“Hardly.” I push at the rip in the sofa.
Dylan’s look is pitying. “How much do you think this farm is worth? Mum says she’s got, like, a whole share portfolio aswell.”
“Dylan.”It’s Aunty Bec, back with the tea I don’t want. She has that parental trick of finding extra syllables in his name.
“It’s fine B—Aunty Bec,” I say quickly.
She puts the tea down. “Is there anything you two want to ask me about all of this?”
I look at Dylan, trying to gauge if there’s a trap here. His face offers no warning, so I take her at her word.
“Was GG killed by someone who broke into the house?”
Aunty Bec looks alarmed by my question, but, seriously, what did she think I was going to ask about—the location of Grandad’s pudding cups? “That’s what the police seem to think,” she says slowly, stalling.
“Was it a burglar?”
“I don’t think the police know anything yet.”
“But is anything missing? What is there to steal?”
Aunty Bec’s face says she regrets opening this door and would very much like to slam it shut.
“Ruth, I really don’t know. Maybe we should wait for Andy—”
“Did Gertie have, like, a hidden past that would give someonea motive for murdering her?” Dylan asks, and Aunty Bec and I both give him the same look. “Sorry,” he says before his mother can get there. “You did say we could ask anything.”
“I’m not sure I did.”
“Ask anything about what?” Dad is back, a bottle in each hand. Beside him, Shippy is also carrying two, with a third cradled against his body like a newborn. Dad cracks one and pours himself a glass.
“Nothing,” Aunty Bec and I say, super suspiciously.
Dad might not let it go except Aunty Vinka gets home right then and distracts us all.
“Where’s Nick?” Dad asks, opening the front door before she can.
Aunty Vinka takes the wineglass, which was definitely not for her, and flops into an armchair. “It’s a nightmare.”
“Why? He didn’t kill Gertie, did he?” Dad holds up his hands before anyone can say it. “Too soon.”
“Nick’s still in the hospital. Apparently he’s picked up an infection.”
“At the hospital?”
“He’s going to have to stay in for a day or so.”
“He’s having a bad week. Not Gertie bad, but not ideal.”
Aunty Vinka waves her hand in front of her face like she’s dispersing a bad smell. “Don’t even start, Andy. This one isn’t his fault. But I’m sure he’ll be fine. I got him some essential oils to complement what the doctors are doing and they seemed to make him calmer.” It’s a mark of how serious the situation is that Dad doesn’t even touch that. “Honestly, it was more stressful talking to the police.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Who?” Vinka is clearly distracted.
“The cops.”
“About what?”
