Page 36 of The Mermaid Murder

“My God, Mason, do you think she’s inherited your crime-solving gene?”

“I’m not her blood uncle.”

“No shit. She got it by osmosis.”

“Or she got it from you.”

I opened my mouth to deny I was any kind of sleuth, but then lifted my brows, tipped my head to one side, and considered his point. I had, in fact, helped to solve several crimes. Mostly as a way of surviving them, but still. “That might be true.”

We’d left the hot tub behind halfway through the first episode, gone inside, dried off and changed, then continued listening on the cozy sofa. The electric fireplace was warm and soothing. The owner had left us each a giant, homemade chocolate chip cookie, which we ate with freshly brewed decaf, since it was late.

Episode 1: Fathomless, set up the story, giving the background and introducing the cast of characters. Episode 2: The Depths, followed the whereabouts of Eva Quaid’s husband Paul on the weekend she’d vanished. It revealed juicy morsels like the $100K life insurance policies Eva and Paul had taken out, each for the other, just in case, and the fact that Paul’s art brought in barely enough to scrape by. Since the marriage, his standard of living had improved in small, but meaningful ways. His rustic cabin soon had things like Satellite TV, air conditioning, and a paid-up electric bill. Two incomes were always better than one.

The show did a great job planting nuggets of suspicion about the husband, only to reveal that there were hotel surveillance videos and footage of the art show showing Paul, right where he said he’d been, at the time of his bride’s disappearance. “At this time,” Zig had said in her dulcet tones, “we have not seen this footage ourselves, and the FOIA forms we’ve filed with the local authorities are apparently being slow-walked through a red-tape jungle.”

“Misty’s roomie is good at this,” I said. “She really has something here.” We were wearing our plush, matching spa robes— I know, it makes me gag too!— sipping our decaf, still nibbling on the cookies.

“We should talk to this Zig person,” Mason said. “If anyone knows where Misty is, it’s her.”

I nodded and tapped my phone. 12:13 a.m. lit up in white across the screen. Then I called Christy. It took her three rings to answer, and she sounded sleepy. “We listened. And we need to talk to Zig.”

“No shit,” she said. “Like I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“Grumpy much?”

“Sorry. I don’t wake up cheerful like you, Aunt Rache.”

We both knew damn well that late night or early morning calls caused me to wake up like a bear with a toothache, but I wasn’t going to acknowledge that. “So, you talked to her, then?”

“Can’t find her. She’s not responding to texts or even reading them. Calls go straight to voicemail. I’m betting they’re together."

“Great,” Mason said. “Veronica Mars times two.”

“Who the fuck is Veronica Mars?” Christy asked.

Mason mouthed “ouch” but didn’t say it out loud.

“We’ve got to figure out where they went,” I said.

“In the morning, though,” Christy replied. “We can’t do anything on no sleep. Besides, I don’t think she’s in trouble. I think I’d know if she was in trouble.”

“I don’t feel like she’s in trouble either,” I said. But my vision or whatever sure suggested she was heading for it. And I had to intervene before she arrived.

“Good then,” Christy said. “Let’s talk in the morning, all right?”

“Yeah. Okay. Good night, Christy. Thanks for the help.”

“Night.”

I disconnected and turned to Mason. “I don’t think Misty is with another guy at all. I think she’s investigating the missing mermaid with her podcaster pal Zig.”

“I admit I like that theory a lot better,” Mason said. “At least until I get to the part where investigating a crime can be dangerous.”

I nodded in full agreement.

“But then why did she dump Jeremy?” Mason asked.

“She didn’t dump him. They’re on a break.” I blinked, but no reason came to mind. “We should let him know, don’t you think? Because he’s probably jumped to the same conclusion we did, and?—”

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