“Would she talk to us? Carmen’s friend.” Maybe there’s some detail she’ll remember, or a direction she could point us in, because otherwise this feels like a dead end.
“She can’t.” Sofia frowns an apology. “They made her sign an NDA so a single ‘error in judgment’ wouldn’t ‘harm a young man’s reputation.’ But you could ask your friend Malia.”
I glance at Felix and see my confusion mirrored back at me.
“Malia as in…Malia?” he asks. “Our Malia?”
Sofia nods. “She volunteers at the counseling center on campus. Her friend told Carmen she was a big help.”
It feels like I’ve been hit by a boomerang, arrowing right back to Castle Claude.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTHE BODY WITH THE EVIL LAUGH
Of all the residents of Castle Claude, Malia is the easiest to track down. Following the trail of watery harp sounds leads us to the music room, where she is practicing a piece that would suggest weeping even without the vocal bits sprinkled in. As it is, the ragged sighs and sharp barks have me half worried she’s sobbing onto the strings.
“Hello, sprogs,” Malia says when Felix and I enter. The greeting isn’t cheerful exactly, but it’s clear we haven’t caught her mid–crying jag.
“Interesting piece,” Felix says.
“A young Albanian composer.” She plucks a few notes.
I can see the attraction of having a giant musical instrument to strum for emphasis every time you say something. Way more dramatic than air guitar.
“I chose something soothing in case your grandmother’s head was still tender,” Malia explains.
“She’s better.” When I checked on her before we left thismorning, Grandma Lainey was well enough to grumble about not needing a nursemaid.
“Good. Then we can venture into something more stirring. How’s your Schubert?” she asks Felix.
“Nonexistent,” he replies.
Malia laughs, and I can’t even blame her. Most guys would have said something pretentious to make themselves look good.
“We can fix that.” Her expression sours. “As long as we have a music room.” The harp takes the brunt of her mood shift, as Malia angrily plinks out a new tune. “Imagine finally acquiring a magnificent instrument such as this, only to be forced to move to a dingy studio apartment. With stairs!”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” I wish I could say it with more conviction, but it feels weird to reassure grown-ups, because we all know I don’t have the authority to make promises about the future.
“Tell that to poor Mr. Namura. Detective Ortiz has been harassing him all morning.”
“The detective was here?” So much for being ahead of the game. Felix shoots me a look, and I can tell he’s wondering the same thing: Does Detective Ortiz know something we don’t?
“Why did he want to talk to Mr. Namura?” he asks Malia.
“Probably because he does so much of the cooking,” I surmise, and Malia nods.
“Which any reasonable person would realize makes himlesslikely to put poison in someone’s food, because of course the suspicion is going to fall on the chef. Honestly!” Malia’s huff is powerful enough to bounce off the ceiling. “That man won’t even drink milk that’s past the expiration date.”
“That’s… probably good,” Felix says. “About the milk, not the harassment.” This time when our eyes meet, I nod a quickyes. We will need to visit Mr. Namura—but not until we’ve gotten some answers from Malia.
“Did the detective talk to anyone else?” I don’t bother pretending to be casual, because Malia appreciates drama in all things.
“Not that he mentioned to me.”
That gives me pause. “You talked to him?”
“No.”
Okay. Detective Ortiz doesn’t know everything. This is still our exclusive lead, though obviously we’ll share any important discoveries with the police—after we do a little digging.
