Page 75 of Dial A for Aunties

There’s a beat of silence, and then Sheriff McConnell scrambles forward, placing his elbows on the desk before second-guessing himself and sitting back and folding his hands on his lap. “Ahem, yes, his attorney, eh? You got here fast.” He pauses. “Hang on, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you around...”

“Yeah, I’ve been here awhile, taking care of some papers.”

Nathan gives a small shake of the head, but I don’t need him to guide me. I won’t have this joke of a cop derail me. I lean forward, place my hands on the desk, and say the words ever so slowly.

“What. Have. You. Charged. My client. With?” Never mind thudding, my heart is kicking. I swear it’s grown legs and is sprinting, crashing over and over into my rib cage. Any moment now, it’s going to kick its way right out of my chest,Alien-style. But somehow, my face remains straight, my gaze unwavering, locked on Sheriff McConnell.

He shifts his weight again, and unfolds and refolds his hands. “Right, yes. Well. There’s been a murder.”

“What have you charged my client with?”

His gaze flits away like a spooked butterfly before coming back to rest on my face. “Well, that is to say, er—”

“If you haven’t charged him with anything, then you can’t keep him locked up. I’m taking him out of here.”

“Well, then I charge him with murder!”

Shit, shit, shit. Somehow, I stare him down, even though everything inside me is screaming Noooo, you’ve done it now, you’ve gone and made everything worse! “For the murder of whom?”

The sheriff gives a little shake of his head, reminding me of a horse. “Of the body. Down there, at the altar.”

“So you haven’t identified the body?”

“Well, no, of course not, that’ll come later—”

“What was the cause of death?”

“I don’t—”

“Time of death?”

“Well, I mean to say—”

“Found a weapon on my client, did you?”

“Not yet—”

“So you don’t have a cause or time of death, but you’ve arrested my client. On what grounds?” Seriously, who am I right now? It’s as though Big Aunt has taken over my consciousness and is just bulldozing over everything, and holy smokes, it’s actually working. Sheriff McConnell is sweating as if he’s just run a marathon in the dead of summer. I actually feel kind of sorry for him. “Sheriff, I think we both know you’re in over your head. Have you even ordered the body to be brought in out of the rain?”

He stares at me balefully. “Protocol states that...” His voice trails off. It’s obvious he has no idea what protocol states when there’s a mysterious body and a rainstorm. On the one hand, heshould leave crime scenes as undisturbed as he can. On the other hand, the rainstorm might destroy a lot of evidence.

It’s good that he doesn’t know what the protocol is, because I sure as hell have no freaking clue. Hopefully protocol is whatever Sheriff McConnell hasn’t done. “Protocol states that you should preserve as much of the crime scene as possible, which in this case means asking the hotel employees to erect some sort of covering, maybe? To try and keep as much of the rainwater away from the crime scene?” I say it as if it’s obvious, as if I haven’t just pulled it out of my ass, and the look on Nathan’s face almost makes me burst out in hysterical laughter. Nathan is looking at me like—I don’t even know how to describe it—like he’s seeing the most amazing sunrise ever, his handsome face lighting up with awe.

“Well, I was just about to do that when you barged in,” Sheriff McConnell mutters.

I look pointedly at the glass of whiskey in front of him. “Really? It looks to me like you’re making yourself comfortable in my client’s office.”

He looks down at the glass and flushes, his face turning beet-shade. “This was his.”

“Mhmm. Well, it’s obvious to me that you have failed to follow any sort of protocol, so I don’t think you can legally charge my client with anything without further evidence.” What are these words coming out of my mouth? I’m pretty sure that any legit cop would’ve called my bluff a long time ago, but Sheriff McConnell is caught completely off-guard. His eyes are perfect circles, his mouth moving, but no words are coming out. “So ple—so, uncuff my client. Now,” I add, when I feel the need to say “please,” and to my disbelief, Sheriff McConnell actually stands up. I tense, half expecting him to—I don’t know—pounce on me and catch me by the scruff of my neck and arrest me.

He walks over to the other side of the table, his steps echoing in the large office. He approaches Nathan, who I can tell is trying his best not to laugh. He takes out a keychain, grabs Nathan’s hands, and—

Oh my god. I did it.

Sheriff McConnell lowers Nathan’s hands. They’re still cuffed.

Shit. I haven’t done it. He’s on to me. Is he? What’s going on?

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