“Can I sell everything to the record shop?” she asked. “I just want to get rid of it before my son tries to hang on to the records for sentimental reasons. I know it’s worthsomething.”
They always say that. It almost never is. “Let me see what you’ve got first, then we can talk. If we can’t buy it, I may be able to arrange a sale for you.”
Mrs. Tybalt looked frustrated. She eyed Frida, who was tucked under Jane’s arm and making a tiny growling noise while showing even tinier teeth, which was kind of adorable. I mean, the dog was the size of a rat. “She’s very well trained,” Jane assured the widow.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
Jane gave me a dirty look, and that sent a dark thrill through me.
Good God. I probably shouldn’t be in a public place with her. I was going to embarrass myself. It was only a matter of time.
“Keep the mutt off the furniture,” the woman warned before showing us into a marigold-colored den with big glass windows that faced the lake in the distance, if you squinted. Could probably see the lights from town at night. The walls were covered in spindly shelves that had been neatly filled with records. “Here itis. About two thousand albums, and most of them from the fifties to the seventies. My son spent several weekends organizing these by genre.”
Ofcoursehe did. That was the first blow. More important was that it was painfully clear now that there was no Holy Grail for Jane in this sad marigold room. We both knew it, and that meant I’d dragged her out here for no reason. Little ripples of panic fluttered against my ribs.
When the widow left us alone, closing a set of French doors behind her, I slipped a backpack off my shoulder and got out a spiral notebook and pencil, trying to pretend I wasn’t thinking about her Holy Grail, and how we definitely weren’t finding that here today. “Just so you know, there’s only one way to organize vinyl, and that’s by artist. Not by genre, not by year, and not by color of the goddamn spine. All the vinyl shelfie people can burn in hell.”
“Boo,” Jane said, giving me a thumbs-down sign. “I like a good shelfie. Not everyone thinks by artist. Sometimes you remember a record by the color of the cover. Otherwise Weezer wouldn’t have a ‘Blue Album’ and the Beatles wouldn’t have a ‘White Album.’ Those were self-titled, but people call them that because color and memory are tied together.Yourbrain doesn’t speak forallbrains.”
“Okay, I get that, but…” I gestured around the room. “Two thousand records. All but twenty of them are going to be worth less than a dollar. If they were organized by artist, I could whip through them and look for anything important. Now I’ve got to go through them all.”
“So this is just an inconvenience for you, really,” she said, setting Frida on the floor.
I stuck the pencil behind my ear. “Pretty much, yes.”
“Admitting you have a problem is the first step,” she joked, smiling a little before she glanced around. “Okay, so I’m not feeling super great about finding the Double Deuce here.…”
And there it was. My heart shriveled.
“Look, I’ve got a ton of resources at work,” I bargained, “so I’ve got feelers out online and alerts set up, and I’ve got a beat on a serious big-time collector with a summer home in Condor. Like, she’s got a massive collection and she’s super wealthy. DJs in San Francisco tell wild stories about her.” She looked nervous, and was she staring at my hands? Why? That was makingmenervous. “But I guess this is a waste of your day if you’re supposed to be helping Velvet, or whatever. If you want, I can take you back to her before I start?”
She shook her head and made a dismissive noise. “Velvet? She’s asleep.”
“At two in the afternoon?”
“She stayed out late last night, and I’m still mad at her for Battle of the Bands. I left her a note. I’m supposed to get Sundays off, anyway. And every day after eight p.m.”
“Why do you have Frida if it’s your day off? Shouldn’t she be sleeping in with Velvet if it’s her dog?”
“Ha, no. Frida sleeps in my bed. And the only time I don’t watch her is when I leave her with Exie, our chef, or one of the other domestics.”
“Sounds like Frida is your dog.”
“Nah, we’re just buds. I take her to her vet appointments and the groomer. I tried to take her to training lessons, but she failed spectacularly—the fool.” She laughed a little, watching Frida’s tail wagging. “Anyway, her fancy dog papers say she belongs to Velvet. Who takes care of your pets? I mean, back at your family home. I know the Sarafians have domestics too.”
“Just one, a housekeeper who is kind of like an aunt, Ms. Makruhi. She cooks, cleans, and was our nanny. No one else is live-in. They just hire people to landscape or whatever. If my mom has a bunch of people over for dinner, she has it catered.”
“Huh. That surprises me.”
“My parents drive their own cars too.”
“Mad Dog is legally blind,” she said, a little defensive.
“I get that.
“Your dad has his own PA, I’m sure.”
“At the office, for work. Not at home. And my parents don’t have pets, which I assume you already know.” Don’t mention Eddie’s name.Please.
