“Eh,” Mr. Namura huffs. “That’s nothing. I didn’t tell them about the poison garden.”
Felix slants me a look, but I shake my head. “What poison garden?” he asks Mr. Namura, who has begun casually transferring spice jars from the counter to the shelf.
“One of Claude’s fancies, when we first moved in. He thought it would be exciting to have a corner with deadly plants. Artistically arranged, with signs explaining the side effects.”
We are so cooked. “Are they still there?” I ask, wincing in preparation for bad news.
To my relief, Mr. Namura shakes his head. “Do you remember Claude’s boyfriend Reggie?” He frowns as if he’s doing some mental math. “That would have been before your time. Reggie was an animal lover, and he worried some of the plants might be harmful to birds or stray cats. And when Claude wouldn’t listen, Reggie brought it up in front of Mervyn. He was a bit of a tattletale.”
“Is that why they broke up?” Felix asks, like the gossip hound he is.
“I suspect so, in hindsight. At the time we thought it was because Reggie got cast in a touring production ofAnnie,” Mr. Namura explains.
“What did Mervyn say about the poison garden?” I ask, since someone has to get this conversation back on track.
“He was—not pleased.” His pause suggests this is an understatement. “Mervyn could be a soft touch for some things, but he put his foot down on that one. Because of the liability issues.”
Poor Mervyn, surrounded by renegades and scofflaws. I wonder how many times he’s had to save this crew from themselves over the years—and whether he’ll manage to do it again.
Swallowing that depressing thought, I turn to Mr. Namura. “The courtyard is no longer full of toxic plants?”
“Correct.”
Finally, some good news. Though I’d feel more like celebrating if we’d gotten any closer to solving the mystery of Bradley’s death.
“If you’re sure you don’t need any help,” Felix says, “I might take Virginia out.”
“Yes, go.” Mr. Namura waves us off, looking substantially more cheerful. “You kids have fun.”
I keep my smile in place until we’re standing in front of the elevators. “Felix.”
“Hmm?” Neither my scowl nor the crossed arms that go with it seem to have penetrated his good mood.
“Are you pretending to be into me to entertain a bunch of older people who are weirdly invested in our social lives?”
He presses the Up button. “Fake dating is always a public service.”
It’s a slippery answer if I’ve ever heard one, but there’s a more pressing question right now. “I thought we were going out?”
“Not until we find your ring.”
Okay, that’s thoughtful, because otherwise the worry would keep tickling at the back of my brain. It’s almost like he knowsme. “Are we going someplace fancy or is there a chance I’ll need to poison someone?”
“I wouldn’t risk it. Tough to make a clean getaway from a police station.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINETHE BODY WITH THE DEADLY FASHION SENSE
We find the ring more or less where I left it, once I excavate it from the tangle of hair clips and lip balm and discarded T-shirts that populate the top of my dresser.
“I thought you’d be more Type A with your stuff,” Felix observes, watching me throw a wadded pair of shorts in the direction of the hamper.
“I am at home.”
“This is you cutting loose.”
“Yes, this is the wildest I have ever been,” I monotone.
“Besides the murdering. And your luggage.” He tips his head at the open closet, where the corner of my suitcase is visible.
