Page 54 of Always Murder

I had to think about that for a moment before I said, “Hey!”

Her smile quickened, and then it was gone.“Thank you for telling me Bobby’s interested in the position.I’ll take what you said into consideration.Goodnight, Dash.”

“Night, Sheriff.”

She left me there.

I waited until the sound of her steps had faded before I took out my phone.

My mind had already jumped back to the investigation.Paul had been trying to figure out who had stolen the packages; that’s what Millie had told me.And that meant Paul—God bless him—had come up with an idea or a plan or something.I understood that the sheriff had to consider all the possibilities.But I didn’t.

I unlocked the phone, pulled up the photo I’d taken of the list of names I’d found in Paul’s pocket, and I tried to figure out what Paul had been doing.

Chapter 17

When I woke up the next morning, my head felt like it was packed with birdseed.(And in case the simile isn’t clear, that’s not a good thing.) It was ungodly early—before nine!—and somehow, I was even more exhausted than the night before.My joints were stiff, my eyes were gummy, and my skin felt like I’d traded down to a smaller size.

Normally, after a night as bad as the one before, I would have lazed about.I would have stayed in bed, staring up at the canopy, thinking about why Nathaniel Blackwood hadn’t installed one of those airport-style people-movers to carry me to the kitchen, and in general, feeling sorry for myself.

But I couldn’t do any of that because Bobby was asleep next to me, breathing softly.And since Bobby had to go to work in a few hours, I was determined not to wake him.That meant no binging Netflix, no mindlessly scrolling on my phone, no flopping onto my stomach and then onto my back again, pretending I was trying to sleep.Instead, I slipped out from underneath the covers as smoothly as I could—which wasn’t all that smoothly, actually; it took me a couple of weird, shimmying humps because I was trying not to pull the blanket off Bobby.By the time I finally got free, I was exhausted and thought I should probably lie down for a while.

But no, I told myself.My personal watchword was resolve.And fortitude.And resilience.

Besides, I could take a nap on the chesterfield.

I showered and dressed in my usual assortment of joggers, T-shirt (this one had the cover art for the originalSuper Mario Bros.), and a hoodie, and then I went downstairs.

Low voices came from the kitchen, and when I pushed through, the smell of coffee and freshly baked sugarysomethingmet me.Fox and Indira were packing up loaves of Indira’s cinnamon streusel bread.Fox was dressed like a merchant marine had somehow conceived a baby with aT.rex.Their top layer was some sort of voluminous, pebbly trench coat thing that looked like maybe it was alligator skin (but was probably vinyl, because Fox wouldn’t have worn alligator skin), and underneath, they wore some kind of stiff white suit coat, complete with epaulets and brass buttons.They even had a jaunty little cap.Indira, on the other hand, wore her usual sweater and slacks.

I opened my mouth to inquire about the bread.

“On the counter,” Indira said.

I wasn’t quite ready for words, so I shambled over, helped myself to the waiting loaf of cinnamon streusel bread, and poured myself coffee from the carafe.As the sugar and caffeine hit my bloodstream, I made a noise.

“You slept ten hours,” Fox told me.

“No, actually, I didn’t.”I helped myself to another slice of bread.“I did that thing where it looks like sleeping, but you only feel more awful in the morning.”

“We heard about Paul,” Indira said.“Fox checked on Christine at the hospital, and I talked to Millie this morning.”

“You checked on Christine?”I asked.

“Did you know,” Fox said with a smirk, “you’re apparently not much of a sleuth?”

I groaned.

“If you can’t find ice cream in a hospital—”

“It was ten o’clock at night,” I said.“Where was I supposed to find ice cream?”

“—how are you ever going to catch a murderer?”Fox’s grin got bigger.“Not that you’ve caught one inmonths.”

They even sounded a little like Christine at the end—simultaneously scandalized and satisfied, the way people sounded when you failed to live up to their expectations exactly as they’d suspected all along.

Changing the subject seemed wise, so I asked, “How’s Millie?”

“She’s not doing well,” Indira said.“She seems to think this is all her fault.”

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