Chapter Thirty. The Body with The Panini #2
Before he can answer, the door of the apartment opens and Mr. Gutierrez walks in. His hair is damp and there’s a towel around his neck, so it appears at least one of Felix’s theories was correct.
We spend the next few minutes putting on a performance of “normal,” with lots of gratuitous explanations of what we’re doing (“lunch!”) and no mention of the messed-up chess board in front of us.
Felix offers to make his grandfather a sandwich, but he’s already headed for the recliner in the living room.
“I’m going to take a nap,” he says. “I’ll eat after.”
“I should go,” I start to say, but Mr. Gutierrez won’t hear of it.
“You won’t bother me. It’s nice to have people around.” He grabs the wooden handle on the side of his chair, and it reclines with a creaking pop. His eyes are already closed by the time Felix hurries over to take the damp towel and hang it up for him.
Mr. Gutierrez reaches up to pat his grandson’s arm before folding both hands over his stomach.
When Felix returns to the table, I try to ask him with head jerks and rapid blinks whether we should leave.
“Nah,” he says, not quite whispering. “We’re good. Where were we?”
I give him a look.
“Kidding. To answer your question, maybe?”
“Even though he was her nephew?”
“Some families are majorly”—he stops himself, and I can tell he’s looking for a grandparent-friendly synonym—“jacked up.”
Could it be that convenient? The bad guy killed the other bad guy, and now we can be rid of them both. It feels like a stretch, and that’s before you get to the real stumbling block.
“How would we ever prove it though? She’s the only living person who knows where she was and what she did.
Even if she didn’t kill him, she’d refuse to tell us anything out of sheer spite.
” For once, I’m not trying to win an argument with Felix.
It would be awesome if he had an answer, because otherwise we’re looking at another roadblock.
“That is the tricky part.” He studies the board like the answer might appear on one of the squares.
“Too bad we can’t commune with Bradley’s spirit.” I joke.
“Evidence from a séance probably wouldn’t be admissible in court,” Felix agrees.
“Unlike in Killing Me Softly.” Information from beyond the grave is a favorite in-game plot device. Right up there with the secret diary or coded newspaper ad.
Felix grabs one of the little guys by the head, rolling it back and forth. “We need to trick Bernie into giving something away.”
“What are you picturing?”
“Did you have to read Hamlet this year?”
I shake my head like the public-school plebe I am.
“He hires a bunch of actors to put on a play about his father’s murder in front of his uncle, aka the prime suspect, and then the uncle freaks out and incriminates himself.”
“Somehow I doubt we’re going to convince Bernie to sit and watch a play about Bradley getting murdered.”
“She doesn’t seem to be a big fan of the dramatic arts.” Felix sighs in the face of yet another setback. “We could bug Zenobia’s collar and hope Bernie starts gloating about how she got away with murder?”
Leaving aside the fact that we don’t have access to high-tech spy equipment, there’s something there—a kernel of an idea. “A confession is what we need. Preferably to a human.” A cat on the witness stand would carry about as much weight as a Ouija board.
“Except she hates all of us,” Felix points out.
“Right. It can’t be anyone on the inside.” We fall silent, both of us thinking hard.
“One of Sofia’s sisters?” he suggests.
“Leaves too much to chance. She’d have to call them for a ride and have a compromising phone call while she was in the van.” I play back what I’ve seen of Bernie in action. “What about Mervyn?”
Felix frowns. “Isn’t he an insider?”
“Sort of, but sort of not. And she bossed him around like she thought he worked for her. She seems to like men better.” Even with her own stepnephew, the vibe was very “See? I have a man with me!” Like guys are the status purse of the moment.
“Then what, we send Mervyn in wearing a wire and hope he gets her to fess up?” His expression turns thoughtful. “I guess he could put the microphone in his bow tie. Because he’ll have to record it, or else she’ll deny everything, and then it’s his word against hers.”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet. If we could eavesdrop without her knowing, that would be something.”
“Yeah,” Felix says slowly. “That’s a tall order.”
“You should take a closer look at Claude’s portrait.” The voice comes from the living room, where Mr. Gutierrez is apparently not asleep after all.
Felix is the first to recover from the shock of realizing we have an audience. “We should?”
His grandfather hmms an affirmative, eyes still closed.
We’re out of our chairs in a dead heat, but I beat Felix to the door because he pauses to kiss the top of his grandfather’s head.
It’s a sweet moment—a fact I acknowledge by waiting until he exits the apartment to send him a mocking wave from down the hall.
“Wait up,” he calls after me.
“Can’t hear you,” I lie, letting the door to the stairs slam behind me.
If he’s lucky, I’ll save him a clue.