I puttered around with that idea for a while. Then I ordered myself to take a cookie break. (No complaints here.) I texted Bobby to see what he wanted for dinner after his shift wasover, but he must have been busy because he didn’t text back. He’d told me that Halloween was always a crazy time for the sheriff’s office. Not only did they have to deal with a rash of adolescent misbehavior—broken windows, graffiti, knocked-over mailboxes, etc.—but they had to deal with adults who thought a silly/sexy costume was a great reason to drink too much and then get behind the wheel of a car, or pick a fight with their spouse, or, um, use the slides at the park as a public restroom. (Ladies, if you didn’t know this already, for some weird reason there is an entire subset of guys wholovepeeing on things they’re not supposed to pee on.)
After about eighteen of Indira’s brown-butter-and-maple chewies (best cookie name ever), I ordered myself to get back to work. (Lots of complaining this time.) I was just settling down with blanket and laptop and, yes, more coffee, when there was a knock at the door.
It was Bobby. And he was in uniform. And he had Deputy Tripple with him.
Tripple was—to put it kindly—notmy favorite deputy. In fact, Tripple was pretty solidly on my naughty list. He was White, middle-aged, and bald. He also thought I was an attention-seeking lunatic and that I searched out/exaggerated/invented murders to get more attention. More attention from Bobby, in particular; Tripple had taken an indecent amount of pleasure in embarrassing me about my crush on Bobby before we’d started dating. Oh, and you know the other thing? His scalp. I mean, it wasn’t a problem that he was bald. But his scalp was disturbingly loose on his skull and the whole wrinkle situation gotweird—and fast. (I mean, it was like crepe paper.)
Bobby’s face was so serious it was almost stone. Tripple looked like he was about to smile.
“Bobby?” I looked past them, but all I saw was their cruiser. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Is Keme home?” Bobby asked.
“No. Why? Did something happen?”
“Did he come home last night?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Tripple asked.
“It’s a big house. I was asleep. What—”
“So, he might be here right now?”
“No, he’s not here right now. I already told you that.”
“Why don’t we have a look?”
That shocked me out of my daze. I stared at Tripple. At the almost smile. And I said, “Do you have a warrant?”
“Dash,” Bobby said.
“You’re not searching this house for Keme—for anything—until you tell me what’s going on.”
The tightness in Bobby’s jaw should have told me, but all he said was “We just need to talk to him.”
And then Tripple grinned: sharp, narrow teeth yellowing at the gumline. “About a murder.”
Chapter 3
“I amnotgoing to calm down,” I said, trying to keep my voice low. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”
We were in the kitchen, just Bobby and I. The air smelled like yeasty dough and cardamom and brown sugar. My stomach turned, and I wondered, from a far-off point in my head, if I was going to be sick.
“I didn’t say anything,” Bobby said mildly.
Which was fair. And true. And made me want to scream my head off.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. I was still fighting to control my volume because Tripple was in the servants’ dining room. (And, outrage of outrages, eating my cardamom rolls. I mean, Indira’s, but it’s basically the same thing.) “You think Keme killed someone?”
“Of course not.”
“But you’re going to arrest him.”
“We’re not arresting anyone,” Bobby said in that same even tone. “But we do need Keme to come in for questioning.”
“Who is he supposed to have killed?”
