By the Book (The Last Picks #7)

Chapter 5

I herded everyone back into the living room while Bobby put up an improvised cordon around the billiard room. It wasn’t an entirely smooth process. The residents of Hastings Rock were, for the most part, kind and lovely people, and whatever annoyance the cupcake catastrophe had created was washed away in the wellspring of concern. That being said, our lovely little town also had a high population of snoops. Fox and Indira had to corral Pippi (who was fervently speaking into her phone—probably recording her next patrons-only podcast episode, exclusively for the Pippi’s Pineapples tier, live from the scene of the crime). Millie caught Cheri-Ann Fryman trying to sneak past us—the proprietor(ess?) of the Rock On Inn was one of the town’s most celebrated gossips, with a particular love for spreading the good word via Facebook, of all things. And Keme, arms folded across his chest in an appropriately macho pose, rounded up Oscar Ratcliff, who was slinking along one wall in hopes of going unnoticed. All Keme did was glare at him, and poor Mr. Ratcliff actually squeaked before scurrying back to the living room.

“Good job, tough guy,” I told Keme. “I can actually see you growing chest hairs.”

He gave me a big grin, a lot of enthusiastic nodding, all the nonverbal signs that I was the funniest guy he’d ever met. And then he tried to knee-cap me.

“I called it in,” Bobby said as he joined us.

Massaging my knee-capped leg, I asked, “How’s Mrs. Shufflebottom?”

“She’s pretty upset.” That seemed to be putting it mildly; she was sitting in an old-fashioned chair at the end of the hall. The hallway was too dark to make out more than her profile, but every line looked carved by grief. Bobby considered me more closely. “What happened to you?”

I looked at Keme and said, “I fell down the stairs.”

Bobby sighed. “Keme, please don’t beat up my boyfriend.”

For whatever reason, that only made Keme smirk, and he strutted away to join the others in the living room.

“He should be in a psych ward,” I said. “Or a prison. Or a specially designed futuristic prison-style psych ward that only holds sociopathic teenagers.”

“That’s called a high school,” Bobby said. And then, in a different tone, “Incoming.”

My parents appeared in the doorway to the living room and came toward us.

“I’m just saying we shouldn’t have been left in the dark,” my dad was saying. “Literally. If there’s an emergency, he ought to come to us, not to that—”

My mom made a warning noise.

“Nice save,” I told them.

They ignored that, of course.

Bobby did too, but I felt like that was more holding-on-by-his-fingernails-level politeness than anything else.

“We’d better get started, dear,” my mom said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Get started on what?” I asked, although I was afraid I already knew the answer.

My dad didn’t even bother replying—he sprinted up the stairs.

“Where’s he going?” Bobby asked.

“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.

“What’s going on?” Salk asked Bobby. “You said there’s been a burglary? Dash, you okay?”

I nodded. “We were having an auction—”

“Dash is happy to help,” my mom said. And then she seized Salk’s hand and started pumping it. “Patricia Lockley.”

“Jonny Dane,” my dad said, taking over with Salk when my mom switched to Winegar. “I think everything’s under control.”

“Dash isn’t happy to help,” I said. “In fact, Dash isn’t particularly happy in general right now. Bobby’s right—we need to let the deputies work—”

“Let me introduce you to Mrs. Shufflebottom,” my mom said over me, taking Salk by the elbow and willfully ignoring the fact that Salk had known Mrs. Shufflebottom for almost as long as he’d been alive. “She discovered the theft,” my mom continued. “Why don’t you two separate the witnesses?”

You two apparently did not mean me and Bobby—my dad nodded to Winegar, and to my surprise, Winegar shrugged and started toward the living room.

“Am I asleep?” I asked. “Is this a nightmare?”

“Tell me, Deputy Salkanovic,” my mom was saying as they moved down the hall, “did you notice any suspicious persons fleeing the scene when you arrived?”

Salk glanced back at us. Bobby’s face was stone. I offered a helpless shrug. Turning back to my mom, he said, “No, ma’am.”

“Very well. First thing, we should assess the scene to ensure officer safety, don’t you think? You’ll need to make initial observations.”

“Uh, right.”

“Do you want to write this down? Never mind. Just tell me, and I’ll remember.”

Salk threw another bewildered look back. This time, I put my hand over my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see.

“Well,” he said, “I see a lot of people having a party that got interrupted. And Mrs. Shufflebottom is pretty upset.”

“Yes, but what do you hear ? What do you smell ?”

“Cake?” Salk said, but it was more of a question. “But that’s kind of normal. Sometimes when Dash comes to the station, he smells like he just walked out of The Cakery, and he’s got this look in his eyes. It’s nice, actually. We take bets—”

“Cake!” my mom’s shout made Salk jump. “Exactly!”

“I can’t watch this,” I told Bobby. “Please shoot me.”

But listening to my dad and Winegar in the other room wasn’t any better. My dad’s favorite phrase seemed to be “Let’s see some ID.” Delivered loudly.

Winegar must have been busy trying to keep my dad in check because one by one, the Last Picks slipped out of the living room and made their way down toward us.

“What’s going on?” Fox asked. “Did they find the book?”

I shook my head.

“Your dad’s face is super red,” Millie told me. “He’s having a LOT of fun.”

Keme nodded agreement.

“Are you all right, Dash?” Indira asked.

“Uh—” I risked a look at Bobby. To my relief, most of the annoyance had melted out of his expression, and now it seemed set somewhere between rueful and chagrined. He caught my eye and, with a little roll of his eyes, took my hand. “Fine, I guess,” I said. “I mean, it was kind of a shock. But everybody seems okay. Physically, I mean.” I frowned. “It’s hard to believe someone would want that book.”

“It’s worth a lot of money if you believe those two drips,” Fox said.

“They weren’t drips,” Millie said. “Colleen was nice. She said I should be in THE THE-A-TRE!” In addition to the volume, she added a little what-Americans-think-English-people-sound-like accent to the final two words. And then she giggled.

“She said you were playing to the back row,” Fox murmured.

With a frown, Indira said, “How did someone get into the billiard room?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The doors were locked, and Mrs. Shufflebottom has my key. Wait, where is Mrs. Shufflebottom?”

The consensus seemed to be: no one knew. She was gone.

“I can’t believe no one SAW anything!” Millie exclaimed.

I tried to replay the sequence of events leading up to the discovery that the book was missing, and something swam up from my memory. “I smelled something.”

Fox started to giggle. And then, because he was a teenage boy, so did Keme.

“For real?” I said. “Grow up. I mean I smelled perfume when someone shoved me. I think it was the mayor’s. And a woman was saying, ‘Excuse me,’ like she was trying to get someone’s attention, and now that I think about it, it could have been the mayor.”

“You think Mayor Berner shoved you and stole a valuable book?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know.” But I was trying to be better about standing my ground. I was trying to be braver. I was trying to trust my gut. I was also trying not to eat dessert every night—listen, anything is possible. “I mean, yeah, actually. I know I smelled something… If you two don’t knock it off!”

Fox and Keme were laughing so hard they looked like they were going to fall over.

“Why would the mayor steal that book?” Millie asked. And then in a burst of excitement: “IS IT BECAUSE SHE’S SECRETLY NATHANIEL BLACKWOOD?”

“No, dear,” Indira said. “But she did seem quite angry with Agatha. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clearly an argument of some kind, and Teri obviously didn’t get whatever she wanted.”

“That’s because she wants to close the library,” Fox said, still sounding a little breathless from having the sense of humor (and emotional maturity) of a middle-schooler. “She definitely didn’t know about the fundraiser until tonight, and she came to try to stop it. Although I don’t know how she thought she’d get Agatha to change her mind.”

“Maybe she threatened her,” Keme said.

“We’re talking about the mayor,” Bobby said. “I know she’s not anybody’s favorite person, but do we honestly believe she’d do all this?”

The silence was deep enough—unfortunately—that I could hear my mom still giving Salk instructions. He’d somehow managed to bar her from going into the billiard room itself, so she leaned through the doorway as she called out directions: “Very good, Joseph. Now what do you think about that window? No, no, no! Take a picture!”

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “She’s calling him Joseph.”

And from the other side of the house, my dad: “Deputy Winegar can’t hear you. You’ll have to speak up.”

I groaned.

Bobby squeezed my hand.

“I don’t know,” Indira said thoughtfully. “Teri Berner is a determined woman. She almost always gets what she wants.”

“And there’s a lot of money at stake,” Fox said.

“Wait, you think she’d sell the book herself?” I asked. “Why? And wouldn’t that be hard, considering it’s stolen?”

“Not as hard as you might think. A surprising number of people in the antiquarian business are willing to deal in items of, uh, uncertain provenance. Of course, that means they also deal with a fair number of shady customers, which brings its own trouble.” Fox put up a hand before I could ask another question. “What I meant, though, was this business of closing the library. It’s on a prime piece of real estate. If the library does close, that land will be worth a fortune. And I imagine that one way or another, our dear mayor is going to get a piece of the pie.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Bobby said—although to judge by his tone, it was clearly a struggle. “But it seems so out of character. Let’s take a step back. Is there anybody else here who might have wanted that book?”

“Stewart,” I said. The name popped out of my mouth before I’d even really thought about it. “I got the vibe he’s a local history buff—”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Fox muttered.

“—and he seemed peeved that he hadn’t been allowed to look at the diary. He kept trying to get me alone to talk to me, but I thought maybe that was just—”

“Your raw animal magnetism?”

Keme made a throwing-up noise.

Millie dissolved into fresh giggles and then pulled herself together with what appeared to be another exciting brainstorm. “What if it was A GHOST?”

“There’s no such thing—” I tried.

“Adolpha the She-Wolf is a ghost, and she HATED Nathaniel Blackwood. And I’ve been feeling this weird draft on the back of my neck all night. And when I touched Keme’s arm earlier, all the hairs STOOD UP!”

We were all kind enough not to look directly at Keme, but even out of the corner of my eye, I could see his sudden—and intense—blush.

“Keme doesn’t have any hair on his arms,” I said to break the moment. Then I had to dodge a kick, and Bobby had to keep me from falling over. “And it’s not a ghost. Ghosts are not a workable theory.”

“What about the drips?” Fox asked.

“Yes,” Indira said. “My thought exactly.”

“Who?” Bobby asked.

“The donor,” Indira said. “And the bookseller, or whatever he is.”

“Colleen and George,” Fox said. “The drips.”

“Why would Colleen donate the book only to steal it back?” I asked. “Unless this is the ultimate prank.”

Indira shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe that man, George, stole it. After all, he appraised it. He might have decided it was too good to pass up. He’d know how to sell the book, too, which is an additional factor.”

“Plus,” Millie said, “they’re gone.”

We all looked at her.

“What?” Millie asked.

“What do you mean they’re gone?” I said.

Keme’s brows drew down. “What do you think she means?”

“They snuck out while your dad was showing Deputy Winegar his gun stance.”

“What in the world is a gun stance?” I asked.

“Let it go,” Bobby said. To Millie, he said, “They just left?”

“Oh yeah, and you could tell they didn’t want anyone to see—that’s probably why they went out to the sun parlor and climbed over the railing.” Her face lit up. “Like NINJAS!”

“Ninjas,” I said. “For the love of God, Millie—”

Here’s one cute thing about Keme: he can communicate pure murderous intent with nothing but his eyes.

(Is that cute?)

I fumbled my way to say, “—uh, I guess they could be ninjas.” A bit defensively, I added for Bobby’s benefit, “Anything’s possible.”

“Okay,” Bobby said in the tone of someone contemplating a drastic change in his romantic life. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to tell Salk what we know, and then we’re done.”

Of course, it didn’t go as planned. First, we had to wait while Salk (under my mother’s direction) finished his walk-through of the billiard room. Then we had to wait while Winegar (with my dad interrupting) reported that the bystanders—meaning, everyone else—had been sent home, and he’d completed an initial perimeter check. Salk shooed the rest of us out of the hall while he worked, and Indira took advantage of the change in location to put the rest of us to work cleaning up the mess from the fallen cupcakes. (My parents—big surprise—immediately escaped upstairs to avoid, you know, having to do any actual work.) After a while, Salk pulled Bobby into the hall. They talked for a long time, which made me worried for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on. And then—finally—Bobby came back and told me Salk was ready to talk to me.

Salk ran me through the questions I’d more or less expected—what happened, had I noticed anything unusual, etc. After I’d told him everything, Salk nodded and asked, “But you didn’t actually see the mayor?”

“No,” I said. “But I smelled her perfume. I mean, I thought it was her perfume. It definitely smelled similar, anyway. And I’m pretty sure she was the one saying, ‘Excuse me.’”

Salk nodded some more. And then he said the worst thing an officer of the law can say: “We’ll take that into consideration. In the meantime, I’m going to have to keep the billiard room closed off. I need to see if I can get any prints. If I can get another deputy over here to help, it’ll go faster.” He must have misunderstood the look on my face because he added, “I promise I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Wait,” I said. When Salk looked back, my face heated. “What about the mayor?”

“What about her?”

“Aren’t you going to talk to her? Shouldn’t you go over there and—” See if she has a stolen book didn’t sound great, so I went with “—investigate?”

“Dash,” Salk said. And then he stopped. His jaw had an unfamiliar set, and it sounded like he was trying to keep his voice friendly. “You smelled some perfume. You heard a voice you aren’t sure you recognized.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Bobby said. I hadn’t heard him come into the hall, and his voice surprised me. One hand on my shoulder, Bobby said, “Why don’t we let Salk work?”

Bobby led me into the servants’ dining room. Only a single lamp burned here, casting unfamiliar shadows across the table and the gingham curtains, and filling the air with the faint scent of kerosene. On the other side of the window, moonlight picked out the tangled hemlocks massing on the cliffs, and farther out, the knit-silver restlessness of the ocean. The waves crashed somewhere down below us.

“What do you mean, you’ll talk to me?” I asked when the door swung shut behind Bobby. “Why did you talk to him for so long?”

“You need to understand Salk’s situation.” Bobby pulled out a chair for me. I folded my arms and stayed standing. After a moment, he sighed and said, “He’s a good deputy, Dash. But he’s in a bad spot. You’re asking him to show up at the mayor’s house and more or less accuse her of aggravated theft in the first degree.”

“I didn’t say he should accuse her—”

“But that’s what it’ll be, even if he never says those words. And you’re asking him to do it because you smelled perfume.”

“I smelled her perfume. And I heard her voice.” And then I realized what he was saying, and a sliver of hurt worked its way into me. “I thought you believed me.”

“Of course I believe you. But I’m telling you that you’re asking Salk to risk his job on nothing more than your word. Nobody else smelled her perfume. Nobody heard her say, ‘Excuse me.’ Nobody saw her shove you. Nobody saw her go into the billiard room. For that matter, nobody can explain how she got past everybody and into the billiard room with the door locked. By your own admission, it sounded like the mayor was talking to someone else, which means there were two people who might have slipped past us in the confusion. And most importantly, nobody saw anybody steal the diary. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying it’s a big ask, and I’m not sure what the payoff would be—all the mayor has to do is say, ‘No, I’d already left,’ and how would we prove otherwise?”

“Because everyone was focused on the cupcakes!”

“Exactly.”

I set my jaw.

“Salk will do a good job,” Bobby said. “He’ll put what you said in his report. He’ll talk to Sheriff Acosta about it. If we find something—fingerprints, trace evidence, an eyewitness—she’ll follow up on it.” Bobby stepped closer and reached out to put his hands on my arms. His movements were slow, almost cautious, like someone approaching a wild animal. “This isn’t a cover-up. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s just not enough.”

His hands chafed my arms lightly, stroking some of the tension away. Not enough, though, that I didn’t still sound grumpy when I said, “So, we’re going to sit here and do nothing because the entire sheriff’s office is afraid of making the mayor mad.”

That earned me a look. “That’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying if we want to do this, we’re going to have to do it ourselves.”