Chapter 32 #2
I have to be okay with not having all the pieces of the story just yet. Even if I hate it.
“Never mind,” I say, trying not to be frustrated.
Benny’s still staring at me.
“It’s the Cran murder thing,” I admit. “For a beautiful moment, I thought I figured it all out.”
“Ah,” he says, sitting back. “Well, as long as it doesn’t end up with me being in jail, I’d love to hear all about it.”
I explain my theory about the Botox as we give Jean a mohawk and dye it plum purple, and just as we’re finishing, I think
of another possible suspect. “Hey, did you ever meet any of Cran’s model girlfriends?”
If they were models, they might know about Botox.
Might even have their own stashes. Is that a thing? Is my suspect list about to get longer?
But Benny smashes that idea to pieces. “Honestly? I think he just photoshopped random models into his vacation photos. Pretty
sure the girlfriends were fake.”
The revelation bums me out, not only because it’s another dead-end theory and evidence that I’m still completely in the weeds with this investigation despite adding another murder to it, but also because it’s hard to hate someone who was just a lonely dog dad who did too much CrossFit.
“Also, why would the model girlfriend have killed Claudia?” he asks, and I shrug.
“It was a dumb idea,” I say. It’s like the harder I try, the further from the truth I get.
“Maybe.” Benny squeezes my shoulder. “But this poodle haircut idea was awesome, Mo. They’re not going to win the Great American
Dog Show like this, but they do look pretty badass. You’re a pretty good dog mom, you know?”
Hey, that’s two good reviews of my dog momming in one week.
“I actually kind of needed to hear that,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Man, I miss these dorks,” he says, ruffling Jean’s mohawk as we start cleaning up. “Still don’t really understand why Cran
fired me. He always seemed happy with my work. Now I can’t even use him as a reference.”
Even with the second dog compliment still humming in my heart, I spot an opening. “Do you want the dogs now?” I ask hopefully,
but he shakes his head.
“I’ve got a ‘no pets’ clause in my lease.”
“Yeah, that is a problem, isn’t it?” I say, punching him on the shoulder.
We say our goodbyes and I start to make my way home with the freshly coiffed punk rock dogs. It’s a slow journey, what with
all the peeing and smelling, and I’m running through the case again when a really bad thought occurs to me: If Cran was murdered,
then Tond really could be in imminent danger. And maybe has been this whole time. I should call him—but dang it, I don’t have his phone number. I mean, I don’t really want it. I don’t want him calling me. But this is still pretty inconvenient right now.
I’ll have to go to Cran’s house and just hope that he’s hanging out there.
I turn left instead of right and head to the block with the ugly modern house.
When I get there, I don’t notice anything unusual from the sidewalk. We climb the front stairs and I bang on the door. Tond
doesn’t answer.
Maybe he’s not here, which would be fine.
Or maybe he’s dead inside.
I circle the house, sniffing for a gas leak until it makes me dizzy. The dogs, who already sniff everything anyway, are also doing a lot of sniffing, and as a group, we aren’t exactly keeping a low profile. I stand up from shoving my nose into the
crack of the front doorjamb and I catch one of the neighbors watching me from her porch. I wave.
And thankfully, I don’t smell anything.
Except wait, you can smell a gas leak, but carbon monoxide is odorless, right? Oh god, does this mean Cran’s house is full of carbon monoxide?
Take a breath, Mo. Panicking is 100 percent not working as a detective method.
I pull out my phone and find the Johnston Bros Real Estate phone number online, kicking myself for not thinking of this before.
No one answers so I leave a voicemail.
“Hi, this is Mo Ellery calling with an important message for Tond. Can you please call me back as soon as possible? It’s regarding
our . . .”
Our what? I guess I’ll just try to sound like a normal businessperson calling about business. Nothing suspicious or creepy.
“Our . . . deal.”
I really need to make the time to watch Rodney O’Malley’s videos instead of just scrubbing through and reading the comments.
My legs feel like lead when I finally get home. I try to convince myself that Tond is okay, and I don’t need to panic. But
I can feel my mind spinning off in a thousand directions. Is Tond already dead? Does the killer know I’m getting closer? Are
they watching me, and from where, what if they’re in the apartment building, how well do I actually know Sheila? She’s clearly money motivated. What if she’s not Roy’s mom at all??
I catch myself.
Mo.
No.
Seriously, why is not spiraling so much work?
I should email Rodney O’Malley and ask him to do a special video on talking yourself down during an investigation. Because
I need some coping strategies here, yeesh. No one is watching me. No one is after me. Sheila and Roy are the same kind of
weirdo with the exact same face. They are definitely related. And I need to stay calm if I’m going to solve this.
Because yes, I’ve figured out a lot in the last few hours, but the murderer doesn’t know that.
Whoever they are.
Okay, sure, I haven’t figured out the most important part.
But I will.