Page 91 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
“Is it bad that I feel relieved and kind of surprised?” Soren says, and I smile.
“No. I sort of feel the same way,” I admit. “I just don’t quite know what to expect from them yet. He said Mr. Foster was at the station when he took the photos over, though.”
“Huh,” Soren says. “Phil and Elsie must have told the police about the issues he and Carmina were having.” He’s quiet for a second, and I can tell he’s thinking hard. “Statistically speaking,” he finally says, “Phil and Elsie are still the most likely suspects. But…”
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “But.I’m so torn with them. There’s something off there, definitely, but I don’t know if it’smurderylevels of ‘off.’ They let us in. They let us snoop. They told us themselves that she was a difficult woman. And those pictures of Stanley…”
“I know,” Soren says, his voice grim. “And we’re not even taking into account any other problems she had with people that we just don’t know about. We’re not the police. We don’t have any of their resources or authority to ask questions or anything like that.”
We toss halfhearted theories around for a few more minutes, until I break off in the middle of a sentence to yawn.
Soren chuckles. “Go to bed, honey,” he says, his voice soft with affection. It still blows my mind to hear him speaking to me like that—calling mehoney.And yet…I can’t deny that I like it. “We’ll talk tomorrow.
“Goodnight,” I say. And not for the first time, I imagine asking him to kiss me—I imagine what he might do, how he might hold me, what his lips would feel like.
How he would taste.
I shiver, tamping down on the sudden spike of heat that rises in me. Then I hang up.
* * *
Two days later,Stanley Riggs is dead.
23
IN WHICH SOREN AND HEIDI HAVE AN IMPORTANT CONVERSATION
“All right,” I say, rubbing my hand absently over my beard as I think. “Let’s lay out what we know so far.”
“Yes,” Heidi says with a nod. “Good. Let’s do that.”
We’re seated in her living room, me on the couch, her on the floor with her back against the sofa. I could touch her hair if I wanted; I could probably smell her faint tropical scent if I leaned forward. I resist the urge.
I hung around at the shop all day today, and then I helped Heidi and Gemma and Mel close, watching and laughing as they danced to the music coming from the record player. My smile felt strained, though, and I could tell Heidi felt the same way; she almost seemed to be desperately seeking distraction. The mask fell away as soon as Gemma and Mel left; her shoulders slumped, and her expression turned weary.
“Want to come up?” she said, and I agreed without hesitation.
“So here’s the thing,” I say now, leaning back on the couch and folding my arms across my chest. I would be lying if I said this wasn’t to help me resist the temptation to touch Heidi. “I keep coming back to Maplewood.”
“Me too,” Heidi says grimly, nodding as she turns sideways so that I can see her face. “Carmina”—she ticks off one finger—“and now Stanley Riggs. There’s no way it’s coincidence that he was—” She breaks off, swallows, and then goes on. “That he was killed so shortly after she was. It only makes sense that the killer is in Maplewood too.”
Stanley Riggs was found dead in his home by his wife, who—by all accounts—went into a fit of hysterics that could be heard by most of the neighborhood. I wasn’t aware people actually did that kind of thing; I thought people acting hysterical when they were sad was something that happened more in books and movies. But maybe I’m a suffer-in-silence type. Either way, she called the police, and then she seems to have called everyone she knew. It was therefore on the local news that Mr. Riggs, beloved husband and cherished neighbor, had died from what looked like a blow to the head. The news didn’t mention anything about Carmina.
Not that they’d have any reason to, of course. They don’t know about the blackmail. But it still seemed sad, somehow, that while Stanley’s death made the news, Carmina’s didn’t. I didn’t even like the woman, but it feels unfair.
“Do we think the restaurant guy is out, then?” I say, forcing myself not to dwell on it.
Her eyes narrow as she chews on her lip. “I’m going to tentatively say yes,” she says after a moment. “I don’t think it was him.”
“But he was so sketchy,” I say. “Wasn’t he? He was creepy.”
“Yes,” Heidi admits. “Ugh. I don’t know.”
“And what about the date that never showed?” I say.
“Weird,” she says slowly, “and not something I have an explanation for, but unrelated, I think.”
It’s a bizarre game of Clue we’re playing here, but I agree with her.
