“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe he packed a bazooka.”
“He’s getting his crime scene analysis kit,” my mom said. “Now, we don’t want to get in your way, so tell us what you want us to do.”
“Go home,” I said promptly.
“No joking around. Come on, let’s go.” And then, to add insult to injury, she did a little clap-clap, as though that might get things moving.
“Go where?”
“Mrs. Lockley,” Bobby said, “I think the best thing we can do is to wait—”
“Has he started?” my dad asked as he hurtled down the stairs, a black plastic box swinging from one hand. “Did I miss anything?”
“Started what?” I asked. “Miss what?”
“Watching you solve the crime, Dashiell.” To my mom, he added, “We should record this.”
“Of course I’m going to record it,” my mom said.
It took her a few painful-to-watch seconds to remember how to get to the camera on her phone. Long enough, actually, that I wondered if this was what people felt when they got caught in whirlpools and were slowly sucked down to the bottom of the ocean.
“There,” she said. “We’re ready.”
“Is it on photo or video?” I asked—mostly out of shock, but it was also a legitimate question.
“We’re not—” Bobby tried.
My mom made an annoyed noise and tapped the screen a few times. Then she said, “Now we’re ready.”
Bobby, bless his heart, tried again. “I know this is a complicated situation, but the best thing to do is let the sheriff’s deputies handle it when they arrive.”
“Those bozos?” my dad asked. “They haven’t gotten a single thing right since Dash moved here. You’re lucky he’s been willing to help out.”
“Dash is a genius,” my mom said—as though Bobby had said otherwise. “He has a gift.”
“He has more than one gift,” my dad said. “It’s not just the crime-solving. The writing too.”
“We’re not talking about that right now,” my mom said. Meanwhile—for those playing along at home—she’d been swinging the phone this way and that because she was talking with her hands. I figured if anyone ever did try to watch this recording of my, uh, genius at work, they’d need a puke bucket nearby. “We’re talking about how Dash is a genius at solving crimes because he’s solved every murder this town has ever had.”
“Not every murder—” I tried.
“Go on,” my mom said over me. “We’ll stand back and watch. Do you need gloves? You don’t want to leave fingerprints.”
“Patricia,” my dad said.
My mom covered her mouth. “Oops.”
“That’s an actual crime scene—” Bobby tried.
“Should we separate the witnesses?” my mom blurted. And then she raised both hands in surrender. “Last comment, I promise. You do it, Dash. You’re so good at it.”
Under other conditions—for example, anything not involving my parents—the look on Bobby’s face would have been priceless. In that particular moment, though, it suggested that if I still, by some miracle, had a boyfriend in the morning, I’d be facing a long, uphill slog to keep him, with a lot of groveling along the way.
At that moment, the front door opened, and a familiar voice called, “Sheriff’s deputies!”
“In here, Salk,” Bobby said.
Salk—Deputy Salkanovic, if he was writing you a parking ticket because you only had to run into the Keel Haul for milk and eggs, and that other car had been there forever, and it wasn’t technically double-parking if you were quick about it—was many things: he was a nice guy, surprisingly good at karaoke, and a favorite among the little old ladies in town. He’d been Hastings Rock’s star quarterback, and he lived a life untroubled by, uh, mental complexity. Deputy Winegar, on the other hand, was pouchy eyed and withdrawn, and had once spilled a pack of Raisinets in front of me and then spent almost a quarter of an hour picking up each one and dusting them off. I didn’t even know they still sold Raisinets.
