Retool, p.4
Retool, page 4
part #12 of The Last Picks Series
“Okay, okay, okay,” Salk said. He had the same wide-eyed look he’d gotten when I’d tried to explain the plot to one of my favorite books. “Take a deep breath. There you go. Doesn’t that feel better?”
It did feel better.
And about two seconds later, I became vaguely aware that I must look—and sound—deranged.
“You okay?” Salk asked. “Are you hurt?”
I shook my head. “Is she really dead?”
Deputy Nava made a face at Salk, and Salk said to me, “We’re going to walk down the path a way and take a break.”
So, we did. And Salk was nice about it, even when I couldn’t stop pacing. He asked me what had happened, and I told him.
And then Bobby was there, coming out of the darkness at a full sprint. He stopped when he saw me, and I couldn’t help it: my eyes stung, and all the terror that had been trying to boil up inside me finally broke free.
I didn’t even remember closing the distance between us; Bobby’s arms around me, crushing me to him, while he told me in a low voice that everything was going to be okay.
The sheriff came. The district medical examiner. More deputies. Portable lights went up. Bobby sat with me on the stone retaining wall until the sheriff finally came to talk to us.
She was a solidly built woman, hair in a ponytail and wearing a hat that said RIDGE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE; it covered the little scar on her forehead.
“Are you okay?”
(Everybody was going to ask me that tonight, it seemed.)
“Fine.”
“What happened?”
So, I went through it all again, from the beginning: being approached by Vivienne in the conference center, and what she had told me about solving a murder, and my suspicion that she was going to try to do something.
“Something in particular?” the sheriff asked.
“No. I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “No, I didn’t know what she was going to do. But I guess I thought it would be…something like last time.”
“Faking her death?”
“She is dead, isn’t she? For real this time?”
The sheriff nodded.
Some of the strain in my body finally relaxed. “Thank God,” I said. And then immediately, “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant, Dash,” the sheriff said.
“And we’re sure it’s Vivienne?” Bobby asked. “It’s not a double or—or—”
What he didn’t say—what nobody had said, yet—was that the last time, when Vivienne had tried to fake her own death, our last sheriff had helped her pull it off.
“I ID’d her myself,” the sheriff said. There was a certain stiffness in the words. Then, relaxing, she said, “We’re going to do everything by the book.”
“I know,” I said. I squeezed Bobby’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Do you know why she was out here?” the sheriff asked.
“No clue. But she seemed like she was—I don’t know how to say it. Like it was something official, or like it was business. There’s this way she carried herself at the conference, and when she left the veranda, that’s how she looked, still in conference mode.”
“Did you see anything after she left the veranda that might help us?” the sheriff said. “We’re having a hard time finding a camera near the grotto.”
Of course they were.
“Not after she left the veranda, no,” I said. But I mentioned the conversation I’d witnessed between Vivienne and Graeme, as well as the short argument—or whatever it had been—between Vivienne and the petite woman on the veranda.
“Thank you,” the sheriff said. “I’m going to say something you won’t like.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“I don’t think you killed Vivienne, Dash. But you also need to understand that it’s in your best interest for this investigation to move forward fully and transparently, without any sign of partiality from the sheriff’s office.”
“You’re telling me not to investigate.”
“I’m telling you that the best thing you can do—for yourself, and for everyone else—is not to get involved. The further you can keep yourself from this, the better.”
“So, I am a suspect.”
“Dash—” Bobby said.
“This isn’t a productive conversation,” the sheriff said. “I’ll be happy to talk to you about it again after everyone’s had a chance to calm down.”
“Calm down? I’m not going to calm down. You’re telling me that you might not think I killed Vivienne, but everyone else will? Why? Because she tried to frame me for murder, and then she tried to kill me, and then, after she gets out of prison unexpectedly and we have a public confrontation, she dies under mysterious circumstances, and I’m the one who finds the body?”
(Okay, when I said it all out loud like that, it wasn’t great.)
“Now would be a good time to get Dash home,” the sheriff said to Bobby.
Bobby nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
“You’d better stay with him.”
“Oh no,” I said. “That’s not fair. This is Bobby’s first murder!”
They both looked at me.
I mumbled, “As a detective.”
“I understand, Sheriff,” Bobby said.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “Why? Because he’s my boyfriend?”
“Go home,” the sheriff said as she turned back toward the grotto. “Get some rest. Let me know if you remember anything else.”
Chapter 7
“She can’t do this,” I said as I stormed into Hemlock House.
Yes: stormed.
Hemlock House is the perfect house for storming. It’s this weird, pseudo-Georgian, pseudo-Victorian monstrosity with damask wallpaper and priceless antiques and a massive front door that goes boom when you slam it.
It was less dramatic when Bobby caught the door on his way into the house behind me.
“This isn’t fair,” I said as I continued into the hall. “This is a travesty!”
“What’s a travesty?” Fox asked from the doorway to the billiard room. Tonight’s outfit consisted of crêpe palazzo pants, a Simpsons T-shirt (Bart on his skateboard), and what I knew was supposed to be called a “mourning wig” (because Fox had worn it before and made a big deal out of it). Behind them, Indira, Keme, and Millie watched, expressions ranging from suppressed rage (Keme) to red-eyed worry (Millie).
“You already heard,” I said.
“Jacket,” Bobby said as he turned me out of my jacket.
“Millie told us,” Indira said. “Is it true?”
“She’s dead this time, right?” Keme asked. “Somebody actually checked?”
That almost made me laugh, but suddenly I felt too tired. “Oh, she’s dead. The sheriff swears she is. Which, as we know, is super reliable.”
“That’s not fair,” Bobby said.
“What happened?” Fox asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said as I turned toward the stairs.
“Are you all right?” Indira called after me.
I didn’t answer as I started up the steps.
In the bedroom I shared with Bobby (pretty much all the time, now, since he was a detective and didn’t have to work nights unless he was on a case), I heeled off my Mexico 66s and flopped onto the bed. In the dark.
The door didn’t creak—Bobby made sure of that—but displaced air whispered, and I recognized the familiar sounds of Bobby moving around in the dark, the way he did when he was trying not to wake me.
“What?” I asked—and my tone could generously be described as grumpy. “Am I overreacting? Am I supposed to act like this isn’t a big deal?”
“I don’t think you’re overreacting,” Bobby said. He wasn’t exactly close to the bed. I couldn’t tell where he was, and I was too tired to lift my head. “I think you had a horrible night, and you’re understandably upset.”
“This is how it started last time.”
He didn’t answer at first. And then he said, “Dash, I’m sorry about last time. We didn’t know you—none of us did. This time will be different.”
“But it won’t be, Bobby. It already isn’t. I’m the one who found her. Again. I’m a suspect. Again. I’m the only suspect, as a matter of fact.”
“For now.”
I laughed, and it sounded out of tune and jangly, like some weird musical instrument falling down a flight of stairs.
“The sheriff isn’t going to railroad you, Dash,” Bobby said. “But she’s not wrong about this. She has to do her job.”
“Was she wrong about not letting you investigate?”
“No.”
I made a buzzing sound. “Wrong answer.”
“She’s not wrong, Dash.”
“Because it wouldn’t look good.”
“Because she knows there is literally nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.” His voice was surprisingly thick when he said, “I’m not doing a very good job of it.”
I raised my head. He was a shadow on the other side of the room. I patted the bed. The Bobby-Shadow didn’t move. I patted the bed again, and with those quiet steps, he moved toward me. He sat, and the mattress dipped, and I rolled against him. His hand came to my hip, steadying me, and then it stayed there: solid, warm, strong.
“You can’t keep me safe from everything,” I said.
He barked a laugh. “Trust me: I know.”
I rubbed his leg. “I shouldn’t have followed her. I should have left it alone, like you told me to.”
Bobby made a sound that might have qualified as amused.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“It means I would have liked to see that.”
“Excuse me?”
In the weak light that filtered in from the hall, his smile made a brighter shadow. And I was surprised to find myself smiling too.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bobby said. The hand on my hip gave me a little shake. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I hate this.” And I couldn’t put it all into words, but it was everything: not just the fact that I was a suspect (again), not even the fact that I’d been the one to find her body (again), but death. Coming face to face with death got less shocking, perhaps. But it never got better.
Bobby bent and kissed my hair. “I know.”
“I’m sorry I ruined your first case,” I whispered.
“Dash, you didn’t ruin anything. And it’s not my case. I’m part of a team, and we all work together. The sheriff is right: it’s better for both of us if I’m not involved in this.”
I had my thoughts about that—which I was planning on sharing at length—but the doorbell rang.
“Ignore it,” Bobby said.
But Fox’s voice carried up the stairs. “No, you cannot see him.” A pause. “Because he’s not receiving.”
I groaned.
Another pause. “Because he’s taken to his bed.”
“‘Taken to his bed’?” I said. “Good God, they make me sound like I’m an eccentric recluse.”
“Hmm,” Bobby said.
Which meant I had to poke him.
Downstairs, Fox was saying, “—no, you may not, because this is not the Hotel Transylvania—”
“What is happening?” I moaned.
“I’ll handle it,” Bobby said.
But I got to my feet, and we made our way downstairs together.
Fox stood in the vestibule, hands on their hips as they confronted Julian. The TV executive, phone in hand, was studying Hemlock House, clearly trying to take in as much as he could. He’d changed clothes since the last time I’d seen him—the same too-short trench coat, now with a hoodie and sneakers—and he looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (to put it mildly). I had the vague thought that TV executives were supposed to do a lot of coke, but maybe that had only been in the ’80s.
“Dash, my man! There you are!”
“My man?” Fox said in an undertone that was not quite under. And then they squawked as Julian pushed past them.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Julian said. “When I heard what happened—”
“How did you hear what happened?” I asked.
Julian paused, frowned, and blinked. “The conference. Everybody’s talking about it. Are you okay?”
“Fantastic,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to check on my star!”
One giant breath got sucked out of the room.
Making a face, Julian said, “Wow, that sounded awful. I’m so sorry—I was trying to make a joke. I wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all.”
“Well, to repeat: I’m fantastic.”
“Dash,” Fox said in their you’re-still-talking-to-the-Mormons voice. “Who is this?”
“You know what—” I tried.
“Julian Haskell.” He tried to shake Fox’s hand, but Fox directed what they probably thought of as a withering stare at Julian until he gave up. (It mostly looked like Fox was squinting hard, but maybe like they needed to sneeze a little too.) “It’s so good to meet Dash’s friends. I’d love to have you all be involved in the show as well.”
“What show?” Millie asked. She and Keme had appeared in the doorway to the living room—both of them disturbingly pink-cheeked, Keme with his arms around Millie. “Dash, are they making another play about your LIFE?”
“No—” I began.
“What show indeed?” Fox asked. This was their hysterical-starlet, are-you-trying-to-leave-me-out-of-this voice. (Used more often than you’d expect.)
“What’s going on?” Indira asked from the doorway to the servants’ dining room. “Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” I managed to get in.
“Not a play,” Julian said. “A TV show.” He did that thing with his hands like he was seeing it on a marquee, which didn’t make any sense for a TV show, and said, “Mr. Murder.”
“OH MY GOD!” (Guess who?) “I LOVE IT!”
I know everyone thinks I exaggerate about Millie, but I pinky-promise: one of the clocks even sounded startled.
“That’s dope,” Keme said.
“About him?” Fox asked.
Indira visibly perked up at this news, and she didn’t quite pull it off when she asked, “It won’t be bloody, will it?”
“It’s not going to be bloody at all,” I said, “because this is still very much a preliminary conversation.” I rounded on Fox. “And yes, about me. Is that so hard to imagine? And Keme, don’t say dope.”
Keme made a rude gesture.
Fox sniffed and said, “Who are they getting to play you? Bob Saget?”
“It’s going to be great,” Bobby said with undue—and probably undeserved—loyalty. (Wait, are undue and undeserved the same thing? I’ll look it up later.)
“Frick yeah it’s going to be great!” Only Julian used the, uh, adult TV executive word. “And it’s not only a show. We’re going to have a podcast, books—true crime gets bigger and bigger every year.”
“I’ve never written true crime,” I said.
“It’s EASY!” Millie said. “Because it’s TRUE!”
“I’m loving this energy you guys have,” Julian said. “This is totally something we need to capture for the show. And let me guess, you’re Bobby.” Julian tried the handshake thing again, and Bobby didn’t let him down. “God, look at you. You ever thought about acting? Mr. Murder is going to need a boyfriend, and you would be perfect.”
Bobby didn’t dignify that with a response, but he did look pleased.
“He’s going to be gay?” Keme asked.
“Yes, obviously,” I said. “Actually, is it obvious?”
There was a communal look.
“That’s not what I meant,” I snapped. “I meant on TV—”
“A gay detective would be dope,” Keme said, and he made sure I heard him say it.
“Exactly,” Julian said. “See, this is the audience we’re trying to tap into—Gen Z, Gen Alpha. They want diversity. And this would be so important for advancing the LGBTQ cause.”
“Well, yeah,” I said, but it sounded pretty lame.
“It sounds wonderful,” Indira said. “Do you know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of Matron of Murder.”
“Oh my God,” Millie said—it was almost a moan. “I LOVED that show. That show was my childhood.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Fox asked. “Also, I want it in the contract that I insist on playing myself.”
For a moment, I had a horrifying vision of Fox living out the rest of their life as a Phantom-of-the-Opera style character on a studio lot, haunting the production of Mr. Murder.
“No problem,” Julian said. “I need to sit down with Dash and do the paperwork. Not tonight, obviously—I know you’ve been through a lot.”
Implied, though, was: Definitely tomorrow.
“Right,” I said. “It sounds awesome. And I’m excited. And it would be, uh, progressive—” The words got weaker and weaker until I mumbled, “But I need a little bit longer to think about it.”
Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Listen, take all the time you need. I mean, I would love to get moving on this, and you know how time-sensitive the industry is, but I don’t ever want you to feel pressured. This is about you. This is about making sure you have the best experience possible.”
I must have managed to spit out a thank-you, or something to the equivalent, but I wasn’t sure; I was highly aware of the eyes of everyone in the house fastened on me.
“I’m going to get out of your hair,” Julian said. “Sorry again for dropping by; I’m so glad you’re okay. Nice to meet everybody. I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”
A chorus of goodbyes echoed through the hall, and Bobby followed Julian to the door and locked it behind him.
Fox was the first one to speak. “What is wrong with you?”
“Huh?”
“This is your dream. This is what you’ve been waiting for.”
“Okay, one, it’s not my dream. My dream is to write a lot of books. Some books. Like, not too many because I don’t want to overdo it—”
“This is a tremendous opportunity,” Fox said. “This is how people break out. My God, Dash, and you did it with one book.”
