Chapter Twenty-Seven. The Body with The Evil Laugh
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE BODY WITH THE EVIL LAUGH
Of all the residents of Castle Claude, Malia is the easiest to track down.
Following the trail of watery harp sounds leads us to the music room, where she is practicing a piece that would suggest weeping even without the vocal bits sprinkled in.
As it is, the ragged sighs and sharp barks have me half worried she’s sobbing onto the strings.
“Hello, sprogs,” Malia says when Felix and I enter. The greeting isn’t cheerful exactly, but it’s clear we haven’t caught her mid–crying jag.
“Interesting piece,” Felix says.
“A young Albanian composer.” She plucks a few notes.
I can see the attraction of having a giant musical instrument to strum for emphasis every time you say something. Way more dramatic than air guitar.
“I chose something soothing in case your grandmother’s head was still tender,” Malia explains.
“She’s better.” When I checked on her before we left this morning, Grandma Lainey was well enough to grumble about not needing a nursemaid.
“Good. Then we can venture into something more stirring. How’s your Schubert?” she asks Felix.
“Nonexistent,” he replies.
Malia laughs, and I can’t even blame her. Most guys would have said something pretentious to make themselves look good.
“We can fix that.” Her expression sours. “As long as we have a music room.” The harp takes the brunt of her mood shift, as Malia angrily plinks out a new tune. “Imagine finally acquiring a magnificent instrument such as this, only to be forced to move to a dingy studio apartment. With stairs!”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” I wish I could say it with more conviction, but it feels weird to reassure grown-ups, because we all know I don’t have the authority to make promises about the future.
“Tell that to poor Mr. Namura. Detective Ortiz has been harassing him all morning.”
“The detective was here?” So much for being ahead of the game. Felix shoots me a look, and I can tell he’s wondering the same thing: Does Detective Ortiz know something we don’t?
“Why did he want to talk to Mr. Namura?” he asks Malia.
“Probably because he does so much of the cooking,” I surmise, and Malia nods.
“Which any reasonable person would realize makes him less likely to put poison in someone’s food, because of course the suspicion is going to fall on the chef. Honestly!” Malia’s huff is powerful enough to bounce off the ceiling. “That man won’t even drink milk that’s past the expiration date.”
“That’s … probably good,” Felix says. “About the milk, not the harassment.” This time when our eyes meet, I nod a quick yes. We will need to visit Mr. Namura—but not until we’ve gotten some answers from Malia.
“Did the detective talk to anyone else?” I don’t bother pretending to be casual, because Malia appreciates drama in all things.
“Not that he mentioned to me.”
That gives me pause. “You talked to him?”
“No.”
Okay. Detective Ortiz doesn’t know everything. This is still our exclusive lead, though obviously we’ll share any important discoveries with the police—after we do a little digging.
But first we need a brilliant segue to ease into the subject of what Sofia told us. The last thing we want is for her to clam up—
“I didn’t know you worked at the counseling center at the college,” Felix says.
“Hmmm? Oh yes. The Electra Company. I’ve mostly passed the torch at this point, but it’s a wonderful project.”
I pull a chair closer to Malia’s stool. It’s easier to have a serious conversation at this distance, though there are obvious risks to my eardrums if she decides to sing one of her answers. “What do you do there?”
“We teach them to vocalize. Pain, rage, shame—you name it. The last thing you want is to trap those feelings inside.” She presses a fist to her breastbone, and then her throat, and finally her lips.
“Do you remember the last time you let yourself scream with your full voice? Not holding back or muzzling yourself for public consumption.”
“No,” I admit. “Probably when I was a baby. Or maybe a toddler.”
“You should practice.” Her stare swings to Felix. “Both of you. Especially if there are emotions you’re struggling to express.”
Like mortification, maybe? Two questions in and we’ve already lost control of this interview.
“I’m sure Virginia won’t mind screaming at me,” Felix jokes.
Malia laughs, plucking a quartet of notes that sounds like the harp equivalent of a rimshot. “You can practice in the pool,” she tells us. “It’s easier to let go underwater.”
Assuming you don’t drown. I decide to take a page out of Felix’s book and wade right into the main subject of this inquiry.
“Did you know that one of the women you worked with at the center had an experience with Bradley?” I pause, waiting for her to give some sign of recognition. “The guy who died.”
Malia blinks at me, expressionless.
“I know who you mean,” she says at last. Turning to her harp, she plays a stormy riff, resting her forehead against the frame when she finishes.
“Did you know who he was?” Felix’s voice is barely above a whisper. “When he showed up here.”
“Did I know he was a reprobate?” Malia muses. “Or did I merely sense his toxic aura? That is a conundrum.” She flicks a string before shifting to face us. “Why?”
Felix nods like he’s glad she asked. And then he keeps nodding, clearly at a loss for words.
“We’re investigating,” I admit. “The murder.”
“And you think I might have done it.” She inhales with her whole torso, tipping her head back. That’s all the warning we get before she launches into a long, maniacal laugh, skidding up and down the register before hitting a note so high I clap my hands over my ears.
When it stops, I cautiously lower my arms.
“Glorious! I haven’t done that in a while.” Malia smooths a hand over her neck. “Remind me to warm up properly next time.” She glances between us, seeming surprised by our reaction. “Pity the two of you never saw my Phantom. I worked on that laugh for days. Chilling, wasn’t it?”
“You could say that,” Felix replies diplomatically.
Malia looks sheepish. “I couldn’t resist. You gave me such a beautiful cue, and that’s always been a favorite role. Right up there with my Clytemnestra, back in the day. I make a wonderful murderess.”
“You mean musically,” I prompt, because this feels like an important distinction.
“The line between art and life is more of a construct. We can choose to accept it or not.”
I side-eye Felix, needing a second opinion on whether she is or is not messing with us.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell us about that day?” he asks Malia, in a perfectly pleasant, shooting-the-breeze tone.
“Why?” She draws in on herself, tugging the edges of her long vest together. “Did you see something?”
“Maybe,” I hedge. “Depends on what you mean by ‘something.’”
“Fine.” Malia slumps forward, burying her face in both hands. “I did it,” she mumbles through her fingers.
Felix chokes. “What?”
She raises her head. “I j’accuse myself. That’s French,” she adds, in case anyone in this room thought she was talking about jetted tubs. Not to name any names.
“You’re not serious,” I protest, ignoring the part where we seem to have switched sides in this argument.
“Like a Category Four hurricane.” Malia looks me dead in the eye. “And I’d do it again. She deserved it!”
“She?” Felix looks from Malia to me, but I’m equally lost.
“Claude’s so-called sister.” Malia makes a spitting sound that is fortunately not accompanied by actual saliva. “I stole her damn cup and she’s never getting it back!”
“You stole her cup?” I repeat after a beat of silence. “The big one?”
“With the flowers,” Felix adds. “And the inspirational cursive?”
Malia nods, her expression caught between defiance and embarrassment. “I didn’t plan it. It was a crime of passion.”
“You really wanted her cup?” It’s hard to think how else a word like “passion” could come into play, when we’re talking about an insulated tumbler.
“Greed?” Felix asks, throwing it back to our googled list of motives.
“No!” Malia is vehement on that, hair crackling like a storm cloud as she shakes her head.
“I didn’t covet it. I wanted to take away something she loved.
It was a momentary impulse. I saw it, and I acted.
” She makes a grabbing gesture with one hand.
“Have you ever seen someone so attached to an inanimate object? You would have thought she was carrying the ashes of her one true love.”
Except for the drinking-out-of-it part. I suppress a shudder.
“I’m not a thief by nature,” Malia assures us.
“I suppose I hoped it might chip away at her confidence. Make her think she was losing her marbles. We could have built from there, slowly escalating. Rearrange the furniture when she wasn’t looking.
Eerie sounds in the middle of the night.
Lights turning on and off. That sort of thing. ”
“I could see that,” Felix says, and Malia gives him a grateful smile. He’s not wrong; it’s absolutely the type of scheme this crew would get behind.
“You said you saw ‘it.’” I wait for Malia’s head bob of confirmation. “As in, the cup. By itself.”
Also known as, not in Bernie’s hand. I flash back to the first time I saw her sans cup. Her fingers were still curled like a claw, the same way I hunch one shoulder for weeks after I stop hauling my backpack around all day. The oddness of seeing her without it should have struck me then.
“Do you mind walking us through it?” Felix grimaces, like he knows he’s asking a lot. As if anyone in this building would pass up the opportunity to deliver a witness statement.
“It was the day of the double murder,” Malia begins, staring into the middle distance. “The two of you were bantering over the first corpse.”
“I wouldn’t say bantering—”
“I would,” Felix interrupts me, putting a finger to his lips when I open my mouth to argue.
“Like that,” Malia says, flapping a hand at us. “It seemed likely to go on for a while, so I thought I’d nip over to the kitchen for some honey lemon water. I’m afraid my vocal cords aren’t as resilient as they once were. You’ll want to keep an eye on that,” she sidebars to Felix, who nods.
“I noticed there was something sticky on the counter. Not blood,” she adds, as if this would be everyone’s first guess. “There was a grittiness. I opened the cabinet under the sink to get the cleaning spray, and there it was.”
“The cup?” I ask, when Malia leaves it at that.
She nods.
“It was with the cleaning stuff?” Felix follows up.
“That’s age for you.” Malia shrugs. “I once found my reading glasses in the vegetable drawer months after I bought a new pair.”
“You took the cup,” I recap. “And then what?”
Malia looks down at her hands. “I threw it away. I know,” she says, holding up a hand. “I should have tried to recycle. We Boomers have a lot to answer for on that front.”
“In the kitchen garbage?” I measure the distance in my head. It would have taken three or four steps to get there.
“Yes,” Malia confirms. “And then I forgot about it, in all the commotion. Until the next day, when I decided I’d better dispose of the evidence before she sued me for stealing her sippy cup. The two of you almost caught me at it!”
“That’s what you were throwing away that day,” Felix says, piecing it together at the exact same time as me and not a second before. No wonder she looked nervous.
“I know it was juvenile,” Malia sighs. “But it made me so angry to have her here, acting like she owned the place, after she ignored Claude for all those years. When I saw her stupid cup with that smug ‘Good Morning, Beautiful!’ I wanted to throw up. And then I thought, ‘Take that!’” She mimes stabbing herself in the chest. “If she was going to attack something we loved, I could do the same to her.”
“It was just a cup,” Felix says, patting her hand. “Did you know she got rid of my grandfather’s paintings?”
Her gasp is gratifyingly intense. “No! From Claude’s collection?”
While Felix does a slow nod, I thank my lucky stars Malia hasn’t asked how we discovered this fact.
“Bottom line, it’s not like you murdered anyone,” he says leadingly.
“That’s true,” Malia agrees, and while I don’t look at him, I suspect Felix and I are both relieved to hear her state it for the record.
“You’re a sweet boy, like your grandfather.
” Her eyes dart to me and then back to him.
“And I’m rooting for you,” she stage-whispers, as if the hand propped next to her mouth has magical noise-canceling properties.
“What do you think?” he asks when we’re safely in the hallway with the music room door closed behind us.
“About the cup, you mean?” I assume he’s not asking about his chances with me … if Malia is even right about the dynamic between us. Does everyone think I’m playing hard to get, as opposed to being inexperienced and a little distracted trying to solve a murder before my grandmother loses her home?
And who’s to say Felix isn’t putting on the Prince Charming bit for his own amusement? Or, more charitably, to delight our grandparents and their friends?
The good news is that I don’t have to obsess over this right now, because I’m busy sorting through the hodgepodge of information we got from Malia.
“The thing about the cup,” Felix begins, breaking off with a frown.
“We should have noticed she wasn’t carting it around anymore?”
“I guess.” His forehead is still scrunched.
“But then I didn’t even realize Malia had left the room in the middle of the game.” I wait for him to question my observational skills, but Felix only nods.
“Same.”
Minus five points to both of us for being easily sidetracked.
“I can’t figure out what it means.” Felix gestures toward the kitchen. “How did the cup wind up in the cabinet?”
“And why?”
“I guess we don’t know when, either.” He sighs. “It has to mean something, though.”
My gut is telling me the same thing. I’m used to clues that immediately slot into place, but it’s different when the mystery isn’t scripted. We need to move things around, try different angles.
“What if it wasn’t a senior moment?” I hypothesize. “Putting her favorite cup under the sink.”
“Like Bernie hid it there on purpose?”
“Or someone else.”
Felix holds up a finger. “What if another person stole it first? And then Malia stole it from them. Maybe they were going to hold it for ransom.”
“Maybe. Although that would mean it had nothing to do with Bradley.” And for our purposes, it’s a lot more useful if this ties back to the main crime.
“Oh yeah.” He deflates a little. “Maybe the cup is another red herring.”
“We should probably focus on the poison,” I reluctantly agree. “One crime at a time.”
Felix taps his temple, like he’s thinking the same thing. “We need to talk to Mr. Namura.”