Page 2 of Broken Bird (The Last Picks #4)

An ambulance came and took Marshall away. Deputies came. I thought maybe I’d see Bobby, but instead I got Salk (Deputy Salkanovic) and Dairek (Deputy Landby). In case the nickname didn’t give it away, Salk was Hasting Rock’s former star quarterback. He was sweet, he was friendly, and he was—well, let’s just say school isn’t for everyone, but in a good way, if that makes any sense? Dairek had also been on Hasting Rock’s high school football team, but Dairek had the social-emotional skills of a pair of old gym shoes. I liked Salk and Dairek (well, I liked Salk), but they weren’t Bobby. They didn’t seem to know what to do any more than the rest of us, and slowly, people began to leave. When I made my way out of the library, Pippi and her family were the last ones left—collecting her swag, of course. Stephen was even picking up the water bottles from the stage. Waste not, want not was apparently the motto when it came to authorial self-promotion.

When I got home, I showered because I felt like I needed a shower. I got into bed. I lay there in the dark. It no longer creeped me out—in fact, after half a year, I’d come to love Hemlock House. It was quirky, eccentric, maybe even downright strange. But hey, so was I. It was a beautifully insane pseudo-Victorian mansion, with secret passages and Beauty and the Beast -style bookshelves and a stuffed dodo that Prince Albert had once kissed right on the beak. (I made that up.) It was a Class V haunted house. It was warm, it was comfortable, and now that I’d added a giant TV to my room, it was one hundred percent fit for human habitation. I loved listening to the waves beating against the sea cliffs. I loved the sound of rain needling the ancient windows. I even loved the sound of the wind wrapping around the house and stirring the hemlocks. I loved that ninety percent of the day, this house had at least one person I cared about inside it (usually Keme, who was also usually eating cookies that I was sure Indira had baked for me). But occasionally, every once in a while, during that other ten percent of the day, I remembered what it had been like to have someone in my life who wasn’t a friend or a roommate or, in Keme’s case, whatever you call a teenager who’s definitely not stronger than you, but you don’t want to have to prove it, and no, you’re not going to wrestle him just to find out. Someone who was there at night, after I turned out the lights. Someone who wanted to be there with me. I was starting to think I needed to do the adult thing and order one online.

A soft rap at the door jarred me out of my thoughts.

“You awake?” Bobby called.

“Yeah. Uh huh. I’m awake.” I didn’t exactly shrink in on myself in humiliation, but I managed to get some control over myself and say, “Come in.”

I found my glasses as Bobby stepped into the room. The hall was only slightly brighter than my room, so he was mostly shadow as he came toward the bed. The familiar creak of leather, as much as his silhouette, told me he was still in uniform. When he sat, the mattress dipped slightly.

“I heard about Marshall,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah.” And then, because I needed to be sure: “He didn’t make it, did he?”

Bobby’s silence was already an answer, and then he said, “No. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not. I’m sad for him and his family. He was friends with my parents, and this will hit them hard, but it’s not like he and I were close.” A normal person probably would have stopped there, but I said, “He was such a jerk, you know. So, why do I still feel awful?”

In the gloom, I couldn’t make out his expression. I caught a whiff of the familiar odors of Bobby in uniform: gun oil, starched cotton, a hint of that masculine fragrance that I suspected was his deodorant.

“Because he was a human being, and you knew him,” Bobby said. “And every death is a loss.”

“John Donne.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Bobby was quiet for what felt like minutes. “You’re a kind person. Seeing something like that—of course it’s going to make you feel awful.”

“I guess.”

“Can I do something for you?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“Do you want to watch some TV?”

I shook my head.

He must have picked up on the gesture even in the thick shadows. “What about some hot chocolate? I bet I could even scrounge up some of that apple crumble.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He was silent again. The mattress springs squeaked when he got to his feet.

“Bobby,” I said.

The way he turned to me was a question. The way he looked at me, even in the dark, was a question.

Where were you? That’s what I wanted to ask. Where were you tonight? We had plans .

But the answer was obvious: work. And even asking the question would make me sound…what? Nagging? Controlling? Like a jealous boyfriend? After everything Bobby had gone through with West, I wanted to give him his space.

“Never mind.”

Maybe he’d anticipated the question, though, because he shifted his weight. The leather of his duty belt creaked. “I had to cover for Tripple tonight.”

I nodded, but it felt like nothing, lost in the dark.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text,” Bobby said.

“You don’t have to text,” I said. “It was work. You do what you have to do.”

“Right,” Bobby said, but there was something in his voice. “It was work, but I still should have texted.”

“Bobby.” I tried for a laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

The darkness seemed to grow wider and wider between us until he finally said, “I am sorry.”

“No big deal.”

The wind rattled the shutters. When they quieted again, Bobby took a step toward the door.

My heart started beating faster.

He kept walking.

I tried not to gulp my breaths.

He was almost at the door.

It was now or never—or it felt like it, anyway—and somehow, I managed to keep my voice surprisingly steady as I said, “Maybe we could do something tomorrow.”

He looked back, a silhouette once more against the weak yellow light of the hall. “Definitely.”

But in the morning (eleven-thirty is still morning), he was gone. He’d gotten called in to work, Indira told me as I zombied my way through my first mug of coffee. And the hint of compassion in her eyes would have been unbearable from pretty much anyone else.

It wasn’t a big deal. I knew they needed him; the sheriff’s office had been understaffed since the past sheriff had been killed, and until acting-Sheriff Acosta was officially elected (of which there was no doubt), some sort of bureaucratic red tape kept them from hiring an additional deputy. Which meant, the office could never fill all its shifts, and it was a good thing, frankly, that Bobby was such a team player. Plus, it’s not like we’d had solid plans—I’d said, Maybe we could do something tomorrow . Maybe Bobby had thought I’d meant in the afternoon. And given my usual wake-up time, that wasn’t a stretch. And anyway, it was a good thing he’d picked up that extra shift. I was tired from a bad night’s sleep, unable to get the image of Marshall’s final moments out of my head, and I wouldn’t have been good company.

I tried to make it a normal day because it was a normal day. It was Saturday, which meant Keme was already on the couch playing Xbox. As he’d gotten more comfortable with me—and with Hemlock House—and as the weather had gotten worse in the winter months, Keme had started spending more and more time here. So much, in fact, that I began to suspect that he was occasionally spending his nights somewhere in the grand old mansion.

That was more than all right with me, especially since, from what I understood, before I’d come to Hastings Rock, Keme had split his nights between the occasional stay in Indira’s flat and, more frequently, sleeping rough. One time, Indira had even mentioned the timber yard. The situation was particularly tricky since Keme was only seventeen and, therefore, a minor. His mom lived in Hastings Rock, Indira had told me when I’d asked, and then she’d immediately clammed up. When I’d tried to get more information, she’d finally told me to ask Keme myself if I wanted to know so badly. I don’t have a death wish, contrary to what Bobby might tell you, so that’s as far as I got. But since I had the sneaking suspicion that, if I’d offered Keme a place to stay, he’d have turned me down, I was all right with the idea that he might be staying here, as it were, “in secret.”

After my brush with a potential blackmailer, though, one important fact had come to light: Keme had been skipping a lot of school (to the point that truancy might keep him from graduating), and the Last Picks had begun an all-hands-on-deck campaign to make sure Keme not only went to school, but that he stayed in school, and he graduated.

It had had…mixed success, let’s say. Fox had tried to give an impassioned speech on the importance of a liberal education, but it had turned into a series of pithy little gems of wisdom like “The only thing you’re buying yourself with a traditional career is a case of hemorrhoids and then a box six feet underground,” and “Marx said the only drugs allowed to the masses are to dull their senses on the weekend and to awaken them for work the rest of the time,” and “It should be illegal not to have a mandatory nap like Spain.”

Then I tried my hand. Again, the results were mixed. I thought I was on a pretty good track—I was explaining all the long-term costs and benefits of an education, including better career options, higher earning potential, a rich life of the mind. But somehow, the longer Keme stared at me with his dark, dark eyes, the harder it was to remember what I was saying. And pretty soon I caught myself deep down the rabbit hole of mortgages, trying to explain private mortgage insurance and why it was such a scam. The worst part was I’d never owned a house (well, except for Hemlock House), and I didn’t even know what private mortgage insurance was. Keme must have taken pity on me because he eventually turned on the TV, and I was able to stop talking.

Bobby and Indira had more success (or, at least, managed to stay on topic). They’re about the only two people in the world Keme actually respects, and although I don’t know what they said to him, I know that Keme emerged from both conversations dour and unhappy—the way a proper young adult should look when facing a lifetime of education, education-related debt, and then a soul-grinding career. His attendance improved, for a little while. And then it dropped off again.

The real turning point had come when Millie had seen a letter from the school notifying Keme (technically, Keme’s mother, although the letter had been sent to Hemlock House, which raised all sorts of questions) that he was at risk of not graduating. Millie had gotten a little misty and said, “Keme, you HAVE to graduate! Graduating is the BEST!”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that.

Anyway, that’s the long way of telling you that it was a normal Saturday, which meant I wrote for a while (okay, I read a bunch of articles on Crime Cats , which is exactly what it sounds like), and then I helped Keme study (organic chemistry is crazy hard; my role was mostly flashcard holder and inspirational sound effect maker and, most important of all, hider of the Xbox power cord), and then I took a union-mandated cookie break, and then it was back to studying. (He almost found the cord while I was distracted by the cookies, but fortunately, I got back to the billiard room in time.)

When Millie showed up after her shift at Chipper, she took over the official study-buddy duties (no joke, Keme literally sat up straighter when she was in the room, not to mention that his entire body vibrated so quickly that I was pretty sure dogs could hear him). I thought I might do some more writing ( Crime Cats ), but on my way through the hall, I found Fox working on their artistic project, which meant, in today’s case, unrolling butcher paper down the length of the hall and occasionally pausing to make cryptic marks on it. I had no idea what they were doing, and it was far too late in the game to ask—I’d made the mistake of pretending to understand, when Fox had first explained the project, and I’d doubled down on the lie with every follow-up conversation. I’d tried asking the others, but none of them seemed to know either. The butcher paper was red, if that helps you figure it out.

Fox didn’t want to talk, so I thought maybe I should check on Indira (and, more importantly, on what smelled like fresh-baked bread), and, of course, maybe Indira would like to chat. I checked Crime Cats on my phone, and there wasn’t anything new—curse this slow cat-related-crime news cycle. Yes, a chat with Indira would definitely be the right thing. And then—as soon as we finished chatting, and maybe after a slice or two of warm, buttered bread—I’d get right back to work. On my story. I’d write two thousand words today. Minimum. No excuses. Once I sat my butt down at the computer, I wasn’t getting up again no matter what. Not if I needed to use the bathroom. Not if the house caught on fire. Not even if Indira made those chocolate chip cookies that were wrapped around an Oreo.

Hang on, I thought. Maybe if I ask her to teach me how to make them—

Hemlock House’s ancient doorbell tolled.

Thank God.

I made my way to the vestibule and opened the door.

Pippi stood there. She was dressed in a burgundy houndstooth coat that managed to appear both stiff and rumpled at the same time, and her hair, as always, looked like it had been brought to life through the miracle of electricity. She was holding two large Tupperware dishes, one stacked on top of the other, and she beamed at me over them. Then she dimmed the wattage of the smile and, in what she probably thought of as a tender, motherly voice, said, “Oh Dash, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“For my—”

She handed me the Tupperware, and while I was focused on not dropping them, she brushed past me into the house. “It’s such a tragedy. Such a meaningless, horrible, heartless, tragedy.” Faster than a snake, she wriggled out of the houndstooth coat and draped it across my arm. “How are you, dear? Oh! How can I even ask? You look a fright—an absolute wreck. My darling, darling boy, I’m sure you’re absolutely destroyed .”

And with that, she strode into the hall.

I stared after her. To borrow a memorable phrase from Fox, I felt like my cheese done slid off my cracker. At some level, I knew she was talking about Marshall—I mean, what else could she be talking about?—but none of it made any sense. I certainly wouldn’t call it a personal loss, and I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the same woman who had publicly accused me of murder was now calling me my dear and darling, darling boy . Also—a fright ? A wreck ? I checked the mirror. Okay, my hair was a little…wild. And I did have bags under my eyes. And there was some nacho cheese on my hoodie because Keme had tried to steal the last nacho. And my fuzzy socks, which were made to look like calico cats, might have been a little matted, a little stretched out—

Okay, fine. But she didn’t have to say it, did she?

I threw her coat in the reception room and went after her. Something in one of the Tupperware containers sloshed ominously, and I had a sneaking suspicion soup was involved.

“I don’t want to be rude, Pippi,” I began, “but what—”

“My homemade chicken noodle soup!” she announced brightly. “Good for the body and for the soul.”

Good, like most soups, for going straight down the disposal. “No, I meant—”

“And Grandma Waldorp’s world-famous tuna casserole. You’re going to ask me for the recipe, Dashiell, and if you’re a very good boy, I might give it to you.”

I had no idea who Grandma Waldorp was, but if there were a war crime tribunal that adjudicated casserole-related offenses, I imagined they’d drag her before them in chains. I managed a polite “Just Dash.”

“I know how terribly difficult today must be, but I wanted to do the neighborly thing and stop by and tell you that the whole town loves you, and we’re sending you our love, with a giant hug and kiss and a ribbon on top.”

Finally, somehow, I dredged up “Uh huh.”

“You’d better get those in the refrigerator, you know. You don’t want to take any risks.” She clapped her hands and added a brisk, “Chop-chop.”

I guess I was on autopilot because I took the Tupperware to the kitchen.

Indira was kneading dough at the counter, and she looked a question at me.

“Pippi Parker is doing the neighborly thing,” I said as I set the Tupperware on a clear stretch of counter conveniently near the trashcan.

“Bringing you a meal?” Indira asked with a frown.

“Trying to poison me.”

The door opened, and Fox leaned into the kitchen. They cleared their throat, raised their eyebrows, and shot a look back at the hall.

“What now?” I grumbled as I stalked out of the kitchen.

There was no sign of Pippi, but I thought I could hear someone in the den. Fox hung back, which meant I was on my own as I approached the door. I slowed my steps and moved as quietly as I could, and when I reached the door, I inched it open slowly.

The den was exactly how you’d imagine: built-in shelves, tufted leather chairs, the scent of a ghostly cigar. (Okay, maybe that was my imagination.) Pippi was rifling the bookshelves as quickly as she could. I’d started using the den as my office, for the twin reasons that: one, I definitely wasn’t going to use Vivienne’s office (I still hadn’t touched any of her stuff); and two, the chairs were excellent for napping. On the occasional table, my laptop was still where I’d left it, but the screen was on, and it showed a failed password attempt. I gave the door a nudge, and Pippi whirled to face me. Color blotched her cheeks.

“What a wonderful collection,” she said breathlessly. “I was wondering if you had a copy of Vivienne’s memoir. A first edition. Be a dear and check the study, would you?”

“So you can keep searching my house for whatever you’re looking for? I don’t think so.”

She pressed a hand to her chest: perfectly manicured outrage. “I would never—”

“You can skip this part. What were you going to steal, and why?”

“I wasn’t going to steal anything! And to think that this is how I’m to be treated after I did the neighborly thing and brought you a delicious meal—”

“You brought me soup! It’s basically bathwater for vegetables.” I drew a deep breath; we all have our ugly sides. After a moment, I said, “Start talking, or I’m calling the police.”

“No!” Her fa?ade cracked, and her eyes widened with genuine panic.

“Then tell me what’s going on.”

She stood rigidly, one hand braced against the bookcase. And then she slumped, shook her head, and in a weak voice said, “They think I did it. The sheriff thinks I killed Marshall Crowe.”