Chapter Thirty-Five. The Body in A State of Disbelief
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE BODY IN A STATE OF DISBELIEF
That evening, everyone is still reeling. We gather in the kitchen to graze on leftovers, taking turns saying some variation of I can’t believe …
I can’t believe they took Mervyn away in the back of a squad car.
I can’t believe Bernie asked to be placed in the witness protection program, like she was running from the mafia. (Detective Ortiz said they would give her a ride to a motel.)
I can’t believe we made the classic blunder of assuming the person who died was the intended target, when we should have been focused on his aunt. Trying to figure out who would have wanted to kill Bradley skewed all of our deductions.
“We got it all wrong.” That’s my contribution. “I wanted it to be Bernie,” I admit, even though it feels immature, like I have the worldview of a cartoon. Bad people do bad things, and then they get punished. Cue musical theme. The end.
“Me too,” Grandma Lainey sighs. “I let anger cloud my judgment.”
“Murder isn’t always neat.” Mr. Namura purses his lips, like he’s running those words over again for possible use as a catchphrase.
“At least not the real kind,” Malia agrees.
Mrs. A helps herself to a leftover piece of shortbread before passing the platter down the table. “Poor Mervyn.” She takes a bite before adding, “And Bradley.”
We all nod, the atmosphere in the kitchen growing heavy.
In theory, the immediate threat to Castle Claude has passed now that Bernie has forfeited her claim to the penthouse.
No one here is going to sell so much as a square of carpet to a property developer.
On the other hand, victory came at a high cost. It doesn’t feel like a time for celebration.
“We were right about some things,” Felix points out, puncturing the uncomfortable silence. “Mostly by accident, and we would have been cooked without Mervyn, but still.”
Grandma Lainey smiles fondly at both of us. “If you hadn’t bought that painting, I don’t know where we’d be now.”
It could be argued that taking legal advice from an attorney currently serving time for his own criminal activities is not the best policy, but Detective Ortiz didn’t challenge Mervyn’s assessment that removing the paintings from the property with the intent to sell was a clear breach of the conditions of Claude’s will, which is the part that matters.
“They make a wonderful team.” Mrs. A’s twinkly eyes make it clear she’s talking about more than our investigative prowess.
“I still feel bad for tipping Bernie off.” Before she left, Bernie treated us to a long rehash of her many complaints, including Mervyn’s violation of attorney-client privilege by telling us about the terms of Claude’s bequest. That was one of the things she and the Odells were holding over Mervyn’s head: the threat of losing his license.
“Absolutely not.” My grandmother smacks the table for emphasis. “Don’t you dare take responsibility for that woman’s crimes.”
“Who knows what else she was guilty of?” Mr. Namura wonders aloud.
Malia points at him. “There was something suspicious about her story. I’m not convinced she couldn’t have saved him.”
“Maybe she’s the one who put the EpiPen in her purse?” Felix suggests.
“Oh no, that was me,” Mrs. A casually informs us. She busies herself sweeping crumbs off the table with the side of her hand and depositing them on her plate, until she notices the sudden silence.
Grandma Lainey gestures at her in invitation. “Care to explain?”
“I found it the next day. The EpiPen,” Mrs. A adds unnecessarily.
“Where was it?” Mr. Namura asks.
“Under the edge of the game cabinet, up against the baseboard.” Mrs. A turns to my grandmother with an apologetic expression. “I thought you might have had something to do with it, so I moved it. But it backfired when she tried to use it against you!”
“A tangled web,” Mr. Gutierrez observes.
He’s not wrong. Between Mrs. A walking away with the EpiPen and Malia trashing Bernie’s cup, this is a challenging environment for solving murders.
“You’re a true friend,” Grandma Lainey tells Mrs. A.
“I know you’d help me bury a body, Lainey.”
“Just tell me where to point the shovel,” my grandmother replies with the same unshakable conviction.
I love that they have that kind of friendship, but it also makes me feel something like envy.
Who would bury a body for me? I’m not sure any of my current relationships will still be active twenty years from now, and if I asked Sam to break the law on my behalf, her response would probably be, “How would that look on my college applications?”
What about Felix? Investigating a murder together is a bonding experience, whatever else may or may not be going on between us. We could meet again years from now and share a secret smile. Remember when?
Unless this is a passing distraction, like going to sleepaway camp, or meeting someone on vacation.
I glance at him, in case something about him has changed in the last sixty seconds, but of course he busts me looking and breaks into a grin. My guess is he’s thinking something like I knew you were obsessed with me or maybe You’re cute when you frown (anything’s possible).
Where is the line between attraction and one-upmanship?
It looks like I still have one last case to crack.