Page 62 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

He picks it up. “No rest for the wicked.”

He puts it to his ear and walks past us. I try to eavesdrop, but he’s speaking in rapid Spanish.

“What do you think?” Oliver asks.

“If someone wanted to get into the maintenance shed, it probably wouldn’t be that hard. And the panel was unlocked...so anyone could access it.”

“But they couldn’t count on that. More likely they had the key and forgot to lock it after themselves.”

“Right.”

Oliver’s eyes dance with interest. “You want to try to break into the shed?”

I step back in surprise. “Oliver Forrest, what’s gotten into you?”

“Better than being on a glass-bottomed boat with Connor Clouseau.”

“You mean Cousteau.”

“I said what I said.”

“Okay then, let’s go.”

I check over my shoulder for José, but he’s out of sight. We walk down the path, and after a minute we arrive at a white maintenance shed. It has a black shingled roof and is about twelve-by-twelve in size. Oliver tries the handle. It’s locked.

“You’re leaving fingerprints.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to be dusting for prints. But I’ll wipe the handle down after if that will make you feel better.”

“It will.” I look at the lock. It’s a standard one, the kind that comes from Lowe’s or Home Depot on prefabricated doors. “What now?”

“We pick it.”

“You know how to do that?”

He winks at me and pulls out his wallet. He takes out a credit card and slips it into the crack, wiggling it into place. He fiddles for a moment, then turns the handle and the door opens. “Ta-da!”

“I’m impressed.”

He holds out his hand. “After you.”

I walk into the space as he snaps on the light. It looks like every maintenance shed I’ve ever been in, which isn’t many, but you get the idea. Tools on hooks on the wall, a workbench, leftover pieces of wood, a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Everything is tidy and tucked away where it should be. The air smells like sawdust and linseed oil.

“Here are the keys,” Oliver says, pointing to the farthest wall. There are twenty different keys on hooks, each labeled by a label maker.

“He’s organized, I’ll give him that.”

“I think he’d notice if one was missing. Seems like the type.”

“I agree.”

“Dead end, then?” Oliver says.

“Ugh, do not use that expression.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He taps me on the arm. “On a scale of one to panic, how worried are you?”

“Six? You?”

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