Chapter 9

“That did not go as well as I’d hoped,” Fox said when I climbed into the van.

I shook my head.

“Did you find anything?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I glanced at them. “Oh God, did the sheriff yell at you too?”

Fox grinned; it made them look younger. “I’m the darling of Hastings Rock, Dash. And I’m here innocently delivering centerpieces. Why in the world would the sheriff yell at me?”

“She did, huh?”

“Oh Lord, yes. She used the word ‘impounded’ seven times.”

“I’m sorry, Fox.”

“Don’t be,” Fox said with a laugh. “This is the most fun I’ve had in months. Where to?”

“Hemlock House, I guess. I think we need a meeting of the Last Picks.”

On the way, I tried Lyda, but she didn’t answer. I tried Hugo next, and he didn’t pick up either. Maybe Acosta had been wrong. Or maybe they were simply still in the process of getting Hugo out of jail. What did it mean that Hugo was out on bail? Maybe it meant the evidence against him was weak. Maybe it meant a judge recognized how ridiculous the charge was.

Whatever it meant, it had to be good news—right?

But even though it was, without a doubt, good that Hugo was out on bail, I still found myself slumped against the door on the drive home. The weather in Hastings Rock was, on the whole, conducive to grumpiness, moodiness, and general sulking: rain, clouds, cold. And all of that sounded perfect for my current mood. Today, of course, had to be beautiful. The sky was still huge and bright and a lapis lazuli blue. The air smelled like wildflowers (well, and like DRAGON MUSK, which, on closer inspection, I thought maybe actually said DRAGON MUST, which was even more worrisome). With the window down and a breeze in my face, it was hard not to feel awake and alive and energized. But I dug deep and tried my hardest and managed to conjure up some doom and gloom to keep me company on the way home.

The problem wasn’t that Sheriff Acosta had threatened me into staying away from the investigation. I could handle that; I understood why she did it, and all things considered, she’d done it about as nicely as anyone could expect. I liked Acosta—at least, I liked her as much as I could without knowing her. Sure, it was a small town, and we occasionally passed each other in the Keel Haul or at Rock Top Brewing (I’d never seen her at the Otter Slide). And yes, more than once she’d caught me loafing at the sheriff’s office, talking with Deputy Bobby. She seemed like a good person with a difficult job. Although yes, it would have been awesome if she’d welcomed me aboard and told me how grateful she was for my sleuthing savvy. If I were Vivienne Carver, I thought, the sheriff would have been falling over herself to ask for my help.

I thought of Acosta’s face and decided maybe not this particular sheriff.

No, the real problem was that if Sharian was telling the truth, then I had no idea what to do next. It was one thing for Grandma Jodi (I couldn’t help thinking of her that way) to lose her temper and make a stupid—and not-so-grandmotherly—remark about killing Mason. But it was another thing entirely for her to lie to the sheriff about where she was the night Mason was killed.

But what was I going to do about it? I didn’t think Fox and I could sneak into the house a second time, and I doubted Grandma Jodi would agree to talk to me, no matter what reason I came up with. And even if I did get to talk to her, what was I going to ask? Were you going to kill Mason if he tried to give away that money? Did you sneak out of the house and murder your grandson? Even if I got her to confess, what would it take to convince the sheriff—not to mention a jury—that, instead of Mason being killed in an argument with his homosexual lover, his grandmother had murdered him because she had a freaky obsession with preserving the family fortune?

When I put it like that, it didn’t exactly sound airtight, but I didn’t have any better theories. I kept coming back to the fact that Mason and Cole were twins. In the real world, that didn’t matter, of course, but I’d been reading mystery novels for way too long. In one Agatha Christie novel, for example, the twist with the twins had to do with how one of the names was spelled—it looked like it might have been a typo, actually, but then it turned out to be the key to the whole thing. But I didn’t know how a typo might explain why Mason had been killed. Maybe I needed to put the family trust paperwork through a spellchecker.

We were halfway up the drive to Hemlock House when I saw a familiar silhouette on the terrace. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking that swooshy hair. I sank down into the van’s decrepit upholstery (hand to God, I think it was velour) and said, “Oh no.”

Hugo and Millie were sitting together, talking and laughing.

As Fox was still parking the van, I jumped out and hurried toward the house.

“Dash!” Hugo said. He looked tired. Actually, he looked wrecked—dark hollows under his eyes, a hint of stubble on his jaw, a cast to his skin that suggested a point beyond exhaustion. But he smiled when he saw me, and his whole face lit up. “Millie was telling me how you’re settling in.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Oh my God, Dash, Hugo is AMAZING!” Millie’s excitement managed to swallow even the sound of the waves for a moment. “He said I have great energy!”

“I told you that you have great energy,” I said.

“You said she had too much energy.” Fox said as they joined us. “That was the time Millie had to drag you out of bed, oh, around noon.”

“Dash,” Hugo murmured, but he was smiling more broadly.

“And,” Millie said, “remember how you said you didn’t know anything about hair? And Indira said that was okay, and I said that was okay, and Keme rolled his eyes, and Fox said, ‘What kind of gay are you?’”

“I asked him that again today, actually,” Fox said.

“Hold on—” I tried.

“Well, Hugo has so many good IDEAS! He told me I should try a balayage pixie, and he told Indira she should get a shag, and he told KEME—” I had a momentary thought that her breathlessness might, blessedly, prove fatal. “—he should get an earring!”

“An earring isn’t a haircut,” I said. “And Hugo doesn’t know anything about hair.”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, I know a little. I had to do some research for my next book, there’s this character—”

“AND!” Millie continued (even Hugo looked a bit taken aback by that eruption), “You know how you won’t go in the ocean because you’re afraid of sharks?”

“I’m not afraid of sharks. I grew up by the ocean, and—”

“He had a dream,” Fox told Hugo.

“Dreams mean something! And that shark was not messing around!”

“He also had a dream that he married Queen Elizabeth.”

“Okay, I’m never telling any of you anything—”

“Hugo told Keme that when he moves here, he wants Keme to teach him how to surf!”

When I looked at Hugo, he gave a rueful smile and raised one shoulder.

“What is going on?” I asked. “How long was I gone? Is this a Rip van Winkle situation?”

“Are you hungry?” Hugo asked. “When was the last time you ate?”

It did seem like Indira’s waffles had been hours ago, but I managed to say, “I’d like you to answer my question: what are you doing here?”

“I had to list a local address,” Hugo said. “One of the conditions of my bail is that I remain in the area, and I spent pretty much everything I had to make bail. Lyda suggested Hemlock House.” A little line appeared between his eyebrows. “Is that okay?”

The vision came to me of Hugo here for the foreseeable future: Hugo in the morning, Hugo in the afternoon, Hugo in the evening. Hugo talking to Fox and Indira and Keme and Millie. Hugo being his usual Hugo self, which meant charming and sweet and impossible to resist. He was like a force of nature. In a couple of months, my life would be exactly the way it had been when I’d left Providence. And then I realized this also included Hugo meeting Deputy Bobby. A laugh verging on hysteria bubbled up inside me. Hugo and West would probably be best friends.

I went inside.

“It’s his blood sugar,” Hugo said behind me. “It hits him hard when it drops.”

“It is not my blood sugar!” But it was a little too close to a scream for comfort.

Somehow, I ended up in the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge. The cool air felt even colder against my hot face. I couldn’t seem to make sense of what I was seeing, so I grabbed something at random and prayed it was cake. I didn’t even make it to the table; I unwrapped the plate at the counter, grabbed a fork, and dove in.

Lemon icebox was my only clear thought as the first burst of soury-sweet hit my tongue. Thank God.

Keme appeared in the doorway to the servants’ dining room.

I growled at him.

For some reason, that made him break out into a grin. He ducked his head back into the servants’ dining room, and even though I couldn’t hear anything, he must have said something because Indira laughed. A moment later, she followed him into the kitchen. Fox, Millie, and Hugo came into the room not long after that.

Hugo grabbed a paper towel and folded it and brought it over to me. I tried my growling trick, but he smiled and slid the folded napkin under my plate.

“How about a sandwich?” he asked. “Something with a little protein.”

“We’re not allowed to use the kitchen. This is Indira’s space.”

“I don’t mind,” Indira said. “Hugo knows his way around a kitchen.”

I hid the shock of that betrayal behind another bite of lemon icebox cake.

“Ham and Swiss?” Hugo asked.

“I hate ham and Swiss.”

“Ham and Swiss is your favorite,” Hugo said, “and I’ll cut it diagonally the way you like.”

Millie made a sound like that was the most adorable thing in the world. Fox and Keme were pretending to hang themselves, and they were cracking each other up.

As Hugo busied himself getting the mayo and the meat and the cheese and the lettuce—okay, maybe I was hungry—he asked, “How’s your writing going?”

“None of your business.”

He winced. “Where’d you get stuck?”

“I’m not stuck.”

“Hugo got a starred review for The Mirror Box,” Millie announced.

Hugo gave her a look like that had been a secret, and Millie blushed.

“You got a starred review?” I asked around more icebox cake.

“It was a nice surprise,” he said with another of those half-shrugs.

It took me about five seconds to muster the good grace to say, “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“It’s more convincing if you don’t sound like you’re biting your tongue in half,” Fox said.

“What’s The Mirror Box about?” Indira asked.

Hugo opened his mouth, but before he could start, I said, “I’m sorry, am I the only one who remembers that Hugo was arrested for murder? I know I’m a party pooper, but maybe that’s what we should be focusing on. Life isn’t all surfing and starred reviews and—and ham sandwiches.”

Keme was giving me his disappointed face again.

“Let’s talk about that later—” Hugo began.

And it was such a Hugo thing to say—such a maddening thing to say—that I dropped my fork and said, “No. We’re going to talk about it now.”

Before he could protest, I grabbed his arm and marched him out of the kitchen.

“Where are we—” he tried.

I propelled him in front of me, up the servants’ stairs to the second floor. He tried to collect himself on the landing, but I chivvied and pushed and shoved until we ended up in one of the empty bedrooms. Like the rest of the house, it still had most of its original décor: damask wallpaper in a rich blue; a dresser with mirrored panels; the smell of lilac sachet and furniture polish (even though I’d had to let the housekeeper go); an oil painting of, uh, I want to say a gelding; an enormous fireplace; and, of course, the four-poster bed.

Hugo, naturally, immediately looked at the bed.

I looked at the bed again. It was approximately the size of an ocean liner.

“Are you insane?” I asked.

Hugo’s grin was a little bit boyish, a little bit abashed. “I’ve missed you.”

“We’re not talking about that. We’re not talking about us. We’re not talking about anything except this stupid murder and how to prove that you didn’t kill Mason. You didn’t, did you?”

“No.”

“Can you prove it?”

“How am I supposed to prove it?”

“I don’t know, Hugo. I’m looking for a little help because I don’t want to have an ex-boyfriend on death row.”

“I don’t think Oregon has the death penalty.”

“Stop joking around!”

I hadn’t meant to shout, but the words thundered through the room.

So much for conflict averse, a small part of my brain said.

Hugo stared at me. The good humor drained from his face, and without it, the bone-deep exhaustion was laid bare. He dropped onto a carved wooden chest, put his head in his hands, and worked fingers through that beautifully swooshy hair.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He shook his head.

After a painful eternity of agonizing over my next move, I sat on the chest. Then I put my arm around his waist. It felt like a long time before he tipped his head to rest on my shoulder.

“God,” he whispered, “I’m in so much trouble.”

And that was one of the things that had attracted me to Hugo in the first place: he was so smart. (Yes, and the handsomeness.) Hugo wrote crime fiction—not mysteries, by the way; crime fiction. He knew what it meant that he’d been arrested. He knew what the evidence against him meant.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. And then he turned his head into my shoulder, and it was disturbing how familiar it felt, the weight and shape of his body against mine. “I am now,” he said in that same whisper.

Oh no, my brain thought. No, no, no.

I stood and moved across the room.

Hugo came after me.

I kept moving until I ended up cornered next to the horse painting. Hugo leaned against the wall. The painting was the only thing separating us. There was a substantial lamp on the mantel, and I thought maybe, as a last resort, it would be my defending-my-honor lamp. My chastity lamp. He smoothed down the hair on the side of my head; his fingers bumped the side of my glasses. I jerked backward and hit something, and—because why wouldn’t it?—the painting pivoted in its frame.

On the other side of the painting, a cramped, dusty wooden staircase led up.

Hugo blinked. “Is that a secret passage?”

“No,” I snapped. “Don’t all your horse paintings also double as doors?”

Hugo’s eyebrows went up.

I tried to push the painting—well, I guess, shut, although that doesn’t sound right. Back into place. It spun in a circle. I tried again. It kept spinning. I realized I probably looked like a maniac, pushing and shoving on a horse painting as it spun and spun and spun.

Hugo put his hands on my shoulder and eased me away from the wall. Something clicked, and the horse painting swiveled back to its original position.

“Hidden catch—” Hugo began.

“I know there’s a hidden catch!”

The horse stared at me with a lot of judgment.

“Are you okay?” Hugo asked. “You’ve got your crazy eyes.”

“No, I’m not okay. I’m worried about you. And I’m worried about this murder. It’s weird, Hugo. It’s really weird. Someone killed Mason, and they managed to do it outside a popular bar without being seen, without being heard. Mason’s family is seriously messed up—and that includes the ex-bride-to-be—and there was a lot of money on the line. Even people who love each other do crazy things when it comes to money.”

Hugo frowned. “You think someone in his family killed him?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. It wasn’t a gay bashing. It wasn’t—” I let my voice go dry. “—an altercation with his homosexual lover.”

To give him credit, Hugo did blush, but he also gave me a crooked grin that undermined it.

“There weren’t a lot of people in town who knew him,” I said. “I think it had to be someone he knew, someone who came to Hastings Rock with him.”

“Someone who had a motive.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, the bride-to-be doesn’t have a motive, does she? She would have wanted him alive so she could get her hands on that money—if we’re assuming the money is the motive.”

“See, that’s what I thought,” I said, “but then I talked to her—I don’t know, Hugo. She’s wrapped up in herself, and she’s a lot savvier than she lets on. I think she’s been working on Mason for a long time, trying to make sure he was her financial future. They’d had a lot of ups and downs; maybe this was the final straw, and she wanted payback for everything she’d put up with.”

“I don’t see it,” Hugo said. “If she’s savvy, why take such a risk? Why not move on with her life and find some other guy?”

“Because she wasn’t planning on killing him. She was just so angry. She was furious. She hated him.”

“Did she seem like she hated him?”

“Well…no.”

Hugo hemmed, his expression thoughtful. It was like old times, I thought. Hugo and I fleshing out a plot. Hugo pressing me when details didn’t add up. Me pushing back because they did add up, he just didn’t see it. That sense of déjà vu was so strong that for a moment, I felt dizzy, and waves of hot and cold ran through me.

“Tell me about last night,” I said. “What happened with Mason?”

That boyish grin was back. “Really, Dash?”

“Not that, dummy.” I held up a finger. “The facts. Where did you meet him, what did you do, all of that.”

“This new Dash is more assertive.”

“Maybe it has something to do with being dragged into homicide investigations by idiots. Answer the question.”

Hugo crinkled his eyes with amusement, but his voice was serious when he said, “Mason and I matched on Prowler last night.”

“Okay.”

“You know what Prowler is?”

“Of course I know what it is,” I somehow managed to say. “Where were you?”

“At my hotel. I’m staying—I was staying—at the Rock On Inn, and I was…” Another hint of a blush. That one-shouldered shrug. “Lonely.”

“Oh my God.”

“Hey,” he said with a little laugh, “I came to see you first.”

“Oh my God, Hugo. Fast-forward through the gross parts, please.”

“We met at Rock Top Brewing—have you been there?”

“Hugo!”

“Okay, okay. We got some food. Some drinks. We talked.”

“How did Mason seem?”

“Up.”

“Up?”

“Energetic. A little too energetic, actually.”

“Like he was on something?”

“Maybe. That was what I thought at first, but then, I don’t know, that didn’t seem right. It was more like he was worked up. I thought maybe he was excited.”

Or, I thought, he was sublimating his rage at his family and Sharian, all the emotions from a day’s worth of argument, into a kind of manic enthusiasm. That seemed more likely to me.

“What did he talk about?”

“I don’t know. We talked about books, of course. Music. TV. First-date stuff—”

He caught himself, but only barely.

I almost said something. I almost asked. But I had enough restraint to know I’d only upset myself; it wasn’t hard to imagine the string of guys Hugo would have met after I left. Which, good for him, right? He was a kind person. He was smart. He was funny. He deserved to be happy. Back in Providence, when we would go out, there were always guys who noticed Hugo. He’d never have to spend a night alone (in a Class V haunted mansion, much less) if he didn’t want to.

“That sounded bad,” he said. “That’s not what I meant.”

I shook my head. “He didn’t tell you about Sharian?”

“About his ex-fiancée?” Hugo asked. “About the wedding he’d called off literally a few hours before? No, Dash. Trust me, I’d have spotted the red flags.”

“What happened next?”

“We got a little rowdy, I guess. We were drinking a lot. They asked us to settle up and leave.”

“Rock Top isn’t exactly a dive bar. It’s mostly families.”

Hugo grimaced. “I was in a bad place, and I wasn’t making responsible choices.”

“So, you got thrown out. What then?”

“It’s a little hazy. He said he knew a place. He was—I don’t know if he was getting angry, or if the anger was just starting to come out. He said they threw us out because we were gay. I tried to tell him it didn’t seem like that, but I wasn’t, you know, at my best. He said he knew a place. I think he drove—God, that reminds me: I have no idea where my rental is.”

“We’ll track it down.”

“Anyway, that’s about all I remember.”

“You don’t remember the Otter Slide?”

He shook his head.

“You don’t remember seeing me?”

He groaned softly.

“Uh huh,” I said with the satisfaction of every blue-hair and teetotaler and maiden aunt in the history of the world.

“Please don’t judge me.”

“You couldn’t even stand up straight, Hugo.”

“I said don’t judge me!” But that half-abashed smile curled the corner of his mouth, and he shot his eyebrows up.

“So, you don’t remember anything? Nothing about Penny, the fight with Cole, going out into the parking lot?”

Hugo shook his head.

“You don’t happen to remember who killed Mason, do you?”

He gave me a look.

“It was worth a try,” I said. “Okay, well, I guess we’re back where we started.”

Hugo opened his mouth to respond, and instead, he yawned.

It went on for a long time.

Like, a long time.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You didn’t sleep last night.”

“I’m fine.”

“And you’re still hungover.” He started to speak, and I said, “Did you ask Indira for ibuprofen?”

“I have a tiny headache.”

“Get in bed.”

“Dash, you’re—”

“Better yet, take a shower and get in bed.”

“Why don’t we go downstairs, and I’ll finish making you that sandwich? We can try to figure out—”

“Bed.”

He made a face.

“I’ll leave you some clean clothes.”

“If I sleep now, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

“Oh, aren’t you smart? I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours.”

“But—”

“Bed!”

He looked at me for a long time before murmuring, “Very assertive.” And then he started taking his clothes off.

I hurried out of the room and refused to think about, consider, entertain, or, uh, think about Hugo. In any possible way. I found a clean hoodie that was usually baggy on me but would probably fit Hugo all right, and I dug around for clean joggers. I left them folded outside his room. In the distance, I could hear the shower running.

When I got downstairs, Indira, Keme, Fox, and Millie were gathered around the table in the servants’ dining room. A pot of coffee and, more importantly, a coffeecake were waiting. Fox was reading something on their phone. Millie and Keme were playing fast hands. Millie was giggling uncontrollably, and Keme’s grin was a white slice in his darkly tanned face. Indira had a paperback folded open—it might have been something on science or psychology, or it might have been (wait for it) Reverse Harem Runaround (a Reverse Harem Runaround Universe novel). You never knew with Indira.

It was hard to believe, but the light slanting past the gingham curtain was the rich gold of afternoon, and as I dropped into a seat—what I was distantly starting to realize was my seat, the way the seat near the window was Indira’s, or the seat near the cellar stairs was Fox’s—I said, “It’s time for a nap.”

“You’ve been awake for three hours,” Fox said without looking up from their phone.

“Where’s Hugo?” Millie asked, her game with Keme forgotten. “He said he wanted to see some of the jewelry I made, and then we’re going to go to the farmer’s market, and then he promised me he was going to show me how to make my own seaweed snacks.”

Keme’s smile shrank to a hard line, and his dark eyes glittered.

“God,” I said, “what is wrong with him? He’s facing a murder charge, and he’s acting like he’s on vacation.”

Indira paused in the act of slicing the coffeecake. Fox looked up from their phone. Keme had a small, satisfied smile.

“Is something wrong, Dash?” Millie asked.

Yes, I wanted to say. Yes, something was wrong. He’s my ex. Yes, he’s charming. And yes, he’s sweet. And this was all perfectly, quintessentially Hugo. Which was why everyone (except me) had fallen in love with him. It wouldn’t be long before the questions started: why’d you break up? He seems so great, what happened? He’s such a good guy, are you sure you can’t work things out? The exact same questions I had moved to Hastings Rock to avoid. It was enough to make me want to scream until my head fell off.

Somehow, I managed not to scream. Or have my head fall off. Instead, I said, “Sorry. I’m a little tired.”

“Three hours,” Fox murmured.

“Well, I used a lot of energy in those three hours!”

Even Indira’s eyes got a little wide at that. She, at least, understood the sensible thing to do: she passed me a plate with a slice of coffeecake, filled a mug with coffee, and said, “Why don’t you eat something?”

I did. And it helped.

Keme rolled his eyes.

“What happened at the Gauthier-Meadowses’ house?” Indira asked when I served myself a second slice of cake.

So, I told them: Gary’s phone call and learning about his passive-aggressive mind games, the argument between Becky and Jodi, Penny rifling Mason’s stuff, and then the conversation with Sharian.

“I wonder what she was doing,” Millie said.

“Penny was looking for evidence,” Fox said. “She killed Mason; I’m sure of it. That little stunt in the Otter Slide gave her a perfect excuse for any future DNA evidence—it’s a classic case of hiding evidence with evidence.”

“Oh, maybe,” Millie said.

“Maybe?”

“But I was talking about Sharian. I mean, why sneak outside the house to make a phone call? And why didn’t she want Dash to see her phone? I mean, she’s allowed to call whoever she wants, right?”

“I’m not sure about that,” I said. “I think she’s toeing a pretty fine line with Jodi right now—Jodi’s got everyone locked down, and even though Sharian technically doesn’t have any reason to stay, she’s doing whatever Jodi says. Maybe that includes keeping Mason’s death quiet for now. I could see Sharian having a hard time with an order to stay off social media. The bereaved ex-bride who happens to find consolation in showing off her vocal prowess. She’d get a lot of hits, maybe get some attention for her singing career.”

Keme rubbed his fingers together.

“You know what I think?” Millie said. “I think she thinks she’s going to get money from Jodi if she does what Jodi wants. I mean, that’s how Jodi controls everybody—that’s what Sharian told you, right? Kind of like my mom with our allowance growing up.” When Keme side-eyed her, she giggled and said, “Don’t look at me like that!” She gave Keme a tiny shove, and although Keme glared at her and pretended to fall out of his chair, you could tell he almost died, right then and there, of pure happiness.

“What I don’t understand is the inheritance or the will or the trust or whatever you call it,” Indira said. “Let’s assume what Sharian told you is true: she was trying to trap Mason before he got access to the trust. Mason had the jitters, but it looked like he was going to go through with the wedding, and everything was fine until he revealed he was going to give the money away. Okay, that’s not exactly true love, but I don’t see why she’d kill him.”

“It was a rage killing,” Fox said. “Spontaneous.”

Indira shook her head. “And the same goes for Jodi. Even if she lied to the sheriff and left the house last night, why drive into town to kill Mason? Why not do the easier—and safer—thing and simply change the terms of the trust? That would have solved the problem.”

“Rage killing,” Fox said.

“You can’t say everything was a rage killing.”

“Fox might be right,” I said. “What I saw at the Otter Slide, it looked like a fight that had gotten out of hand. And that’s how the sheriff is framing the case against Hugo—she thinks Hugo and Mason argued about something, it got physical, and Mason tripped or was pushed and hit his head on the dumpster. Manslaughter, not murder.”

“See?” Fox said. “Things are looking better already.”

I gave them a look.

Keme nudged Millie, and Millie nodded. “But isn’t she changing the trust like Indira said?”

“What?” I asked.

“Jodi. You said you overheard her talking about how it’s her money and she can do whatever she wants with it. That sounds like she’s changing the trust. Or changing something—something that Becky didn’t like.”

Indira frowned. “Becky called today and asked me to help with a small memorial service tomorrow night at the house. While I’m there, I’ll keep my ears open. If Jodi did change the trust, the odds are good that they’ll still be arguing about it.”

“At a memorial service for a murdered boy,” Fox said. “What a charming bunch.”

“And I’ll see if I can get anything out of Cole,” I said.

“On your date.”

Keme scowled.

“It’s not a date,” I said. “It’s reconnaissance. Uh, is it reconnaissance?”

“No, dear,” Indira said. “It’s a date, but like in Alias.”

Fox nodded. “That means your greatest weapon is your sexuality.”

Keme whispered something to Millie, and Millie cracked up.

“This is the kind of treatment I get from my best friends,” I said.

“That’s sweet, dear,” Indira said.

“I don’t know about best,” Fox said.

“His sexuality,” Millie said and then dissolved into giggles.