Page 12 of Broken Bird (The Last Picks #4)

We went home. We talked. We didn’t get anywhere, of course, and eventually Millie went home and Keme left (although I suspected he’d sneak back into the house before I made it upstairs). I dragged myself to bed and lay there.

The rational part of me knew that the spectacularly embarrassing scene with Hayes didn’t necessarily mean anything. If anything, it had furthered the investigation—Pippi had exposed an interesting motive, if she was correct about Hayes stealing from his authors. And Hayes’s reaction suggested that there was some truth to the accusation. It would explain why Marshall had fired Hayes and sold the first Titus Brooks novel without his help. And, of course, there was the very suggestive fact—if Ophelia were to be believed—that Hayes had given Marshall a bottle of scotch, which may or may not have been poisoned.

So, yes, all of that was significant. It was good information. But the reality was that I felt more lost than ever. There was no clear suspect because all three of them had both motive and opportunity: Ophelia had access to Marshall’s medication, and between the divorce and the affair, she certainly had enough reasons to want him dead. On top of that, Ophelia had admitted to the argument with Marshall before his death. Elodie also had access to Marshall’s medication, and if Hayes was telling the truth, then she also had a reason to kill him: he’d lied to her, used her, and ultimately abandoned her when he got bored. And I’d heard the tail end of her fight with Marshall—when he’d told her other people (presumably, other women) would have been thrilled to be in her position.

I tried walking myself through the facts, analyzing each one in turn, but my thoughts broke apart, spun, swooped. Like starlings, I thought. That sense of density, clarity, cohesiveness—and then boom, dissolving into a million moving pieces. I’d catch myself, in the middle of trying to map out all the ways Elodie, for example, might have drugged Marshall. And then I’d see Bobby kneeling on the sidewalk, helping that little boy into his mitten. I’d try to corral my thoughts, to focus on timelines, how long it would have taken Ophelia to get from the Wyndmere to the Rock On Inn, and instead, my brain would skitter off to show me Hayes’s hand on Bobby’s arm, how close he’d stood to Bobby. When I gave up and tried to watch TV, all I could think about was that not so long ago, I would have been downstairs, watching Netflix with Bobby on the sofa until I fell asleep. And I always woke up under a blanket.

One of my last clear thoughts was that I was lost. And I knew I was lost. And I had the sneaking suspicion that Marshall’s murderer was going to get away with it. (The only potential winner seemed to be Pippi, who was going to make a killing when she cashed in with all this true crime stuff—even if she did end up in prison.)

At some point, I fell asleep, but it wasn’t good sleep. It was miserable, effortful, exhausting sleep—if you’ve ever had a night like that, you know what I mean. A kind of desperate, half-conscious desire to stay asleep that translates into an entire night spent feeling like you’re trying to swim through sand. A knock woke me the next morning, and my whole body ached like I’d done something horrible to it. (Like exercise.)

“Bleh,” I said.

“Hi, Dash,” Fox said from the other side of my door. “Are you awake?”

“Blergh.”

“Wonderful! I was just wondering, you know, if it’s not too much of an imposition, if you could help me with, uh, something.”

“I can’t,” I said. That felt like a revelation, so I decided to expand on it. “I can’t help anyone with anything. Ever.”

“Now, that’s not true.” Fox’s heartiness, though, sounded hollow. “I’ve got these heavy, heavy, heavy boxes I need to load into the van, and I can’t lift them, and Indira can’t lift them, and even Keme can’t lift them. And Keme said you’d never be able to lift them, but I said I was sure you could.”

“I don’t know why everyone thinks Keme is so much stronger than me,” I said, throwing back the bedcovers as I sat up. “In the first place, just because you can see his muscles—”

But then I stopped because the animal part of my brain smelled a trap.

“Go on,” Fox urged. “You were saying something about his muscles?”

I stared at the door warily. “What’s in these boxes? Why are they so heavy?”

“Oh, you know. Things.” And then I suppose inspiration struck because Fox said, “My trousseau.”

“Your trousseau.”

“Yes, exactly. So, if you’d get out of bed and unlock the door, we could get them loaded, and we can pick up one of those delicious sandwiches you love—the one with the fried chicken and the hamburger patty.”

“You don’t think they’re delicious,” I said slowly. “You said those sandwiches are the reason every other country in the world hates America.”

“But I’m willing to give them another try. So, again, if you’d get out of bed—”

Several details began to penetrate the lingering fog. First, the light coming into my bedroom was definitely not morning light. Second, the TV I’d hung above the fireplace showed the Netflix screensaver, which suggested I’d passed out during another episode of Breaking Amish. (It’s an important sociological documentary, and I’m a more cultured person for watching it, thank you very much.) And third, my phone showed lots—and I mean a lot —of missed phone calls from Millie, Indira, and Fox. There was even one from Keme, which was oddly touching. And not a single one from Bobby.

“This is a trick,” I said.

“It’s not a trick. If you’d open the door—”

“Nope. Not going to work.”

A while later, someone tapped gently, and Indira said, “Dashiell.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I was wondering if you could help me with something,” Indira said.

“Ha! Fox already tried that one.”

That didn’t faze her. “I tried a new recipe, and I’m afraid it’s a disaster. They’re called hot chocolate cookies, and they’ve got the mini-marshmallows baked into them, and I need someone to give me their honest opinion—”

Swear to God, I didn’t even remember getting out of bed. I was halfway across the room before I caught myself. I forced myself to stop, pointed a finger at the door, and said, “Witchcraft!”

“Dash, dear, don’t be like that. I need the tiniest bit of help.” A beat passed, and then, in a voice that on anyone else I would have called seductive, she added, “They just came out of the oven.”

I took another step before I could stop myself. “No! This is a trick. You’re trying to lure me out of here so you can—so you can make me be an adult and deal with my feelings.”

The sounds of conspiratorial murmuring came before Indira said, “We’re worried about you. You’ve been in bed all day, and Millie and Keme said you were upset last night.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I can lie in bed all day and—” I almost said sulk . “—watch TV if I want to. That’s part of being an adult.”

“Of course you can, dear. But wouldn’t that be more pleasant with some milk and warm cookies?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan!”

Fox, now making zero attempt to disguise their whisper, said, “Do you know, I honestly didn’t think he’d ever touched a Bible, much less read one?”

“I saw it on TV!” I shouted through the door.

“That tracks.”

For a while, everyone left me alone. Yes, I was being childish. And yes, there was something…satisfying, in that childish way, about having people worry about me and pay attention to me. I did feel bad about that. And I knew that eventually, I’d have to go downstairs and apologize and try to explain. But balanced against all of that was a general sense of heaviness, a weight pressing down on me, that made it hard to even think about leaving the room. Hard to think about doing anything. Although I thought maybe I could summon the energy to see if LaLeesha would take pity on me and deliver some tacos.

I should have immediately been suspicious when I heard Millie giggle. Then came the knock.

“Dash,” she announced, “I need your help wrapping presents.”

“I can’t help you,” I said. “I can’t help anyone with anything.”

“You already used that one, doofus.” (That was Keme at, apparently, his most supportive and encouraging.)

“My hands melted off,” I said. “All of me is melting. When I die, you’re going to have to cut me out of the mattress because I fused with it. And then there will be a Dash-shaped hole in the bed. Forever. And I’ll probably haunt the house like Adolpha the She-Wolf.” (Adolpha the She-Wolf was my favorite of the ghosts Millie claimed haunted Hemlock House, mostly because Adolpha the She-Wolf, in my mythology, could only be appeased by eating one of Indira’s perfectly seared ribeyes.)

Another whispered conversation took place. And then the doorknob rattled.

“Ha!” I said. “It’s locked—”

And that was when the door opened.

“OH MY GOD,” Millie said (that verb is being used in its loosest sense here), “LOOK, IT OPENED!”

She was loaded down with rolls of wrapping paper, shopping bags, tissue paper, and more. She had sheets of gift tags under one arm. She wore the tape dispensers on her fingers like rings. Keme was carrying several large boxes. He was wearing an ancient Quiksilver tank, and I had zero doubt in my mind that this was connected to my earlier comment about his muscles and, of course, to the fact that he was carrying heavy things for Millie. It was cute, in a psycho-teenage-boy kind of way.

“How did you—”

Keme smirked—which meant that somehow, the little turd had been the one to get my door open, although I had no idea how. In the future, clearly, I was going to need some kind of medieval crossbar—the big heavy kind that could hold a cathedral door shut against marauding (teenage) vandals.

But maybe it wasn’t too late.

“You guys need to get out of here. I’m sick. I’m really, really, really sick.” And then, genius: “With a cold.”

Millie let the rolls of wrapping paper fall and beamed at me. “No, you’re not. You’re faking.” Then she sat, crisscross applesauce, and began unpacking the shopping bags. I opened my mouth to insist I was truly, violently, deathly sick, but then I got too caught up trying to match the gifts to the right people. Protein powder (Bobby, of course—I believe I’ve mentioned the muscles). A cookbook (way too easy). An Olivia Benson MetroCard (I mean, it was a Law & Order collectible, so Fox). She reached for the next bag and then looked up, and said, “Keme! No peeking!”

Keme looked like he was considering flexing.

“Shoo,” Millie said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Shoo.”

All that extra testosterone must have needed an outlet because Keme pretended to lunge at me.

And no matter what anyone says, I didn’t flinch.

Keme gave Millie some long, pathetic looks, clearly hoping she’d change her mind, but she was already unrolling wrapping paper (Santa in board shorts and a lei, surfing while he held a Mai Tai in one hand), and after another minute, he pouted his way out of the room. He didn’t slam the door, but I figured that was only because he was still trying—and failing—to play it cool.

It did, however, give me an idea. “I should probably go too,” I said. “So I don’t see my present.”

“I already wrapped your present, silly,” Millie said.

“You did? Where is it?”

“Under the tree, duh. With all the other presents. Here, you can wrap Keme’s.”

She extracted a Switch game from one of the bags and handed it to me. I knew—anyone who had been around Keme for more than fifteen minutes knew—that Keme didn’t have a Switch, wanted a Switch, and would do anything for a Switch (including, I was fairly sure, sell my kidneys on the black market). Millie had gotten him The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild.

“But he doesn’t have a Switch,” I said.

“He will after he opens the one you got him.”

“I didn’t—” But I stopped and gave her a long, considering look. “Okay, how?”

“Little things,” Millie said. “You got that package delivered, and as soon as Keme came over, you made up an excuse to take it up to your room. And then you kept saying things like ‘Keme, did you see this new game for the Switch?’ and ‘If it were me, I’d really like to play this game on the Switch’ and ‘What about you, Keme? If you had a Switch, I mean?’ And then he twisted your arm, and you screamed.” She seemed to consider all this as she taped wrapping paper in place around the cookbook and then added, “Plus, Fox and I opened the box while you were napping.”

“Millie!”

“Fox and I decided it was officially sweet.”

“No, it wasn’t.” And then I had to ask, “What?”

“How you two are best friends. Indira said it’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“We’re not best friends. He beats me up. I mean, only because I let him. Because he’s a child, and I wouldn’t want to hurt him. And anyway, my best friend is—” And the weird thing was, I almost said, Bobby. But that wasn’t true. It had seemed like it might be. A few months ago, I would have agreed that, of all the people in my life, Bobby was my best friend. So much had changed, though. I finished lamely, “—Laura.”

“Laura. You’ve talked to her, like, twice since you moved here. Tape, please.”

I passed her another piece of tape as she finished wrapping Indira’s gift.

“There,” Millie said with satisfaction. She stuck a bow on the present, set it aside, and said, “That game isn’t going to wrap itself.”

Which was the very first time in my entire life that I realized Millie could be a taskmaster.

As I cut a section of wrapping paper (teddy bears dancing with candy canes—I chose it because I knew it would be the one Keme would hate the most), Millie began sorting tissue paper. She didn’t even bother to look up as she said, “And now we should talk about your FEELINGS!”

“Are you out of your mind?” And because I didn’t want her to answer that, I said, “No. No way. Absolutely not.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, in the first place, I’m one hundred percent neurotic, and I worry about everything, and if I start talking about my feelings, I’m going to sound like I’m insane—”

“No, you goose. What’s wrong right now? Are you disappointed Pippi got that big scoop on Hayes? Was it your dream to be a great detective, and now you’re convinced you’re not even a mediocre detective because a middle-aged woman with no training or expertise did a better job than you?”

It took me a moment—and a few deep breaths—to say, “No, Millie. But thank you for putting it—”

“Are you sad because Marshall was a stand-in for your own distant, demanding father, and now you’re aware that you want to patch things up with your dad, but you don’t know how?”

“What is happening? Did Fox make you watch Criminal Minds again? Did you accidentally eat a psychology textbook? Don’t answer any of that.” I folded the wrapping paper around Keme’s gift as I gathered my thoughts. There was something soothing about the activity. The crinkle of the paper. The memories of wrapping presents when I’d been growing up. There had been something about wrapping presents that made me feel like an adult. And, of course, there’d always been the childish fantasy that this year’s gift, whatever it was, would somehow, finally, change everything with my parents for the better. Okay, so maybe there was a little truth to the Dad thing. “I’m frustrated—a tiny, teensy, normal bit frustrated—with the case. That’s all. And I was feeling blah, and I slept in, and I didn’t want to help Fox move any boxes, and that’s it. Everything’s fine. We can finish wrapping presents, and you can go downstairs and tell everyone that I’m totally fine.”

“Oh good. Because we were all so worried.”

I taped the two edges of paper together along the back of Keme’s game. “I mean, the whole thing is such a mess. They all have a reason to want Marshall dead. They all had opportunities to drug him. And they all had the means—even if they couldn’t get to Marshall’s prescription, it’s not that hard to get a prescription for diazepam.”

“So, you keep digging, right? What would Will Gower do?”

“Will Gower would figure out what everyone else overlooked,” I said. “Something they took for granted. Something they assumed they knew the significance of. But honestly, that’s easy when you’re writing a mystery. The secret is you write the whole book, and then you hate every word of it, and then you delete it. And then the next time you write it, at the very end, when you think it’s finished, you realize you never put in any useful clues, and then you go back and add them. And voila, Will Gower looks like a genius. But unfortunately, I can’t travel back in time and add my own clues for me to use to solve this freaking impossible murder.” I grimaced. “And the worst part is that it feels like I’ve almost got it, if I could put the pieces together. This whole business with the manuscript, that’s what doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the whole idea that Marshall hid the details of his murder inside the story, in the hopes that—if he did get murdered—someone would figure it out—” I shook my head. “It’s ludicrous. But why else would someone steal that manuscript? That’s what I can’t get over, and it’s driving me crazy.”

Millie nodded as she finished wrapping Fox’s Olivia Benson MetroCard. And then, in the tone of someone who has received way too much nurturing and encouragement and love in her life, she said, “You can’t travel back in time yet .” She spared me having to respond to that by adding, “Now we should talk about Bobby.”

“No. Pass. Do not talk about Bobby. Do not talk about anything at all. Go directly to, um—jail?”

She looked up, her brown eyes soft, and said, “Dash, what happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“What did he do?” When I didn’t say anything, she continued, “Because there was such a weird vibe last night when you saw him. Even Keme noticed it, and he’s a BOY!”

“He didn’t do anything,” I said. And unable to help myself, I added, “That’s the whole problem.”

Millie watched me, Fox’s present temporarily abandoned in her lap.

“Please don’t make me talk about this. Can’t we do something relaxing and fun, like find a snake inside the walls of the house or fall into a pit full of snapping turtles or let Fox give me a face tattoo?”

“Dash,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

I don’t know why, but that almost did it for me. I had to blink rapidly. I had to snuffle and take some good, clean breaths. Millie didn’t make it any better by ditching the Olivia Benson card and hugging me, and it was so nice to have a hug that I was willing to overlook the fact that, with all her enthusiasm, it was closer to strangulation.

When she finally released me, I wiped my face on my shirt. “God, this is such an overreaction.”

“Don’t minimize your own feelings. You can feel whatever you need to feel. Do you want to break something? One time I ripped a pillow apart with my bare hands! Oh my God, do you want to SCREAM?”

“Uh, no. With my luck, I’d probably destroy an antique pillow that Nathaniel Blackwood drooled on one time, and then Indira would have me arrested for high treason.”

Millie giggled, but then she frowned. “And don’t do that either! You always make jokes to get out of hard conversations.”

“Okay, I know that crack about eating a psychology textbook wasn’t the nicest thing I’ve ever said, but seriously, are you taking a class or something?”

“What’s going on with Bobby?”

“Nothing! I don’t know!” And then the words rushed out of me: “He’s being so weird. He’s—he’s being a jerk, actually. He’s always at work or at the gym or going surfing. And I know it’s not safe for him to be surfing alone, especially right now. This time of year, the conditions out there are crazy, and I’m not just talking about the cold. When he does come home, he goes to his room and goes to sleep. If I catch him at mealtime, he’s always grabbing something to go. When I try to make plans, he either has an excuse, or—if I finally manage to pin him down—he bails at the last minute. Or he just doesn’t show up. And I’m not only talking about the reading the other night. We were supposed to get dinner last week, and instead, he picked up an extra shift, even though he knew we had plans. And a few weeks before that, when I finally convinced him to go hiking, he went surfing instead. I sat in the parking lot for forty-five minutes because I couldn’t get a hold of him.” When it all came spewing out of me like that, it sounded…not great. “I sound like one of those guys who can’t take a hint. Like—like I’m obsessed with him. Or stalking him. Oh my God, am I a stalker?”

Millie giggled again. “You’d be the world’s worst stalker because you’d be so polite and indecisive: ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, should I follow you right now? Do you want me to peek in through your window later? Would now be a good time to chop off this doll’s head?’”

“Uh, stalker, not serial killer—”

“‘When would be the best time for me to send you this collage of my baby photos?’ And you’d be naked in all of them because you were a baby.”

“This has taken a turn.”

“Keme is going to DIE when I tell him.”

“Millie!”

Her grin was surprisingly impish.

“Don’t—don’t tell Bobby,” I said. “Please? I’m not obsessed with him or anything. But he’s my friend. Or he was my friend. And everything’s been so weird lately.”

“You should talk to him.”

“No. Hard no. The hardest of noes. Talking is the worst. About anything. Ever.”

“Talking is the BEST! You get to tell him how you feel, and then he gets to tell you how he feels, and then you kiss—”

“Again, just friends, remember?”

“—and you get to spend the rest of your lives together, and you have a million babies—”

“Not sure about kids, actually. Kind of feels like I have enough of them in my life already.”

“—and they’re all beautiful because they all look like Bobby.”

“Excuse me?”

“Uh.” Millie gave me a look like she might have forgotten I was there. “With your, um, smile.”

“Fantastic save.”

“They’re going to be such beautiful babies.”

I didn’t want to get into the logistics of two dudes having a baby, so I decided to save that conversation for another time—preferably, immediately before I jumped off the cliffs behind Hemlock House. I did say, however, “I feel like I need to state again, for the record: just friends.”

Millie beamed at me and made a noise like I’d said something adorable, and then she said, “Dash, have you told him that you want to spend time with him, that you miss spending time with him, that you value his friendship and you miss having him in your life, in a way that goes beyond sharing a living space and occasionally passing each other the maple syrup at breakfast? I chose maple syrup because Indira said you two go through, like, a jug a day.”

I chose to ignore that last part. “No, I didn’t—I mean, Millie, I’ve invited him to do so many things. I invited him to watch a toothpaste commercial the other day, and even as I was asking him, I knew it was the cringiest thing I’d ever done in my entire life.”

“But have you told him why you keep inviting him to do stuff?”

“Well, no. But in my defense, I haven’t told him only because telling people things is the absolute worst.”

Millie’s look suggested that, in some ways, she might be much more mature than me. She opened her mouth to say something, but the sound of the front door and solid, familiar footsteps stopped her. Her eyes widened. Her whole face brightened. I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone ever look so happy. (I didn’t take it personally, though, because she had looked just as happy the other day when Keme had given her some sea-glass he’d found on the beach. In case you’re wondering, Keme’s heart visibly grew, Grinch-style, but it wore off after about twelve hours.)

“HE’S HOME,” Millie whispered—the capitalization probably suggests how well that went.

“No,” I said. “Millie—”

“Now would be the perfect time to talk to him—”

“No, it wouldn’t. Because he’s tired. And I’m tired. And it’s, uh, the Lord’s Day—”

“—because it’s Christmastime, and Christmastime is when you tell people you love them.”

“You stole that from a movie!”

Millie drew in a deep breath.

“Millie, don’t you dare—”

But she did dare, of course. Because she was Millie. And honestly, that was one of the reasons I loved her.

She screamed. Not a regular scream. A Millie scream. My ears are still bleeding, actually.

Barely audible beneath the ongoing sonic assault, I could make out footsteps hammering on the stairs. A moment later, Bobby appeared in the doorway. He was in uniform, and he had his hand on his gun, and his eyes looked a little wild.

Millie cut off as soon as she saw him. She threw him a glowing smile and said, “Hi, Bobby. I was just practicing my screaming.”

And apparently Bobby was really starting to roll with the Last Picks, because that didn’t seem to faze him at all.

“Oh,” Millie said, “Dash wants to tell you something. Bye, boys.”

And with that, she bounced out of the room.