Chapter 11
The rest of the day was a lot less fun—cleaning a burgled house doesn’t measure up to some sexily playful wrestling with your unbelievably strong and handsome and kind and patient boyfriend. (And did I mention he has abs? Like, real ones.)
Bobby called in the burglary, and Deputy Dahlberg came out and took a statement. While she took photos and a video and then—sigh—dusted for prints, I took some photos of my own for the insurance claim. Then I worry-ate the rest of the icebox cake. Plus I was doing a public service—I didn’t want it to go bad. And it was mostly huckleberries, so it was basically pure vitamins.
My parents came home. I knew because I heard them arguing about a potential point-of-view shift in my dad’s current manuscript. They didn’t apologize. Or check in. They didn’t even look for me. I was up to my, uh, elbows in icebox cake when they started up the stairs and went into their room.
Keme and Millie got there not long after. Want to know how I knew?
“OH NO!”
When they got to the kitchen, Millie’s face was pale, and her mouth was set in a hard line. Keme had the same look on his face that he’d had a few months ago when I’d accidentally told some of his surfer friends he was seventeen. (No joke, I pushed furniture in front of my bedroom door every night for a week.)
“Dash, WHAT HAPPENED?”
I told them my theory.
They wanted to talk about the break-in and the diary. It was the same stuff Bobby and I had talked about, though, and we didn’t get anywhere new with it.
When Deputy Dahlberg gave us the go-ahead, we started cleaning. Indira got back from a day spent running errands, and we had to go through the whole thing again. And then once more when Fox arrived. My parents stayed upstairs. I wanted to think they were avoiding me, but more likely, they were simply oblivious. My mom would be editing her own writing, or reading for an anthology, or plumbing the depths of the human soul by imagining the craziest things a person could do. (Like wonder if her son was real—I mean, my God, she wrote an entire book about it.) If my dad hadn’t already turned Vivienne’s office into a shooting gallery, then he was probably cleaning his guns or researching guns or buying new guns. Sometimes I wished Talon Maverick would use a knife or a whip or a bow and arrow. Just once would be nice.
That was how we spent the rest of the day. Indira grilled chicken breasts and hamburgers for dinner, with some sort of spicy-sweet slaw on the side. I’ll tell you this: if you ever want to see the world’s skinniest boy eat , stop by sometime when Indira makes hamburgers. It’s like Keme is a lion, and he’s going through an entire family of gazelle. Millie thinks it’s cute, of course. By the time we were all ready to call it a night, we were covered in dirt and grime from wiping down shelves, handling old books, cleaning up fingerprint powder, and the general level of exertion that cleaning requires—which is why I prefer naps. Also, why I’m a serious advocate for sleep-cleaning. It’s like sleepwalking, only you clean (obviously). And the best part is if you aren’t a natural sleep-cleaner, there’s really nothing you can do about it except take another nap and hope for the best.
I showered. I got into my comfiest pair of joggers, plus this tee Bobby had given me that was simultaneously thick—like, you could tell the material was super good quality—and soft. It didn’t have any pictures or words on it. Nothing Atari-related, or Nintendo, or Xbox. (Not even Sega Dreamcast!) I mean, my God, it was gray. Bobby didn’t justify the pick. He didn’t explain. He just watched me try it on and said, “That looks really good on you.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that.
I was under the covers, trying to read, wondering if there was anything in the Netflix Top 10 today that would be a cultural tragedy if I missed it, when I heard one of the floorboards squeak.
It was an old house. At night, when it settled, there were a lot of noises—beams and joists expanding and contracting. Plus, Keme was always sneaking around. And Millie was sure there were ghosts. (She was up to eighteen of them, by last count.) So, I only noticed the sound distantly; most of my brain was wondering if I’d dreamed up that dating show where people got matched based on their favorite tacos, or if that was a real thing.
Then there was a thud, and my dad said, “Ow.”
Some words went through my head. Some very loud words. And you’d only hear them on a taco-related dating show if it was on Netflix.
I focused on my book. Dashiell Hammett. My namesake. The man who had practically pioneered the noir genre—although Chandler, in many ways, was the one who had made the genre his own. And even Chandler had recognized Hammett’s influence. As he put it, Hammett “took murder out of the Venetian vase and dropped it into the alley.” If there’s a better sentence one mystery writer could write about another, I’d like to see it.
It was hard to focus, though, because that was when my mom said, “Be quiet or Dash will hear us.”
More of those loud words went through my head again.
No, I told myself. Do not give in. Don’t go see what they’re doing. Don’t go check on them. They’ve been holed up in their room all day because they’re totally self-absorbed. Let them do whatever they want to do. They probably want something to eat.
I opened my book again. I put my finger under the sentence I was supposed to be reading. I concentrated until I felt my eyes start to melt.
Downstairs, the front door opened. Then it closed again.
Fricking freaking frack.
Let them leave, I thought. Let them go do whatever they want. They’re adults. They’ll be fine.
Then I scrambled out of bed, grabbed my jacket, shoved my feet into my Mexico 66s, and sprinted after them.
By the time I got out of the house, they were in their RV, already pulling away. I grabbed my bike from the coach house and went after them. Fortunately, the RV was a behemoth, and they weren’t hard to keep up with.
I thought I knew where they were going—because it was where I would have gone, if I hadn’t promised Bobby otherwise. And when they cut into Hastings Rock, driving toward the water, it was confirmation. Sure enough, a few minutes later we turned down a street of beachfront properties. Vacation homes, mostly. Rentals.
The one they stopped in front of wasn’t much to look at, but a lot of the rentals on the coast could be that way. This one was a two-story frame structure with shake siding. It had big windows and a wraparound porch, and someone with a true passion for Hobby Lobby had decorated the front door with starfish and a fishing net and a wooden plank almost as tall as I was that had been painted with the word WELCOME. If you stayed here, you must have instantly known you’d picked the right cute, charming, nautical beach house, because the O in WELCOME had been painted in the shape of a seashell.
My parents parked and got out of their RV. They each held flashlights, and they started toward the house without a moment’s hesitation.
It’s a strange feeling, hoping your parents would be arrested and face the possibility of jail time. It was oddly paternal. This was probably how I’d feel if Bobby and I ever had kids—I mean, not that I was thinking about kids—not that I didn’t want kids—not that I’d even thought about it because we’d barely started dating and who knew if it was going to be serious, although if we did have kids, Bobby would have to be the biological dad, because let’s face it, he would make the world’s cutest babies—
Uh.
Anyway.
I watched them make their way toward the house as I pedaled closer, waiting for them to spot me. But God bless their little hearts, they didn’t turn around. Not even once.
By the time I reached the sidewalk and ditched the bike, I’d lost sight of my dad. My mom was prowling around the porch, moving the rocking chairs and lifting the welcome mat and poking around behind the welcome sign, all with the aid of flashlight so bright it was like she was carrying her own portable spotlight. Something for which the deputies would be grateful, I was sure, when we were inevitably prosecuted for this.
“Are you having some kind of breakdown?” I whispered furiously as I climbed the steps to the porch. “Is this a mid-life crisis? Did you take too much lithium when you checked yourself into the loony bin last time?”
“Dashiell!” My mom put a hand to her chest. “You scared me!”
I batted at her flashlight—mostly to keep her from blinding me with it. “Keep your voice down!” (Admittedly, I was channeling a bit of Millie myself by that point.) “And answer the question. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Solving this murder by investigating George and Colleen’s rental. Obviously. What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep my parents, who are apparently in the clutches of senility, from getting themselves thrown in jail. How did you even find out where they were staying? No, don’t answer that. Where’s Dad? We’re getting out of here.”
“We can’t get out of here. We just got here. Dashiell, it’s obvious these people are perpetrating some kind of fraud. Now, your father and I believe there’s been a falling out among them—some kind of disagreement over money, I imagine.”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving right now. Don’t make me call Bobby.”
“If you were going to call him,” my mom said with a chilly smile, “you would have done it already.”
I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. But nothing came out.
I mean, how would it look? Interrupting Bobby at work. Making him come solve another problem for me. Exposing to him in excruciating detail how messed up my family was. Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t handle anything—no matter how insignificant—on my own. I still remembered what it had been like with Hugo. The day he’d simply taken the mail, with all the bills, and said, I’ll handle it, Dash .
That had been the start. And it had been nice. And by the end, I hadn’t been responsible for, well, anything.
I was still trying to come up with something better than just repeating We’re leaving right now , but before I could, my mom cupped a hand to her ear and said, “What’s that?”
After a second, it landed. “No,” I said. “That’s not a real thing. You can’t do that.”
“I hear someone calling for help. Someone’s inside, Dash. Someone needs assistance.”
“That’s totally spurious. And it wouldn’t hold up for five seconds in court.”
“We’ll see, dear. Break the door down.”
“You want me to break it down?”
“If you can.”
“If I—” I took a deep, murderous breath. “If I can ?”
Fortunately for my mom, before she could twist the knife any deeper, the sound of breaking glass filled the air.
“Oops,” my mom said.
I hurried around the side of the house in the direction of the noise.
A spacious patio extended from the rear of the building, with chaises and a firepit and a wrought-iron table under an umbrella. All of that only registered distantly, though, because I was staring at my father, who had apparently—in the last thirty seconds or so—become a felon. He stood next to a French door that had a conveniently (and suspiciously) broken pane. He was grinning.
“I couldn’t pick the lock,” he said, the words rushed with excitement. “But then I remembered when Talon had to get inside the office of that guy who owned all the garbage dumps. I’m going to say I heard someone shouting for help. Hi, Dashiell.”
“That doesn’t work—no, don’t go in there!”
But by then, he’d already reached through the broken pane, opened the door, and let himself into the house.
My mom followed.
Don’t judge me. What was I supposed to do?
Inside, it looked like a place that had been decorated thirty years ago, and the guiding aesthetic principles seemed to be: cheap, and easy to cover up any potential damage. The walls were white. The wood—doors, cabinets, and trim—was oak. Oak-y. A little too yellow, under the beam of the flashlights, to look natural. The windows had puffy valances printed with sailboats, and curtains to match. The upholstery was microfiber. The pillows and throws were polyester.
The kitchen held all the signs of temporary habitation: instant coffee, a bottle of something called coconut cream wine cocktail, disposable cups and plates, the box from a microwave-ready lasagna. Friendly signs reminded you that if you didn’t wash your dishes and take out your trash at the end of your stay, there’d be a hefty fine added to your bill.
Beyond the kitchen, a hallway connected three rooms. My dad took point (I’m only using that phrasing because he whispered three times, “I’m taking point”). He moved ahead of us, gun drawn. I thought if this was how I died, I would end up being a boyfriend-less ghost for the rest of eternity.
The first door stood open to reveal a bedroom. It had the usual tourist friendly décor: a driftwood whale, floral fuchsia bedding, an aluminum seagull frozen mid-squawk. A suitcase was open on the floor, and in the eyewateringly bright beam of my parents’ flashlights, I could make out a man’s clothes. They looked similar to what I’d seen George wear the night before.
“I’ll take a look,” my mom whispered, and a familiar snap made me glance over—she was pulling on a pair of disposable gloves.
“You brought gloves?” I whispered.
“Of course, dear. This isn’t amateur hour.”
The total lack of self-awareness in that statement probably added an extra zero to my lifetime of future therapy bills.
I followed my dad to the next room. This was the bathroom, and a quick check didn’t turn up anything interesting—a beach bungalow-shaped nightlight, a tin plaque on the wall that said POOP DECK, the toothpaste spatter of someone who was none too particular about their aim. The little room was cramped, and we had to twist and turn to get around each other. It smelled like artificial cherry thanks to the air freshener crystals in a plastic tub on the toilet tank, and we found absolutely nothing helpful.
The third door stood open too. A quick glance told me a woman was staying here, which meant Colleen. She had a single suitcase too—it was dingy and battered, with a big crack running across the front. The clothes in the bag looked casual and well worn. A couple of bras hung from the bedframe, and the smell of drying laundry suggested she’d washed them in the sink.
“Not exactly how you’d expect a wealthy widow to live, is it?” my dad asked.
“Maybe she’s frugal.”
My dad gave me a look that suggested: a) he knew I was arguing purely for the sake of being contrary; and b) he knew I knew he was right. I chose not to engage with that look, and instead, I said, “Do you have an extra pair of gloves?”
He did. My dad, like Talon Maverick, had a trace of Boy Scout in him—always prepared. Always. Even that time Talon Maverick disarmed a nuclear bomb with nothing but his trusty multi-tool. Inside the White House. At the bottom of the president’s hot tub. On the Fourth of July.
I did a quick rummage through the suitcase while my dad searched the closet (side note: I had to use the flashlight on my phone, since I’m not a professional burglar like my parents). I didn’t find anything interesting, so I moved over to the dresser. When I opened the top drawer, I stared.
Junk.
It was full of junk. Paper, for the most part. And most of it glossy. It all appeared to be theater-related stuff. Playbills. Flyers. Even a few photos. My mind jumped back to the mayor’s house, and the framed theater memorabilia that had been shattered on the floor. It only took me a moment to spot Colleen in the pictures. A few minutes of scanning the playbills helped me link her to another name—Joan Wilkinson.
Movement at my elbow startled me. And then I said, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“That’s her, isn’t it?” my dad asked. “That’s Colleen.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think that’s why—”
“She murdered the mayor!”
I said a few choice things that had never made it into the Portland Community Theater production of SpongeBob SquarePants: The Musical (starring Joan Wilkinson as Sandy Cheeks).
My dad didn’t even seem to hear me. “That’s why the house looked like it had been burgled,” he continued. “Colleen—aka Joan—must have realized the mayor, with her love of local theater, had recognized her. She went to confront her—perhaps to silence her. And then, when the deed was done, she removed any evidence from the mayor’s collection that might reveal her identity.”
It’s interesting when you can literally feel a stroke approaching. Somehow I managed a strangled “Yes. I know. I figured it—”
“Patty,” my dad stage-whispered as he hurried out of the room. “I figured it out!”
I said words. Choice words. I said them clearly and articulately, for the benefit of a crocheted pillowcase with a lighthouse design. And then I stomped—quietly—back toward where my parents were conferring.
“Take a look at this, Dashiell.” My mom indicated a black leather case that was now open on the bed.
It held tools that I’d associated with books and libraries—a bone folder, a set of awls, needle and thread. There was also—less common in the book repair industry—a small vial of a dark liquid and an old-fashioned fountain pen.
“That’s got to be—” I began.
“Iron-gall ink,” my mom said over me. “For the forgery!”
Have you ever lived your own personal nightmare? In slow motion? In a kitschy beach rental?
“In Don’t Forget the Milk ,” my mom said—oblivious to my incipient breakdown—“there’s a forged will, and I remember when I was doing my research that it’s very important to get the materials right. That’s why he would have needed an ink that would pass a cursory inspection and at least appear genuine. The paper too, of course—forgers usually source that from other books, ideally from the same period.”
“Great job, sweetheart,” my dad said. “It’s all coming together.”
“Nothing’s coming together,” I snapped. “We already believed the book was a forgery. And we suspected one of them killed the mayor.”
My parents gave me identical looks that said: a) they didn’t like that tone; b) they knew I was being stubborn; and c) they expected a change in attitude, pronto.
“Okay,” I said, “fine. This is good, uh, confirmation, I guess—”
“And look what I found on his tablet,” my mom said, making room for my dad to sit next to her.
Like I wasn’t. even. there.
“I hacked his account—”
“Did you use an admin profile?” my dad asked.
“That’s not a thing,” I said.
“Did you have a bypass dongle?”
“That’s definitely not a thing.”
“His passcode was zero-zero-zero-zero,” my mom said proudly. “It only took me two tries.”
“That’s not really hacking,” I said. But even I felt like that was a little mean-spirited.
“Look at these emails,” my mom said. “Ignore the recent ones—and then right here!”
My dad read the emails and said one of Talon Maverick’s favorite words.
Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked, “Can I see?”
“Sure, Dashiell,” he said. “Take a look at what your mom found.”
Again: I chose not to engage.
The first few emails, it turned out, looked like they had to do with George’s day-to-day business: a client was asking if George could help him find any early Mark Twain, and then there was a monthly catalog from an East Coast antiquarian, and a follow-up email from another bookseller, apparently continuing a conversation about a holograph manuscript of Sarah Gage’s Astor’s Arcadia . (I had no idea what Astor’s Arcadia was, but it sounded unbelievably boring. And probably pro-Astor. And did I mention boring?) George was trying to get an estimated value for the manuscript, and since the numbers quoted fell in the eye-popping-six-figures range, I didn’t think I’d be buying it myself any time soon.
After that, though, the messages got more interesting. Messages from Mrs. Shufflebottom—frantic at first, and growing increasingly angry throughout the day as she demanded answers about the insurance policy she’d purchased. George hadn’t replied once.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why didn’t—”
“—they leave?” my mom said. “Exactly!”
“Great question,” my dad said.
To my mom .
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
“All right,” I said. “Fantastic. We had a great time. This was a lovely family experience. I’ve got a lot of raw material to work with when I’m inevitably confined to a psych ward. Now can we please leave?”
My mom gave a sigh that hovered between affectionate and annoyed. “My little pessimist.”
“Buck up, Dashiell,” my dad told me. “We’re almost done, but we’ve got to check the upstairs too.”
“No, we need to leave before someone notices that you brought floodlights into a dark house—not to mention the massive RV you parked out front—and decides to call the sheriff. Do you know how angry Bobby would be? Worse than angry—disappointed!”
“Your friend will be fine,” my mom said. “And not everything’s about you, Dashiell.”
My parents, everyone. Patricia Lockley and Jonny Dane.
To my dad, my mom said, “I was thinking about that Talon Maverick chapter with the insane clown inside the closet.”
“My dear,” he said as he reached down and produced ANOTHER GUN (yes, I had to say it at Millie volume) from an ankle holster. “I’m way ahead of you.”
He handed her the gun, and they headed for the stairs.
Maybe they’d shoot each other, I thought. It would be one of those headlines you couldn’t believe were real. Mystery writer couple slain in hilarious accident. Son can’t be reached for comment because he’s at Disney World .
Of course, I followed them.
The second floor had a large loft that looked down on the main floor, with two doors leading off from it. The first led into another bathroom. And the second—
When my dad touched the doorknob, someone screamed.
I jumped.
My mom stumbled backward.
My dad flailed that bleeping gun around like he’d never had one single gun-safety course in his entire life.
“What the heck?” my dad said.
(Talon Maverick never says heck.)
The screaming continued. It sounded like a woman, and it was strangely muffled. There were words in it, I couldn’t make them out. My dad tried the doorknob again. It opened, and we stepped into a bedroom on the other side. It had the usual beach-y decorations. The bedding was a mess—it looked like someone had slept poorly, if at all—but I didn’t see a suitcase. Had Colleen appropriated two rooms for herself?
All of that flashed through my mind in an instant before my focus was drawn to the far side of the room. The screaming was coming from inside a closet, and it was easy to see why whoever was in there might not be happy: a dresser had been moved in front of the door to block it. That trick looked familiar from my own experience at the library not so long ago.
“Hello?” my dad called. “Can you hear me?”
Now, through the closet door, the words were audible: “Help! She trapped me in here! You’ve got to let me out of here! Help!”
It was definitely a woman’s voice, and if I’d been a betting man, I would have wagered it was Colleen. But if it was Colleen, then who was she ?
“We’re going to open the door,” my dad said. “I’m warning you: I’m armed, so don’t try anything.”
Then he waved his hand at me.
“What?” I said.
“Move the dresser,” my dad said.
I almost said, By myself? But then I remembered my mom’s unintentionally devastating comment from the porch— If you can —and decided this was my chance. I squared my shoulders. I took a deep breath. I thought manly thoughts—like, what was Bobby thinking about when he lifted weights? Probably about how to execute each rep, because Bobby was nothing if not a sucker for perfect form. I thought about hunting, uh, a mountain lion, and building a fire, and—oh, making s’mores would actually be super nice—
“What are you waiting for?” my mom said.
“Do you want to help me?”
“I’m covering you,” she said with a totally straight face. And then she showed me my dad’s little throw-down piece, in case I’d forgotten.
I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m a healthy adult male. I exercise. Kind of. I’ve got muscles. I mean, you can’t see them, but they’re there. That’s what keeps my arms from falling off, presumably. But I’ve always favored a lean look, and I didn’t want to bulk up too much—I mean, I wasn’t a meathead, and—
“Dashiell!” my mom snapped.
“Is everything okay out there?” the woman in the closet asked.
“I’m doing it,” I snapped back. “Everyone keep your pants on.”
The dresser wasn’t that heavy. I moved it without any problem. I did kind of wish Bobby had been there. And that I’d been wearing a tank top. And then I could have just shrugged after I finished moving it, like it was no big deal.
“Good job, kiddo,” my dad said. “God, Patty, he’s turning into such a man.”
And that was it. There went all my self-esteem and self-image and sexuality, right down the drain.
“Can I come out?” the woman asked.
“Slowly,” my dad said. “And I want to see your hands.”
The hands emerged first. Then the rest of her. (Oh, and you could totally tell Colleen had a theater background—she couldn’t resist twiddling her fingers.) She looked like a wreck—her hair flat, her eyes baggy, dressed in oversized sweats that looked old enough to have featured in a Suzanne Somers workout video. But there was no mistaking her.
“Where is she?” Colleen asked. “Is she gone?” She slumped against the wall, hand to her, uh, bosom. “She’s insane. She locked me in there, and she’s totally insane. She was going to kill me!”
And then she started to cry.
“Who?” I asked.
Colleen glared at me—probably not thrilled with having her performance interrupted—but, like a real star, she seized the moment and exclaimed, “Wanda!”
None of us said anything.
And then my mom asked, “Who’s Wanda?”
That one seemed to throw Colleen for a loop.
As much as I was enjoying this performance of I’m Innocent: You Have to Believe Me (starring Colleen whatever-her-name), it was kind of a relief when my phone buzzed. It was less of a relief when I saw Bobby’s name on the screen.
“Uh, hi,” I said.
He must have heard the guilt in my voice, because the extra beat of silence told me Bobby was filling in a lot of blanks.
“Before you get mad,” I said, “I need to tell you it wasn’t my fault. And I can explain. But mostly, it wasn’t my fault.”
I’d known Bobby for over a year. And I knew one of the core things that defined Bobby was that he hated feeling out of control. And so, his silence was worse than any amount of shouting or guilt-tripping or anger. There was nothing but his labored breathing as he fought to rein himself in.
“Bobby, I’m sorry—”
“They found George Chin,” he said over me, the words curt and flat. “He’s dead.”