“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Felix asks.
“Looking for a friend.” That’s the other half of the coded phrase my contact and I are supposed to exchange. I wait for Felix to slip me an envelope or a key orsomethingrelated tothe game, but he’s too busy staring at me over the rim of his glass. The warmth in my cheeks is absolutely frustration, not a blush.
He’s much better at this than Bradley.I crush that thought before it can take root.
While I’m debating whether to flirt back or threaten him with violence if he doesn’t cough up the goods, a scream splits the air. Felix and I lock eyes for an instant before jumping out of our chairs and breaking into a run.
We’re neck and neck as we skid around the corner to the library. My brain immediately catalogues the details: Two glasses on the coffee table, both empty. Overturned lamp. The rhythmic hum of a record left spinning after the music has stopped. And, of course, the (mostly) limp form of Mrs. A, stretched out in front of the striped velvet armchair.
“I’ll check the body,” Felix volunteers, like he’s doing me a favor. Ha! As if I would fall for such a cheap trick.
A glance behind me confirms we’re still alone (apart from Mrs. A), because there are advantages to being fifty years younger than everyone else in the building.
“I’m on it,” I say, cutting him off as I cross the room to kneel in front of Mrs. A.
“Looks like she was strangled,” Felix observes, trying to see past me.
I reply with a noncommittalhmmm. A silent game of chicken plays out, each of us shifting to block the other’s view while also avoiding physical contact—with the deceased or each other. He’s too far into my space (or possibly the other way around) but my character wouldn’t back down, so I don’t either.
“You can see the bruising.” He points over my shoulderto where Mrs. A has obligingly tilted her head back. We both pretend not to notice her throat move as she swallows. “Unless you think someone throttled her after she was dead?”
I meet his sarcasm with a tiny upward slant of the brows. “I guess you didn’t notice the powdery residue in her glass.” A beat, to let him verify the evidence. “Or the discoloration on her lips?”
Even in death, Mrs. A can’t resist helping me out by letting her mouth fall open to reveal that her tongue is also stained the deep purple of an eggplant.
Felix flinches, then tries to pass it off like he’s fighting a sneeze. “And I assumeyousaw the fabric in her hand?” he says, rallying. “Clearly ripped from the killer’s clothing during the struggle.”
“Obviously.” Had I observed that ragged strip of cloth before he mentioned it? Nope, but confessing is for suckers.
With a flourish, he pulls a tiny pad of paper from inside his jacket, like a magician conjuring a rabbit. “I’m going to take notes.”
“Go ahead.” After a pause, I add a pointed “Watson,” leaning on the word like it’s a stiletto I’m sliding into his chest.
“I’m not the Watson.” He gestures at his costume, like that lounge lizard jacket is a smoking gun.
“Trench coat.” I flap the lapel at him. We’re playing rock-paper-scissors, clothing edition. “It doesn’t get more detective than that.”
“Are you forgetting this?” he counters, smoothing the pad of his index finger over the strip of fake hair above his upper lip.
“I wish I could, but the image has been seared into my retinas.”
The low murmur of voices tells me we’re about to have company. Felix must be thinking the same thing because he’s looking around frantically, like the crime scene is one of those magic eye optical illusions and all he needs to solve it is the right perspective. Does he see the delicate sprinkle of dirt near the heel of Mrs. A’s sensible black flat? If only I could taunt him about it without tipping him off.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say as he stretches out a hand to grab the piece of fabric.
He frowns, clearly unsure whether it’s a legit objection or my attempt to throw him off the scent.
“Crime scene protocol,” I say primly.
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” I force myself to hold eye contact. Whatever you call the darkest shade of brown that stops just shy of black, that’s the color of Felix’s irises.
“Listen.” He lowers his voice. “Why don’t we work together?”
“Ha! I see what you’re doing.”
“Oh yeah? Explain it to me.” His arms are crossed, like he’s waiting for me to fumble the bag.
