back in my chair. It was tempting to let my thoughts turn to the trick candles—I mean, everyone liked magic tricks and surprises and cool stuff like that. Why would you market them only to children? For heaven’s sake, why would you stop making them? But I forced myself to focus.

Paul had been talking to the people whose packages had been stolen. And he’d wanted to make sure the package had actually been stolen. And what was in it.

Why?

I mean, maybe he wanted to confirm the package hadn’t been misplaced, or that someone hadn’t found it after filing a claim. I toyed with the idea of fraud—maybe Paul had suspected people were lying about their packages being stolen? But Dawn Skidmore didn’t lie. (Not even in the polite, we’re-a-society-so-let’s-get-along way. One time, I’d asked her about day-old discount muffins, and she said—prepare yourself to gasp— You don’t need them .)

The phone call hadn’t exactly cleared anything up. But it had made me curious, and I began working my way down the list. I’d wondered if I might have a hard time finding the people I didn’t know, but it turned out not to be hard in a town the size of Hastings Rock. Normally, I would have asked Millie, but I decided to leave her out of it for now—in the first place, because she had to be exhausted and stressed after what had happened to Paul the night before, and, more importantly, because I wasn’t sure who I could trust in her family, and there was a high possibility of Millie accidentally revealing what I was up to. (Honestly, it makes it even more shocking that she kept Paul’s secret for as long as she did.) So, instead, I did what any sensible person in Hastings Rock did when they wanted information about the town’s residents: I called Cheri-Ann Fryman, owner of the Rock On Inn and Hastings Rock’s single biggest gossip.

Each call went more or less the way the first one had, albeit without Dawn’s less-than-helpful attitude. (I was going to call it her ’tude , because I think that’s what kids say, but then I imagined Keme reading this.) A pattern began to emerge—the stolen items were all relatively valuable, ranging from Dawn’s pricey waffle iron to Nike sneakers to a new tablet. A television had been stolen, which made me think that Santa must have put it in his magical sack of presents in order to carry it away by himself. Shelby Sellers had a two-thousand-dollar LED face mask from Sephora plucked off the porch—apparently, even Santa worries about fine lines and wrinkles. With Cheri-Ann’s help, I managed to talk to everyone on Paul’s list.

Almost everyone.

The only person I couldn’t reach was Three.

His real name—what Paul had written on the list—was Paxton Peabody III, but since you’re a human being and you have a heart, you understand why he’d chosen to go by a nickname. Three was a nice guy. He worked at A Whale of a Tale Books and Curios, and he was friendly and always had good recommendations. He was also a fellow gay, which meant that the Last Picks and I bumped into him from time to time at the Otter Slide.

I didn’t have his number, but instead of calling Cheri-Ann—which would have meant coming up with another excuse for why I needed a phone number—I called the bookstore.

A man’s voice answered, “A Whale of a Tale Books and Curios. This is Stephen. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Stephen. It’s Dash. Is Three there?”

“Well, hi, Dash.” Cue the tremulous enthusiasm. “He’s not here, I don’t think. Do you want me to check? I’ll check.”

What was he going to check, I wanted to know. It was a storefront bookstore; either Three was there or he wasn’t. But before I could say any of that, the phone clicked, and Stephen was gone. Ever since I’d failed at proving Stephen was a murderer (but succeeded at proving he was a thief), Stephen had acted like a baby bird pushed out of his nest every time we interacted. It was—frankly—exhausting to be so terrifying, and it was one of the many reasons I tried to do all my bookstoring via Three.

Several seconds later, Stephen returned to the phone, out of breath, to gasp, “He’s definitely not here.”

“Right, thanks. I need to talk to him—”

“He’s probably at home. Is it something I can help you with?” And then, without missing a beat: “Did someone get murdered?”

“What is going on with this town? What is this morbid fascination with—” I cut myself off. “No. Nobody got murdered. I just need to ask him about the package he reported stolen.”

“Oh, his book.”

“Do you have his number—wait, what book?”

“His book. The one that got stolen. That’s what you said, right? The package that got stolen?”

“Yes. It was a book?”

“Yeah.”

My brain tried to run ahead of my mouth, and the question that came out wasn’t exactly graceful. “An expensive one?”

Stephen laughed. “Not unless you count shipping. You know, normally we’d order it for him through the store, but this was one of those manga, and he wanted it straight from Japan.”

“Like, a rare edition? Or something new and exclusive?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, those print runs are pretty big; I think it’s a popular series. He didn’t want to wait for the US release.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

A book didn’t make any sense. A book broke the pattern.

Of course, the porch pirate wouldn’t have known that he was stealing a book. He would have grabbed the package, whatever it was, and taken it. If it was junk, he’d trash it later. There was probably some perfectly rational explanation for why he’d targeted Three. Maybe Paul had said something about the package being from Japan in one of his videos. I could go back and check—

But my gut told me no.

Until now, Paul’s guesses had been uncannily accurate. (Maybe, I thought in an aside, he had a future on The Price is Right .) The proof was in the porch pirate’s success so far—a series of high-ticket items that could be resold for hundreds or thousands of dollars. I mean, Good God, the waffle iron cost more than the Nikes. Not a single miss or flub. Until now.

“Dash?” Stephen asked. “You know, if it is a murder, Pippi would love to talk to you about a sequel—”

“Not a murder,” I said hastily, but my brain was still elsewhere. I made the decision in a heartbeat: a phone call wouldn’t be enough. “Stephen, do you have Three’s address?”