Chapter 7
“She can’t do this,” I said as I stormed into Hemlock House.
Yes: stormed.
Hemlock House is the perfect house for storming. It’s this weird, pseudo-Georgian, pseudo-Victorian monstrosity with damask wallpaper and priceless antiques and a massive front door that goes boom when you slam it.
It was less dramatic when Bobby caught the door on his way into the house behind me.
“This isn’t fair,” I said as I continued into the hall. “This is a travesty!”
“What’s a travesty?” Fox asked from the doorway to the billiard room.
Tonight’s outfit consisted of crêpe palazzo pants, a Simpsons T-shirt (Bart on his skateboard), and what I knew was supposed to be called a “mourning wig” (because Fox had worn it before and made a big deal out of it).
Behind them, Indira, Keme, and Millie watched, expressions ranging from suppressed rage (Keme) to red-eyed worry (Millie).
“You already heard,” I said.
“Jacket,” Bobby said as he turned me out of my jacket.
“Millie told us,” Indira said. “Is it true?”
“She’s dead this time, right?” Keme asked. “Somebody actually checked?”
That almost made me laugh, but suddenly I felt too tired. “Oh, she’s dead. The sheriff swears she is. Which, as we know, is super reliable.”
“That’s not fair,” Bobby said.
“What happened?” Fox asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said as I turned toward the stairs.
“Are you all right?” Indira called after me.
I didn’t answer as I started up the steps.
In the bedroom I shared with Bobby (pretty much all the time, now, since he was a detective and didn’t have to work nights unless he was on a case), I heeled off my Mexico 66s and flopped onto the bed. In the dark.
The door didn’t creak—Bobby made sure of that—but displaced air whispered, and I recognized the familiar sounds of Bobby moving around in the dark, the way he did when he was trying not to wake me.
“What?” I asked—and my tone could generously be described as grumpy. “Am I overreacting? Am I supposed to act like this isn’t a big deal?”
“I don’t think you’re overreacting,” Bobby said. He wasn’t exactly close to the bed. I couldn’t tell where he was, and I was too tired to lift my head. “I think you had a horrible night, and you’re understandably upset.”
“This is how it started last time.”
He didn’t answer at first. And then he said, “Dash, I’m sorry about last time. We didn’t know you—none of us did. This time will be different.”
“But it won’t be, Bobby. It already isn’t. I’m the one who found her. Again. I’m a suspect. Again. I’m the only suspect, as a matter of fact.”
“For now.”
I laughed, and it sounded out of tune and jangly, like some weird musical instrument falling down a flight of stairs.
“The sheriff isn’t going to railroad you, Dash,” Bobby said. “But she’s not wrong about this. She has to do her job.”
“Was she wrong about not letting you investigate?”
“No.”
I made a buzzing sound. “Wrong answer.”
“She’s not wrong, Dash.”
“Because it wouldn’t look good.”
“Because she knows there is literally nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.” His voice was surprisingly thick when he said, “I’m not doing a very good job of it.”
I raised my head. He was a shadow on the other side of the room.
I patted the bed. The Bobby-Shadow didn’t move.
I patted the bed again, and with those quiet steps, he moved toward me.
He sat, and the mattress dipped, and I rolled against him.
His hand came to my hip, steadying me, and then it stayed there: solid, warm, strong.
“You can’t keep me safe from everything,” I said.
He barked a laugh. “Trust me: I know.”
I rubbed his leg. “I shouldn’t have followed her. I should have left it alone, like you told me to.”
Bobby made a sound that might have qualified as amused.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“It means I would have liked to see that.”
“Excuse me?”
In the weak light that filtered in from the hall, his smile made a brighter shadow. And I was surprised to find myself smiling too.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bobby said. The hand on my hip gave me a little shake. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I hate this.” And I couldn’t put it all into words, but it was everything: not just the fact that I was a suspect (again), not even the fact that I’d been the one to find her body (again), but death. Coming face to face with death got less shocking, perhaps. But it never got better.
Bobby bent and kissed my hair. “I know.”
“I’m sorry I ruined your first case,” I whispered.
“Dash, you didn’t ruin anything. And it’s not my case. I’m part of a team, and we all work together. The sheriff is right: it’s better for both of us if I’m not involved in this.”
I had my thoughts about that—which I was planning on sharing at length—but the doorbell rang.
“Ignore it,” Bobby said.
But Fox’s voice carried up the stairs. “No, you cannot see him.” A pause. “Because he’s not receiving.”
I groaned.
Another pause. “Because he’s taken to his bed.”
“‘Taken to his bed’?” I said. “Good God, they make me sound like I’m an eccentric recluse.”
“Hmm,” Bobby said.
Which meant I had to poke him.
Downstairs, Fox was saying, “—no, you may not, because this is not the Hotel Transylvania—”
“What is happening?” I moaned.
“I’ll handle it,” Bobby said.
But I got to my feet, and we made our way downstairs together.
Fox stood in the vestibule, hands on their hips as they confronted Julian.
The TV executive, phone in hand, was studying Hemlock House, clearly trying to take in as much as he could.
He’d changed clothes since the last time I’d seen him—the same too-short trench coat, now with a hoodie and sneakers—and he looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (to put it mildly).
I had the vague thought that TV executives were supposed to do a lot of coke, but maybe that had only been in the ’80s.
“Dash, my man! There you are!”
“My man?” Fox said in an undertone that was not quite under. And then they squawked as Julian pushed past them.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Julian said. “When I heard what happened—”
“How did you hear what happened?” I asked.
Julian paused, frowned, and blinked. “The conference. Everybody’s talking about it. Are you okay?”
“Fantastic,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to check on my star!”
One giant breath got sucked out of the room.
Making a face, Julian said, “Wow, that sounded awful. I’m so sorry—I was trying to make a joke. I wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all.”
“Well, to repeat: I’m fantastic.”
“Dash,” Fox said in their you’re-still-talking-to-the-Mormons voice. “Who is this?”
“You know what—” I tried.
“Julian Haskell.” He tried to shake Fox’s hand, but Fox directed what they probably thought of as a withering stare at Julian until he gave up.
(It mostly looked like Fox was squinting hard, but maybe like they needed to sneeze a little too.) “It’s so good to meet Dash’s friends.
I’d love to have you all be involved in the show as well. ”
“What show?” Millie asked. She and Keme had appeared in the doorway to the living room—both of them disturbingly pink-cheeked, Keme with his arms around Millie. “Dash, are they making another play about your LIFE?”
“No—” I began.
“What show indeed?” Fox asked. This was their hysterical-starlet, are-you-trying-to-leave-me-out-of-this voice. (Used more often than you’d expect.)
“What’s going on?” Indira asked from the doorway to the servants’ dining room. “Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” I managed to get in.
“Not a play,” Julian said. “A TV show.” He did that thing with his hands like he was seeing it on a marquee, which didn’t make any sense for a TV show, and said, “Mr. Murder.”
“OH MY GOD!” (Guess who?) “I LOVE IT!”
I know everyone thinks I exaggerate about Millie, but I pinky-promise: one of the clocks even sounded startled.
“That’s dope,” Keme said.
“About him?” Fox asked.
Indira visibly perked up at this news, and she didn’t quite pull it off when she asked, “It won’t be bloody, will it?”
“It’s not going to be bloody at all,” I said, “because this is still very much a preliminary conversation.” I rounded on Fox. “And yes, about me. Is that so hard to imagine? And Keme, don’t say dope.”
Keme made a rude gesture.
Fox sniffed and said, “Who are they getting to play you? Bob Saget?”
“It’s going to be great,” Bobby said with undue—and probably undeserved—loyalty. (Wait, are undue and undeserved the same thing? I’ll look it up later.)
“Frick yeah it’s going to be great!” Only Julian used the, uh, adult TV executive word. “And it’s not only a show. We’re going to have a podcast, books—true crime gets bigger and bigger every year.”
“I’ve never written true crime,” I said.
“It’s EASY!” Millie said. “Because it’s TRUE!”
“I’m loving this energy you guys have,” Julian said.
“This is totally something we need to capture for the show. And let me guess, you’re Bobby.
” Julian tried the handshake thing again, and Bobby didn’t let him down.
“God, look at you. You ever thought about acting? Mr. Murder is going to need a boyfriend, and you would be perfect.”
Bobby didn’t dignify that with a response, but he did look pleased.
“He’s going to be gay?” Keme asked.
“Yes, obviously,” I said. “Actually, is it obvious?”
There was a communal look.
“That’s not what I meant,” I snapped. “I meant on TV—”
“A gay detective would be dope,” Keme said, and he made sure I heard him say it.
“Exactly,” Julian said. “See, this is the audience we’re trying to tap into—Gen Z, Gen Alpha. They want diversity. And this would be so important for advancing the LGBTQ cause.”
“Well, yeah,” I said, but it sounded pretty lame.
“It sounds wonderful,” Indira said. “Do you know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of Matron of Murder.”
“Oh my God,” Millie said—it was almost a moan. “I LOVED that show. That show was my childhood.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Fox asked. “Also, I want it in the contract that I insist on playing myself.”
For a moment, I had a horrifying vision of Fox living out the rest of their life as a Phantom-of-the-Opera style character on a studio lot, haunting the production of Mr. Murder.
“No problem,” Julian said. “I need to sit down with Dash and do the paperwork. Not tonight, obviously—I know you’ve been through a lot.”
Implied, though, was: Definitely tomorrow.
“Right,” I said. “It sounds awesome. And I’m excited. And it would be, uh, progressive—” The words got weaker and weaker until I mumbled, “But I need a little bit longer to think about it.”
Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Listen, take all the time you need. I mean, I would love to get moving on this, and you know how time-sensitive the industry is, but I don’t ever want you to feel pressured.
This is about you. This is about making sure you have the best experience possible. ”
I must have managed to spit out a thank-you, or something to the equivalent, but I wasn’t sure; I was highly aware of the eyes of everyone in the house fastened on me.
“I’m going to get out of your hair,” Julian said. “Sorry again for dropping by; I’m so glad you’re okay. Nice to meet everybody. I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”
A chorus of goodbyes echoed through the hall, and Bobby followed Julian to the door and locked it behind him.
Fox was the first one to speak. “What is wrong with you?”
“Huh?”
“This is your dream. This is what you’ve been waiting for.”
“Okay, one, it’s not my dream. My dream is to write a lot of books. Some books. Like, not too many because I don’t want to overdo it—”
“This is a tremendous opportunity,” Fox said. “This is how people break out. My God, Dash, and you did it with one book.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with the book. It’s about all the cases I solved here.”
“Even better,” Fox said—which felt like a mixed message.
“Fox,” Indira said, “be kind. Dash, you sound like you don’t want to do it.”
“Why not?” Keme said. “It would be fire.”
I assumed fire meant cool, but I refused to verify. “There’s a lot of stuff still up in the air. Stuff we need to figure out.”
“You’d be ON TV.” Millie clapped her hands for emphasis. “JUST LIKE VIVIENNE!”
“Yeah,” I said. “Right.”
Bobby put his hand on my back and said, “The important thing is not to rush into anything. See what he offers you. Learn what this would take—what do they expect you to do, how much would you be involved. Talk to some other people in the industry.”
“You know, Vivienne was very hands-on with Matron of Murder,” Indira said, “but I don’t think that’s true for most authors who sell TV rights.”
“What if they wanted you to live in L.A.?” Keme asked—and the normally reserved boy sounded transparently excited. “That would be—”
“Fire,” I said. Around me, my friends beamed at me, and I tried to work up a smile. “Yeah, I know.”