Chapter 3
Three
The detective circles the Christmas tree, one hand stroking his chin. His eyes are as unfriendly and suspicious as ever. Elliot tilts his head up, assessing the grandeur of the tree.
“It’s a fifteen footer,” I chime in. “The grandest tree in the lot.”
“Why did you put up a Christmas tree before Thanksgiving?”
“To get a jumpstart on the holidays,” I say, fiddling with a framed photo on the mantle. “Target and Costco do it,” I add, as if that explains it all.
Instead of impressing him, my explanation exasperates him. “For the love of…” Elliot mutters, giving the ornaments a keen once over before turning his attention to me. “And why are you standing all the way across the room?”
I tip my chin at the brown stain three inches beside his left foot. “I don’t want to go near it.”
He glances down at the stain in question. “The turds are gone. There’s nothing to fear.”
I shudder. “To me… they’re still there. They will always be there.”
“Speaking of turds,” he says, squatting down beside the brown outlines, “where are they?”
I blink in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“The three turds in the photo,” he says. “What did you do with them?”
“Um… I got rid of them.”
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“The hell I shouldn’t have! I live here! I sleep here. What’d you expect me to do? Leave them be? Leave them overnight?”
“Would you move a dead body? You’re tampering with evidence.” Leaping up from his squat, Elliot circles the room. “Where’d you toss ‘em? In the trash outside? I can still retrieve them for forensics.”
“Forensics?” This feels real. Like I’m in CSI. “Is that necessary? What exactly do you expect the lab to find?”
He pinches his brow. “What the perp ate…”
“Well, that much is obvious,” I scoff. “Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Do you have vegetarians in the group?”
I open my mouth, a retort already tripping off the tip of my tongue, but his question gives me pause. “Ivy, Cousin Victor’s wife. She’s a raw vegan.”
“Any lactose intolerant guests?”
“Jen.” I frown. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Any guests who were sauced?”
I think for a moment. “My Uncle Tony is a career drinker.”
He gestures toward the stain. “I rest my case. At the very least, we can eliminate the dog.”
I clasp my hands in front of me, humbled.
“I have gloves in my car,” Elliot makes for the door. “A dog waste bag will also do—”
“I flushed them down the toilet,” I admit, lowering my head.
He freezes. “You what?”
I shrug, shamed. “It was a reflex.”
“Pretty quick reflexes for someone who can’t even come near the stain.”
“I resent that.” I’m getting pretty sick of these accusations that I’ve somehow covered up my own crime.
Elliot scrubs a hand over his face, sighs. “What did you use to scoop up the evidence?”
“A shovel.”
“Where’s the shovel?”
“I threw it in the trash.”
Elliot does a double take. “You threw your shovel away?!”
“It’s still in the trash. I mean,” my hands flutter in a vain attempt to mime an excuse, “I couldn’t keep it in the woodshed. It’s been compromised and I can always buy another one.”
“You,” Elliot wags his finger at me. “I’m keeping an eye on you. Before I leave today, I’m taking a sample from the shovel.”
“Gross…”
“In the meantime,” he stalks past me and pokes his head down a narrow hallway. “Is this the bathroom?”
“Yes.” I trail behind him.
“How many bathrooms are in this house?”
“1.5,” I say.
“One upstairs and a…” Elliot opens the door to the downstairs bathroom. “Powder room?”
“That’s correct.”
“Tiny.” He stretches his arms across the width of the bathroom and touches both walls.
“Victorian,” I say, “people were either smaller back then, or they didn’t need a lot of space.” The powder room was smaller than most modern closets and contained only a toilet with a pull chain flush and a small sink. No bathtub. No shower. “I plan to expand it in the future.”
I lean against the doorway as Elliot studies the toilet. He frowns at the bowl as if he could magically conjure up the evidence. Finally, he tugs the chain. The toilet flushes.
“Weak flush.”
“This house needs a lot of plumbing work,” I say, “but the bathroom upstairs has been remodeled.”
“Is this the bathroom your guests used?” he asks.
I nod.
“All thirteen of them?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes…”
He looks up at the ceiling, notes the lack of fan. “How’s the ventilation?”
I nod toward the one window, a tiny square that opens to the backyard. “You’re looking at it.”
He opens and closes the one window. “Sad,” he says, poking his head outside.
Elliot tips his head back and glances around. “It’s like a coffin in here. Standing room only.”
“I mean, it’s not my favorite room in the house,” I say, “but it takes care of the necessities. I said I’ll remodel it.”
“Did your guests use the upstairs bathroom?”
I chew on my bottom lip. “I prefer they not…”
He stares at me, perplexed. “Why not?”
“It’s my private bathroom and some of my guests, well… Don’t get me wrong, I love ‘em, but they’re not all hygienic people.” I wrinkle my nose. “Obviously, look what one of them did to my carpet!”
“Hmmm,” he says and steps into the hallway, motioning for me to follow. “So we have thirteen guests, two pets, and one bathroom the size of a broom closet.” He shuts the door. “Was this bathroom highly trafficked last night?”
I shrug. “I guess so. I didn’t really keep track. There was a lot going on and I was in the kitchen most of the time organizing the food.”
“At any point, did anyone ask you to use your private bathroom because this one was occupied?”
“Well… I… I recall Dennis asking if I had a spare bathroom.”
“And what did you say?”
“I lied and said I had plumbing issues with the upstairs one.”
Elliot shakes his head. “Petty.”
“I barely know Dennis, okay? I’m not going to let a stranger with an aggressive mullet upstairs.”
“Who was in the bathroom?”
“I don’t know. Jen, maybe?”
He checks his notes. “Your lactose intolerant sister?”
“She was gone for most of the night, so I figure…” I pause to consider how Jen could have consumed milk at my house. “But that’s not right. I had non-dairy substitutes at the espresso bar and—”
Elliot’s on the move. “Come on.”
We make our way back to the living room, heading toward the espresso bar in question.
Elliot whistles. “That’s a beautiful machine,” he says, admiring my cherry red La Marzocco Lina. “Pricey?”
“Very,” I say with a glow of pride. “But I figure I’d treat myself after that massive autumn candle order.”
“Business is good?” He circles my espresso machine.
I chew on my inner cheek, trying to appear humble. “I do okay.”
“A Victorian on Caldwell Avenue!” Elliot glances around at the scope and grandeur of my home. He knocks on the coffee table. “Real wood.” He whistles. “Not one Ikea piece in sight. All from selling candles…”
I give him a humble smile. “I splurge on antiques from time to time.”
Elliot studies my face closely. If a human resembled an animal, he was a hawk.
Like prey, I shrink under his scrutiny. “What?”
“You must sell a lot of candles.”
“And crystals,” I point out.
“Despite the Great Crystal Shortage of ‘21,” he adds.
“The economy is correcting itself.” I prop a hand on my hip. “Where are you going with this?”
He shrugs. “Just getting a feel for your finances,” he says, “which appears to be spectacular.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘spectacular,’” I glare at his sharp profile. “I’ve been extraordinarily lucky with my shop.”
“Speaking of shop,” he picks up the steam wand drying on a dishcloth, “how’s your friend Paige’s cafe?”
“It’s doing… fine.”
“Fine? Not great?”
“It could be better. She had a slow month in October and — Wait, why are we talking about Paige again?”
“She’s a professional barista?”
“Yup.”
He sets the steam wand down, picks up a bag of gourmet beans. “But not as keen of a businesswoman as you?”
“I–I… I don’t even know how to respond to that. You think that Paige…?” I glance at the crime scene. “Because she’s jealous of my success? No! Paige would never.”
He merely shrugs, letting doubt set in. “I presume barista Paige manned the espresso bar last night?”
I nod. “I thought she’d be sick of making drinks on her day off, so I was going to make the drinks myself, but she volunteered.”
He runs his finger along the top edge of the espresso machine. “Did she know your sister was lactose intolerant?”
I blink. “Of course she does. Paige has known Jen for years. Jen only drinks oat milk chai lattes.”
“And yet,” he cocks his head down the hall, “Jen spent half the night in the bathroom…”
Elliot’s implication sinks in like a gut punch. “You’re not suggesting… Paige is a sweet, kind friend.”
“I’m merely thinking out loud,” he says, backing away from the espresso bar. He’s a ball of restless energy, meandering between my sofa and the coffee table, scoping out the boughs of holly on the banister. “What’s this?” he toes the pet pen at the foot of the stairs. “Blockade for your guests?”
“For my cat.”
“Do you normally keep your cat locked up?”
“She’s not ‘locked up,’” I nod at the pen, “this is only for the holidays. Cats and Christmas trees don’t mix.”
“And yet your holiday season starts as early as Halloween… That’s a long time cooped up in prison.”
“Grizzy is hardly cooped up. She has her own room and a great view of the street.” I sigh. “Why must you see malice in everything I do? You must think I’m a horrible person. And you’re making me see my friends and family as horrible people.”
“One of them is a horrible person,” Elliot says. “They took a dump on your floor. And you’re probably not all that horrible once we can prove you didn’t defecate on your own floor.”
“Gee, thanks…”
“No problem.” He swats me on the back and turns his attention back to the staircase. “Now, I know this is immaterial to the case, but can I see the cat room?”
“Be my guest,” I say dryly, but he’s already stepping over the pen.
I’m grumbling as I follow him up the stairs. True to form, he stands in the doorway, taking in Grizzy’s room with judgmental silence.