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  “No,” said Roger. “Under his clothes. He was wearing a second-skin costume. It had chest hair and fake junk and a fake bullet wound. It was on under his sweatshirt and mom jeans. Made of some kind of nerf-style stuff. Neoprene maybe.”

  “It was a fake—” I started to say, much too loud. Then I bent over and whispered instead. “It was a fake bullet wound? And Mike fell for it? Oh my God, she’s never going to live this down! She thought a fake bullet wound in a neoprene onesie was a real bullet wound in a guy’s actual flesh? Wow!”

  “Four days in the water can do strange things to a corpse,” Todd said, perhaps trying to be fair.

  “But he wasn’t in the water four days,” Roger said. “That’s another thing Maurice told me. He spend three days happily decomposing at an ambient temperature, outside but not exposed, and only then did he hit the water.”

  “He spent three days lying out in a ditch somewhere without anyone finding him, dressed in a fake birthday suit, junk and all, with a hat on, and no one reported it?” I said.

  “So what did he die of if it wasn’t a bullet wound?” said Todd.

  “Sitting,” Roger said. “Not lying, Lexy. Sitting. From the pattern of hypostasis in his butt and lower legs. He was sitting. And he wasn’t out in the wilds. There was no rodent damage. He was somewhere pretty sheltered.”

  “How?” I said. “How could he be sitting outside for four days? What, like at a bus stop? On a park bench? I know Mo Tafoya said Cuento’s not the community it once was, but that’s nuts.”

  “I think,” Roger said. “This is only my theory, but I really do think it’s … seasonal.”

  “Huh?” said Todd.

  “As in, calendar specific,” said Roger.

  I was stumped, but light was dawning on Todd. “Oh. My. Godetia corsage,” he said. “He was sitting propped up on someone’s porch as part of a Halloween scene, wasn’t he?”

  “Looks like it,” Roger said.

  “But why would someone do that?” I said. “I mean, why would someone do that?”

  “Buys time,” Todd said. “Let’s a murderer get away.”

  “You’re assuming he was murdered,” Roger said.

  “He was at the high school reunion,” I said. “And there’s definitely something fishy about that. We’ve spoken to three people and they’re all pretty jumpy, aren’t they, Todd?”

  “Was it natural causes?” Todd said. “Did he just party too hard?”

  “Ohhhhh!” I said. “If he drank himself to death at the party maybe his dependents could sue the Alumni Association. Or the Farmers’ Market. Is that it?”

  “We’ll make an American of you yet, Lexy,” Roger said. “Straight to litigation! No, he didn’t drink himself to death. Well, not in the way you mean. He was poisoned.”

  Roger was used to the idea, having had all the time since the Maurice guy blabbed it to him. He took another caveman bite of his dwindling burrito and waited to see what we made of the bombshell.

  “Food poisoning?” I said. I looked into the open end of my own burrito. I love that taco wagon and I hate sissies, but you do hear things.

  “Nope,” Roger said. “Hydrogen peroxide.”

  Todd winced.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Caustic soda,” said Roger.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Lye,” said Roger.

  “He drank lye?” said Todd.

  “He drank lye.”

  “Who drinks lye?” I said.

  “Which is what made Maurice so sure it was murder and not suicide,” said Roger. “No one in their right mind could make themselves drink lye. It would be like trying to suffocate yourself by holding your breath. But that’s what killed him. It burned out his throat, burned away his gut. It even dissolved the composite they used to fix the gap in his teeth. On its way down, you know.”

  “Wait, what?” I said. I clutched Todd’s arm. “Mo! Original Mo! Mo H! Roger, we spoke to a woman this morning who went bolting off to her bathroom to puke when we mentioned the gap between Tam’s front teeth!”

  “That’s pretty suspicious,” Roger said.

  “And we also spoke to another woman who’s got an empty rocking chair on her Halloween porch,” I said.

  “And one seriously freaked-out dude I’d swear knew Tam wasn’t shot,” Todd added.

  “Are you saying you tipped off a murderer?” said Roger, going still.

  “She’s going to kill us for interfering, but we need to tell Mike, don’t we?” I said. My heart sank at the thought of it.

  “I’ll do it,” Todd said. “She hasn’t just tried to arrest me and had to back down. I’ll do it with tact and decorum. We don’t need to ruffle any feelings or upset anyone.”

  While those words were hanging in the air I became conscious of movement at the far side of the cafeteria. Something large and red was barrelling towards us, weaving between tables but knocking over the occasional chair. It was a nurse, I realised. Or it was a nurse if nurses wear red scrubs and, right enough, no one else in the cafeteria was decked out like a blood clot. She was moving at quite a pace.

  “It is you,” she screeched as she got within a few yards of us. She looked familiar but I couldn’t place her.

  “What the?” said Roger, craning over his shoulder.

  “What did you say to him?” the woman bellowed. She tripped over some guy’s foot as he stuck it out into her path and she stumbled for a few lurching steps. Then she righted herself and kept on rolling our way. “What did you do to him?” she shouted. “What have you done? What did he ever do to you?”

  The guy who’d tried to trip her up was chasing after her now. He was dressed in grey scrubs, which rang a faint bell, and he’d surely had them tailored to his physique. They hugged him like spandex. The red scrubs of the running woman hugged her like spandex too, because her physique was scrub-shaped. She could certainly haul it around though. She was nearly upon us. I still couldn’t place her. But at my side Todd gasped.

  “Becky?”

  Of course!

  “Becky Worth?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  She was in no mood for talking. She came right up to the table, took me by my lapels—well, the zip of my hoodie—and shook me. “What did you do? What did you do?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “Stop shaking me!”

  Todd was trying to prise her fingers off me. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said. Roger was on his feet, reaching out.

  The grey scrubs guy was here too now. He stepped between Roger and the woman in red. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. “Let me get rid of this for you.”

  “Maurice?” Roger said. He shot a look at Todd, who let go of Becky’s hands. Becky took the chance to shake me even harder, sending eighteen ounces of watermelon juice and two thirds of a large burrito on a carnival ride round my insides.

  “He’s had a heart attack,” she said. Sobbed, really. She was sobbing now.

  “Mr. Burns?” said Todd, looking between the svelte guy in the grey scrubs and Roger’s face, which was purple. “Columbo?”

  “And it’s all your fault,” Becky was saying. She had lost some of her fire now. I managed to get out of her grip and pushed her into a chair. “What did you say to him? What did you want with him? He was fine and now he’s dying. He’s a good man.”

  “I’m sorry to hear he’s ill,” I said. “Although if he got to a hospital still alive after a heart attack, he’s probably not dying, you know. But I’m going to have to disagree with you on one score, Becky. He is not a good man.”

  “Good men certainly are thin on the ground around here,” Todd said.

  Maurice flicked him a glance but had little attention to spare from Roger. “Are you okay?” he said. “Should I call security?”

  “Why would you say that?�
� Becky was asking me. She blew a snot bubble out of one nostril and even if she had just assaulted me and even if her brother was a murderer, I hated to see a fellow woman so humiliated in front of these three gorgeous men. I passed her a tissue.

  “Blow your nose,” I said. “Because he’s a homophobic bigot, Becky. That’s why.”

  “Who is?” said Maurice. “Roger, is someone harassing you?”

  “Yes,” said Todd. “Someone is. Someone not a million miles away.”

  “And who are you?” Maurice said, looking at Todd as if he’d been tracked in on a shoe.

  “He’s not a homophobic bigot,” Becky said. “Why would you say that? He works down in L.A. He’s a sound engineer. He’s got more gay friends than anyone I know.”

  “Maurice, this is my husband, Todd,” Roger said. “Light of my life, fire of my soul. Like I told you.”

  “Loins,” said Todd. “The quote is ‘fire of my loins.’ You friend zoning me now, Roger?”

  “What is he talking about?” said Becky.

  “I’m at work, Todd,” Roger said. “Loins is not appropriate language.”

  “Saying he wouldn’t piss on a burning gay is homophobic enough for me,” I said. “And he knew Tam wasn’t shot.”

  “What’s she talking about?” said Maurice. “Roger, I told you what I told you in confidence.”

  “When someone’s married,” said Roger, “confidence extends to the spouse.”

  “My brother didn’t kill Tam Shatner,” said Becky. “What did you say to him after I’d gone?”

  “I’m not saying he did,” I said. “If me asking questions about Tam has given John a heart attack, I think that’s on him. Not on me.”

  “But he’s really, really not a bigot,” Becky said.

  “No one ever admits to being a bigot,” said Todd.

  “No, but—” Becky said. Then she glanced at her watch. “I need to get back to him,” she said. “I promised I’d only be away five minutes while they moved him out of the ER into the ICU. I’ve got to go.”

  “Do you have someone coming to support you?” I said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  Becky snorted as if she’d rather have Dick Cheney wax her legs than put up with me as a shoulder to cry on. Then her face crumpled. “If you would stay till our sister gets here from Reno,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “You go on,” I told her, “and I’ll be right behind you.” I turned to Todd. “Put the rest of my burrito in my fridge for later,” I said. “And swing round by the Worth place. See what she was cramming into the wheeliebin in such a hurry this morning. And look in my diary for a time you and Roger can come to see me.”

  “What?” Roger said.

  “I mean it. Mr. Burns indeed! That was a rookie mistake, Roger. Maurice, would you like to go out for a drink sometime?”

  “With you?” Maurice said.

  “With me.”

  “Uhhhhh, no,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Now listen: you’ve got as much chance with Roger as I’ve got with you, so do yourself a favour and move on. Okay?”

  “Why do I need to come?” Todd said as Maurice swished off with as much dignity as scrubs ever allow. “This is a clear case of Lexy Campbell says one-side-sucks.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see Roger alone.”

  “No way,” said Todd, as I knew he would. “I want to hear what you both say about me.”

  I kissed them both on the cheek and together we left the cafeteria. Todd, though, stopped dead in his tracks as we passed the drinks dispenser.

  “Oh God,” he said. “That’s not even funny.”

  He pointed towards a hospital health poster pinned on the wall behind the fountain. Drink less soda for health! it said, on top of a shot of Coke fizzing over ice cubes.

  “Hard to argue,” Roger said. “How could anyone—even a murderer—kill someone by making him drink lye?”

  “Here in the land of the well-ordered militia,” I said, “what’s the point of all that mess and bother instead of a nice clean bullet?” Todd and Roger were both staring at me. “I’m not asking!” I said. “I’m trying to put myself in the murderer’s shoes. Like Roger said: why lye?”

  Fifteen

  I’ve had a life. I mean, I’m married and divorced, I’ve travelled, I’ve solved a murder, I’ve been the target of a mafia vendetta. I’ve lived. But that Saturday afternoon was the first time I’d sat at the bedside of a probable murderer, patting his sister’s hand and pretending I wasn’t pumping her for information.

  “Was John overworking?” I said. “Between his sound engineering and his part-time business?”

  Becky shook her head, barely listening. She was studying her brother, as if she could will him back into consciousness by the sheer intensity of her gaze. She was mistaken. He was deeply out of it. His breath fogged the plastic mask over his nose and mouth and then cleared it. Fogged it and cleared it. And his eyes were still, glinting in a slit in his eyelids. His feet flopped outwards under the thin blanket and his hands were resting on their backs on top of it, his fingers curled, not a twitch anywhere, even when the little clothes peg pinched him every half minute to measure his blood oxygen.

  “Or was it the reunion?” I said. “Did he overdo it?”

  “He was a little pink around the eyes on Sunday morning,” said Becky, “but it was his fiftieth reunion.” She reached forward and brushed the shock of sweaty sandy hair back from his brow. “I think his color’s starting to look a little better, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. In truth between the overhead lights, the greying cotton gown slipping below the tidemark of his golfer’s tan, and the tubes and wires snaking all over him, John Worth couldn’t have looked worse unless someone had given him a black eye.

  “It was a different time,” Becky said. “Fifty years ago. We didn’t know any better.” I held my breath. Was she changing her story? About to acknowledge her brother’s shortcomings after all? “Cheerleaders baked cookies for the team, decorated their lockers. We even laundered their uniforms in Domestic Science. Can you believe that?”

  “It’s all pretty outlandish to me,” I said. “Or maybe glamorous is a better word. Homecomings and proms and reunions. It’s like something from the movies.”

  “Really?” Becky said. “Nothing glamorous about it, if you ask me. Bunch of seniors drinking too much and sleeping in the wrong beds.”

  “And when you say seniors … ” I said. “Do you mean the high school seniors at the graduation or senior citizens at the reunion?”

  She did a little nose laugh. “You’re right,” she said. “Nothing’s changed. They were just the same this year as fifty years ago. Booze, tears, and drama.” She sighed. “It was sweet, in a weird way. All of them together again.”

  “All of them?” I said.

  “Most of them. There’s one they never get to come back and celebrate. Joan Something. They always hope, but she’s missed forty-nine parties since graduation.” She reached out and took hold of John’s hand, squeezing it. “Crazy not to see people while everyone’s still here. We’ll all be gone soon enough.”

  “There’s always one, though, isn’t there?” I said. “It’s a shame, when the committee goes to so much trouble. And … is it just the one night or is it like a festival?”

  “Our exotic, glamorous high school reunions?” Becky said. “It’s just one night.”

  “Well, that’s nice then, isn’t it?” I said. “That your brother’s still here days later. It must be you he wants to spend time with, mustn’t it? I mean, there’s no other reason for him to stay on in Cuento?”

  I wondered if I was treading too close to the heart of the matter. But I’d been staring at the bark of the trees and missed the wasp’s nest dangling from the wood.

  “Nice?” said Becky. “You think this
might be nice?”

  “Not this exactly,” I said. “But before … ”

  “… the massive heart attack.”

  “Yeah, before the massive heart attack. He spent some time with you instead of working. I do always think you Americans work soooo hard. Two jobs isn’t even unusual, is it? It’s very admirable.”

  But I’d lost her and there was no getting her back, even with flattery. Even with true flattery, like this right now. Because I meant every word: they did work hard, with their four-day vacations crammed into a long weekend and one day off for Christmas. Right now Becky Worth was working hard at piecing together everything I’d said to her.

  “What side business?” she said. “His job at the studio, you said. And a side business?”

  “The pet grooming,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Cat grooming service?” I said.

  “I’m the one who works in the veterinarian’s office over in Cuento,” Becky said. “Not Johnny.”

  “Have you swapped cars?” I said.

  “We did, last weekend,” she said. “But only for a day. Why? Why are you so interested in the reunion? You’re not cops, you’re not reporters. He already said that dead guy left the party alive. Or wasn’t there at all.” She was still gazing at John, but she was frowning. Any second now, she’d turn and look at me and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get my expression innocent if she did.

  “It’s for these two kittens,” I said. “I saw the advert on the Cala … ?”

  “The sacred El Camino!” Becky said, actually rolling her eyes. “I couldn’t believe he let me drive it! But, what ‘advert’?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but before I could utter a word there was a massive movement from the bed. John had lifted a hand and was plucking at his mouth. “Maaaarrrh,” he said; a bone-chilling sound, coming from deep in his barrel chest and amplified by the dome of the mask.

  “Johnny!” Becky said and stood to bend over him.

  He reached up with the other hand and grabbed her by the neck. “Maaaarrrhhh,” he said.

  “Johnny?”

  “Hey!” I said.