That one stumped me, but then genius struck. “Buying a beach house.”
It’s kind of amazing how good Indira is at the mom look—you know, the one that says she knows you’re full of horse plop.
“Indira,” I said, “you can’t.”
“Why not? You can. Is it because I’m a woman? Is it because of my age?”
The sky was totally clear, and it had been an absolutely perfect day (in terms of weather, not in terms of having your friend framed for murder). But I’m not joking: I heard thunder.
“Uh, no,” I said. “It’s because—” Feet don’t fail me now, I thought. “—you’re an upstanding citizen, and Keme needs you not to get yourself thrown in jail.”
“I’m not going to get myself thrown in jail,” Indira said. But she shifted her purse, and her gaze slid away from mine. Her voice tightened. “Keme is—is sitting in a cell right now, Dashiell. He’s alone.” She stopped, and several seconds passed before she spoke again, her voice thinner and higher as she forced the words out. “And I have todosomething. If you’re not going to help me, I’ll talk to her myself. She’s in room two-oh-six; I called and asked.”
“And they told you?”
Indira ignored me. “I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.”
And then she stood there, clutching her purse with both hands, staring at that stocky little duck as it screamed at the pool noodle.
Several things clicked. She’d been here, waiting. She hadn’t gone up to the room, even though she knew which one it was. And when I’d arrived, she’d tapped on my window. And now she was just standing there. Plus the fact—of which I was occasionally reminded by people who loved me and wanted the best for me—that normal people like Indira didn’t regularly do things like interview strangers about the murders of their husbands. (The implication was:unlike me.)
I sent a silent apology to Bobby and the sheriff and professional law enforcement everywhere. And then I said, “Maybe we should talk to her together.”
The stiffness in her voice almost hid the relief. “Whatever you think is best, dear. You’re the detective.”
“I’m more of a snoop,” I said as I got out of the Pilot. “I mean, if you ask anyone else.”
“I’m sure you are, dear.”
“No, I meant—” I tried not to sigh. “Here we go.”
Room 206 was on the second floor, so we climbed the stairs together. We still hadn’t seen anyone. Tourists in October and November tended to be retirees, and I was starting to suspect that everyone staying at the Bay Bridge Suites had gone to bed with the sun. We made our way past darkened windows and stopped in front of room 206. This window was dark too. I had a hard time believing Channelle had called it a night after the blue plate special, but anything was possible. I knocked, and the door shifted in its frame.
“Try again,” Indira whispered.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Knock on the door, Dashiell.”
I knocked again. The door shifted again. That kind of thing happened in old buildings as they settled and the frames went out of true. But it didn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence in the Bay Bridge Suites.
“She’s not there,” Indira whispered.
“Guess not. We can try tomorrow. I also think we need to talk to Millie—”
“Don’t be silly. This is a perfect opportunity.” She opened her purse and began to rummage around. “I know I have a bobby pin in here somewhere.”
“A what?”
“A bobby pin.” With a cry of triumph, she produced one and held it out to me. “Go on, dear.”
“And do what?”
“Pick the lock, of course.”
Of course.
I stared at the bobby pin. “I have no idea how to open a lock with this. Maybe if I had my picks, but they’re back at the house. Also, remember how we talked about not getting thrown in jail?”
