Musical theater, I remind myself. A certain level of optimism is probably a bar for entry. I move our bald little dudes to the lower right, shifting the queen and the prone piece representing Bradley to the opposite quadrant.
“Library,” I say, pointing at our markers before tapping the space to the left. “Billiards room.”
It’s correct-ish, at least architecturally. Felix adds a few more pieces on our side, naming them as he sets them down. “Your grandmother, my grandfather, Mr. Namura, Mrs. A, and Malia.”
“Until she sneaks off to the kitchen,” I remind both of us.
Felix is frowning at the board.
“What?” I try to see what he’s seeing. “Are you wondering where the kitchen is? Do we need more props?”
“You put Bernie in the billiards room.”
Huh. I did, didn’t I? It’s an embarrassing gaffe, even though this is neither real chess nor an actual murder map. “Should we take her off the board for now? I guess she was upstairs until… later.” I reach for the queen, but Felix grabs hold of my arm.
“Was she?” The tilt of his brows saysThink about it,so I do.
There was no mistaking the moment she arrived on the scene, volume cranked to max, but I have no idea where she was coming from—or how long she’d been there. I assumedshe was in her brother’s apartment, just like IassumedMalia was with us in the library the whole time.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Or do you?” He goes full movie trailer voice this time.
“Will I ever find out, if we keep talking in rhetorical questions?” I fire back.
“Maybe you know more than you think.” Felix grabs the queen, hopping her from square to square until she makes a sharp left turn at the end of the board. “What if she was there when it happened?”
“And then what, she just left?”
“Ran away, more likely.” He holds up a finger. “But not before hiding her cup in the kitchen.”
The idea that Bernie had some nefarious part to play in Bradley’s murder is so appealing, I immediately mistrust it. “Why would she do that, though?”
“He was standing between her and the dream of a super beige new building.” Felix shrugs. “She was probably looking at a massive payout, if she managed to overturn Claude’s will, because then they’d have to buy the whole place from her. Plus she’d get a fancy new condo out of the deal, with her style of neighbors. That’s a huge incentive.”
I was talking about the cup-hiding part, but okay. He’s leapfrogged right over that. “You think she killed her own nephew?”
Before he can answer, the door of the apartment opens and Mr. Gutierrez walks in. His hair is damp and there’s a towel around his neck, so it appears at least one of Felix’s theories was correct.
We spend the next few minutes putting on a performance of “normal,” with lots of gratuitous explanations of what we’redoing (“lunch!”) and no mention of the messed-up chess board in front of us. Felix offers to make his grandfather a sandwich, but he’s already headed for the recliner in the living room.
“I’m going to take a nap,” he says. “I’ll eat after.”
“I should go,” I start to say, but Mr. Gutierrez won’t hear of it.
“You won’t bother me. It’s nice to have people around.” He grabs the wooden handle on the side of his chair, and it reclines with a creaking pop. His eyes are already closed by the time Felix hurries over to take the damp towel and hang it up for him.
Mr. Gutierrez reaches up to pat his grandson’s arm before folding both hands over his stomach.
When Felix returns to the table, I try to ask him with head jerks and rapid blinks whether we should leave.
“Nah,” he says, not quite whispering. “We’re good. Where were we?”
I give him a look.
“Kidding. To answer your question, maybe?”
“Even though he was her nephew?”
