“Did you just hoot at me?” I ask in a normal voice.
He shoots me a panicked look, but we have the entire top floor to ourselves and it’s a valid question. “I thought we should have a signal.”
“Why not an eagle? Or, you know, a hand sign?” I do the heavy metal horns thing, twisting my wrist back and forth.
“Can we talk about this inside please, Virginia?” Felix hisses.
“Whooooo,” I hoot at him, but not too loudly.
Once the door closes behind us, the nervous jokes dry up. It feels 110 percent more criminal to be inside the unit. Even though I used to come up here all the time with Grandma Lainey to visit Claude, my skin prickles with awareness of how unwelcome I would be now that this space belongs to his sister.
“It’s different, isn’t it?” Felix looks to me for confirmation.
“Like a Bed Bath & Beyond threw up in here.” The original aesthetic was described to me as “Édith Piaf in Paris,” which apparently means long brocade drapes, velvet settees, and ornate scrollwork legs under the spindly side tables, of which there were many. Everything that could have a pattern—from throw pillows to rugs to coasters—did.
Now there are off-white slipcovers on most of the furniture, pastel bath mats have been tossed over the carpet, and beachy country accents are scattered throughout the living area, like somebody went wild with a hot glue gun and a basketof seashells. Dark squares mark the wallpaper where paintings used to hang.
“I wonder what she did with the rest of my granddad’s art.” Felix’s voice is subdued, and not because of stealth this time. Claude collected a lot of Mr. Gutierrez’s work, and the only piece still on display is the portrait of Zenobia propped on a bookcase.
“Do you want to look for the paintings first?”
He shakes his head. “That’s okay.” I get the feeling he wants to say more but talks himself out of it. “We don’t have time.”
Technically we probably do, but emotionally we both want to get out of here ASAP. Hardened criminals we are not.
“Where should we start?”
“Um.” Felix turns in a half circle. “What’s all that stuff on the table?”
For a second, I worry about touching things with my bare hands, but that’s silly. No one’s going to check a book of… fabric samples for fingerprints. “Fifty shades of beige,” I report, flipping a few pages. “Must be part of her decorating blitz.” There are also boards with miniature ceramic tiles and squares of carpet in hues that range from oatmeal to taupe. “Can you say bland?”
This place is going to look like a rice cake by the time she’s done. I put the binder back where I found it. Questionable as all this is on the aesthetic front, it doesn’t feel particularly relevant to our quest.
“Let’s try the office,” Felix suggests.
When Claude was alive, his “office” was more of a dressing room, packed with outfits and accessories from decades on the stage. The small desk in the corner was mostly ornamental,since he did most of his correspondence at the breakfast table. This room was a magical place to play, even if it gave me a warped sense of how many robes the average adult owns.
“Whoa.” Felix pauses on the threshold, taking in the black garbage bags stacked against the wall.
“It’s not your grandad’s paintings.” That’s my first thought, because the shape is too squishy for that.
“It must be Claude’s stuff.”
I’m tempted to drag them out of here before she can trash her brother’s entire wardrobe, but there’s no way she wouldn’t notice. Also, there’s something on the desk. I wouldn’t say my thumbs are pricking or the hairs on the back of my neck are sticking up or any of the other things that happen in mystery books when someone is about to make a big discovery, but it does strike me as a good place to look.
Felix and I get there at the same time, frowning as we attempt to make sense of what we’re seeing.
“Did she… write down all her evil plans in glitter pen?” he asks. “Pinterest but make it diabolical.”
“It’s a desk calendar, crossed with a diary.” They’re big in mom circles, for people who like organizationandcrafts, with a steady stream of social media humblebrags. That reminds me to take a picture, in case we need to study the details later.
This is an extra fancy one, with themed stickers and coordinating markers, all in the pale pink and gold family. It reminds me of something, but the connection doesn’t click until I see the cursive scrolling along the bottom of the page.Good Morning, Beautiful!
“Her cup must be the same brand.” I point at the words, festooned with the familiar bunch of flowers wrapped in aplaid bow. “Did you notice she hasn’t been lugging that thing around anymore?”
“Maybe she got carpal tunnel.” He taps yesterday’s calendar square. “Or else it wasn’t appropriate for a meeting with Shark, Shark, Shark & Leech, Esq.”
Tell me how you really feel about lawyers, Felix!
