The energy in the room shifts at the word “detective.” The longtime residents are eyeing him with interest, like orcas getting ready to snack on a seal. Mr. Namura is already up and edging closer to the new arrival.
“Are you going to question us?” Malia asks with barely contained excitement.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m here as a courtesy to the family.” Detective Ortiz doesn’t quite smile, but his lips press together as he tips his head. Out of his line of sight, Mr. Namura copies the gesture, practicing it a few times until he gets it right, down to the hands in the pockets.
“I’mhis family,” Bernie huffs, like she’s tired of waiting for them to acknowledge her.
“I was referring to his father,” the detective explains.
She presses a hand to her heart. “I was about to call him. That poor man!”
Detective Ortiz acknowledges this with another nod. “He’s been notified.”
Mr. Namura raises his hand. “I notice you’re not wearing a hat.”
“No,” the detective confirms. “I generally don’t. Especially indoors.”
“What happens now?” Bernie demands, hurrying across the room. “Because these people are guilty as sin. It could have been any one of them. Or all of them!” She flings an arm in our general direction.
“What does she think this is,Murder on the Orient Express?” Malia asks my grandmother in her outside voice. “It’s not like he was stabbed twenty times.” After a thoughtful pause, she turns to Detective Ortiz. “Or was he?”
The orange juice in my belly threatens to make a reappearance.
Felix touches my arm. “No blood,” he says, too low for anyone but me to hear.
Right. I exhale as reason returns. The signs of violence would have been impossible to miss, even from across the room.
“We have no reason to believe Mr. Odell’s death was anything but an accident. As I’m sure you know, he suffered from a number of severe allergies.”
“Of course I knew that,” Bernie snaps. “I’m his aunt.” I frown at her, wondering why it sounds slightly off.
“Did he have a reaction to something?” Mr. Gutierrez asks.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” the detective replies.
“They probably haven’t established the cause of death,” Mrs. A points out, and the other residents make noises of agreement.
“Do you suppose they’ll do an autopsy?” Malia wonders out loud.
Mervyn pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly wishing his clients would stop sounding quite so knowledgeable about homicide.
“You see what I’m talking about?” Bernie demands of Detective Ortiz.
“I’ll keep you apprised of any developments,” he says to the room at large. “Mr. Preszler has my contact information.” Mervyn nods, and the two men depart. In the corner, Mr. Namura is working on the farewell chin thrust that will undoubtedly be the cornerstone of his next performance as a brooding detective.
If there is a next time. It’s hard to imagine playing at murder right now.
“This isn’t over.” Bernie addresses all of us at once, though she’s mostly looking at my grandmother. She starts to leave, turning back at the last second. “I’m going upstairs and locking my door. And my windows! No one’s getting in there.”
“Silver linings,” Grandma Lainey mutters.
“None of you better follow me!”
“We all live upstairs,” Mrs. A reminds her. “But we could count to a hundred first if it makes you feel better.”
The other woman’s face twists like she has something rude to say, until my grandmother holds up a single finger. “One.”
That sends Bernie hustling out of the room.
