Page 72 of The Body in the Backyard

“Noted,” Mabel Jones said wearily.

“What do you mean ‘intended victim’?” Nick demanded.

“We’re investigating yesterday’s incident as a homicide, Santiago. And you just bumped yourself up the suspect list.”

19

10:49 a.m. Saturday, November 2

Riley had done her best to clear the decks. She’d walked Burt, started a load of laundry, and made sure that everyone else in the house was occupied and entertained. The power tools and other contraband were locked in the kitchen pantry. And everyone was under strict instructions not to bother her or let any strangers through the front door unless it was a contractor who could fix the roof next door.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with the whole Griffin thing, so she was going to close her eyes and concentrate until she figured out what it was…or until she fell asleep. The late-night movie watching had taken its toll, and she was already planning a nap.

With Burt snoring peacefully in his dog bed and a relaxing playlist in her ears, she settled on the cushion on her office floor and closed her eyes.

Her brain was a blur of thoughts, images, and to-do lists. Life was chaotic enough under normal circumstances, but throw in an ex-husband that wouldn’t go away, a dead body, and five new roommates, and Riley felt like she was on an out-of-control merry-go-round.

She needed to go to the grocery store, or they were going to end up ordering out again. Or worse, Lily and Fred would use every dish in the kitchen on some other complex dish that had a fifty-fifty chance of going horribly wrong.

That reminded her, she needed to find a reasonably priced new set of baking sheets since Lily’s burnt-on cookie goop wasn’t coming off theirs.

Ugh. Burt needed his toenails trimmed. But he was such a baby about it. Maybe she could send him to one of those doggy day spas and make it someone else’s problem? But if Griffin didn’t pay them like she was almost certain he wouldn’t, there would be no cash for doggy day spas and bakeware.

Ugh. She needed a nap. And maybe a snack. But her roommates had decimated the snack population in the house, which brought her full circle to her grocery list.

Oh my God. Focus, she told herself.

She needed to concentrate on the thing that made her sit down in the first place: Griffin Gentry.

An involuntary shudder rolled up her spine, but Riley persisted. She brought an image of him to her mind’s eye. The expensive suit, the shellacked hair, the lifts in his shoes. She frowned as her mental image of Griffin seemed to stretch and grow taller.

The front door burst open. Even through noise-canceling headphones and her rain flute playlist, she would know Nick’s agitated stomp anywhere.

“How did it go?” Riley asked him. She cracked open one eye, then jolted. “Ah!”

Mrs. Penny was sitting in front of her, trying to fold her legs into a semblance of crisscross applesauce.

“Where did you come from? I thought you were napping!” Riley said.

“Naps are for old people. Did ya get the money?” Mrs. Penny demanded as Nick stormed into the room.

“No. Where’s my TV, Penny?”

“Back ordered. Where’s my money?”

“Ourmoney is in the tiny, freaky doll hands of that cheapskate weasel Gentry.” Nick flopped down on the floor and put his head in Riley’s lap.

“Don’t get your boxers in a twist. I’ve got a plan—” Mrs. Penny began, but Nick steamrolled on.

“He’s hiding from me so he doesn’t have to pay up. And when I reminded his dingbat girlfriend what will happen if he doesn’t cough up the cash, Detective By the Book overheard and spent an hour questioning me.”

“Why?” Riley asked.

“Because apparently Lyle Larstein didn’t electrocute himself. He got his ass murdered.”

“The stiff in the shrubs was murdered?” Mrs. Penny asked.

Nick scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. Only Weber won’t say what evidence they have. But Jonesy was there, and all I could get out of her without getting thrown behind bars was that they got something while reviewing Larstein’s home security footage.”