“I’m not saying we should immediately go out and start interrogating people,” I said.
My phone dinged. I picked it up. It was a text from Lina, my assistant.Pom, I’m so sorry, but I have to resign my position effective immediately. Thanks for understanding. I hope I can still use you as a reference in the future.
My lips tightened. Oh, I understood. Her step-uncle on the family board wanted her away from any hint of controversy or wrongdoing. Because that’s what I was now. A flaming beacon of controversy and wrongdoing.
How could an entire year of do-gooding and look-smarting have plummeted over the railing with Conrad Phlume?
I put my phone aside without responding to Lina. Who needed her anyway? I could handle everything myself. “Maybe we should just try asking a few questions. Point the police in the right direction.”
Gabe sighed. “If that’s what you really want.” He stood. “I guess I should go get the detective hats.”
I assumed he meant that figuratively.
CHAPTER
Seven
Gabe did not mean it figuratively. As it turned out, he had purchased us actual detective hats. Fedoras. Light brown fedoras, the kind a detective in an old black-and-white noir film would look sharp in.
I did not look sharp in it. For one, it clashed with my hair. For two, it clashed with the darling pink wallpaper in our living room that I’d sourced from the elite wallpaperers of Slovakia (if you know, you know). For three, I’d never had the face for a fedora. Too long.
Gabe did, though to be fair, he had the face for every kind of hat. Also for going without a hat. He just had a great face.
“I didn’t buy them thinking we were going to be solving another murder,” he said, when I gave him the questioning look that meant exactly that. “They were supposed to be a surprise for the one-year anniversary of when we solved the last one.”
“What, so we could relive the highlights?”
“I mean, there weresomehighlights,” Gabe said defensively. “We did fall in love.”
“True.” We were currently not reliving any highlights; we were reliving the most tedious part, aka when we sat on Gabe’s couch and made lists of all possible suspects. At least this time we weren’t confined to Gabe’s terrible lumpy old three-seaterhe’d actually gotten used from a stranger without even thinking about how many people had probably had sex on it. Our new couch was the softest suede in ivory, a color I’d purchased without considering that we owned a black cat. Like I said, I made most of my decisions on vibes. “Okay, so Caleb confirmed that all the people working the event had alibis, which means that the murderer has to be someone who was attending the gala. Is there any way we can narrow it down?”
Gabe bit his lower lip as he thought. “Was anyone taking photos at the time?”
“I assume everyone. Let’s check the feed.” Within minutes, I had a time-stamped feed of photos from the gala. “Okay, these here are all from the five minutes before the murder. If we compile everyone we see in the background, we should be able to cross a bunch of people off our list.”
I wished I still had an assistant who could do this for me. Plan B: I stood and smiled angelically at my beloved boyfriend. “Should I run to the bakery and pick up some fuel for the task?”
“Let me guess,” Gabe said. “I might as well get started while you’re gone and, ideally, will be done by the time you get back.”
“I love you so much,” I said.
“I love you too,” he said. “But you’re forgetting that I have no idea who most of these people are.”
I moaned, flopping back down on the couch. The sunlight streaming over Central Park and into our windows suddenly seemed to mock me. I’d been so close to getting out of this. So close. I gazed longingly out the window, envying the tiny passersby below their freedom, their carefreeness, their social circles that were probably murderer-free.
Several hours later, I stared up at the ceiling, blinking hard, afterimages of guests permanently tattooed beneath my eyelids. “Okay. Is that all?”
“I think so,” Gabe said, comparing the list we’d made with the zoomed-in images on my laptop. There had been several peoplewho’d been too blurry or obscured to confidently identify, and of course there were people who’d been there out of anybody’s frame, but we’d prepared a list that counted out a bunch of my guests. Which left a bunch more under suspicion, but it was a start. “Okay, so we’ve got our list to make now. Let’s start with people who have motive and who aren’t on the list.”
“Murder Artist has to be on there,” I said immediately. “Not only did he tell us explicitly that he was a murder fan, his peacock took part in the crime. I forget his name, but let me check with Li—oh.” Couldn’t do that. I turned to the guest list. “I’ll probably recognize it when I—okay, Isaiah Franklin. Make him number one.”
“Done,” Gabe said. “And Conrad Phlume’s wife has to be on there, too, right? After that outburst.”
“Don’t they say it’s always the spouse?” I added her to the list. “Who else?”
We stared at the list for another few minutes. Gabe finally said hesitantly, “Do you think there’s even a chance it might be—”
“No,” I said immediately. “No way.”
