Page 11 of Again with Feeling

The old man gave us another long, lingering look before going inside. With the threat of imminent death removed, I was starting to think a little more clearly, and I did some mental math. It was possible—heck, it was likely—that this man was Vivienne’s father. It was difficult to imagine Vivienne having a father—or being a child, for that matter. But what was even more difficult was imagining that this woman was—what? Vivienne’s sister?

Whoever she was, she was all sugar again, swishing toward us in her kimono. “Are you all right? Honey, you look like you need to sit down.”

That last bit was directed toward Bobby, who wasstillstaring. That surprised me a bit; Bobby was, under normal circumstances, unflappable. I’d once seen Mr. Cheek (owner of Fog Belt Ladies Wear, and a fervent admirer of Deputy Mai) lock himself in a dressing room so that Bobby would have to rescue him, only to jump into Bobby’s arms once Bobby got thedoor open. And Bobby had handled it like a champ (although he’d been less patient when Mr. Cheek had tried to unbutton his shirt). Right now, though, Bobby seemed to be having trouble processing what was going on, and it took me a moment to realize that he was trying to decide if he should act like a deputy.

I decided to take pity on him. “I’m sorry about coming back here unannounced. We should have knocked.”

“What? Oh, you mean Daddy. He’s always like that; it wouldn’t matter if you knocked.” She had gotten close enough now that she reached up and pressed the back of her hand to Bobby’s forehead. “You’re like ice! I think you’re going into shock.”

Bobby did not look like he was going into shock. Bobby looked like he might be going into deputy mode, and like he was about to begin dispatching all problems with extreme professionalism.

“We didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves,” I said before the voice of the law could ruin everything. “I’m Dash Dane, and this is Bobby—”

“Oh my Gawd!” (You could hear the w.) “I thought I recognized you! Oh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd! I’m Candy Yamamoto. Candace, but I go by Candy. Candy Lundgren.” As though waiting for me to connect the dots, she rolled her eyes at Bobby and added, “Vivienne’s sister.”

I mean, okay. Technically anything was possible. And the longer I looked at her, the more I could detect a family resemblance—in the chin, more than anywhere else. If somebody bleached the dickens out of Vivienne’s hair and then plugged her into a light socket, maybe it would have been easier to match them up. But she certainly didn’t act like someone whose brother’s body had just been discovered. And even though I’d been expecting something like this—even though I’d alreadyguessed, or half-guessed, that she was Vivienne’s sister—it was one thing to float a hypothesis, and another to have it confirmed.

Because I honestly couldn’t imagine someone more different from the Vivienne Carver I knew. Vivienne was all polish, all class. Vivienne was a razor-sharp mind. She was like Dr. Moriarty in Jackie O’s body. (Okay, that wasdefinitelya book I was going to have to write.) And Candy Yamamoto, née Lundgren, was…not.

I felt bad as soon as I thought it. It was unkind, first of all. And it was grounded in nothing but a first impression. I didn’t know Candy. I didn’t know anything about her at all.

But as she pressed Bobby’s hands between her own (and, in the process, managed to bring his hand to her, uh, bosom), I had the feeling that, sometimes, first impressions were right on the money.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said. “I saw you on the news. You’remuchcuter in person.”

“Um, thank you?”

“You’ve got to tell them to shoot you from your left, honey. Your left is your good side. No, wait, let me see. Well, maybe it’s your right. I don’t know!” This seemed to titillate her to no end—she burst out into fresh giggles.

“It’s definitely his right,” Bobby said.

Hands on her hips, she considered Bobby now. “Andyou,” she said, “don’t have a bad side.”

“Thank you,” Bobby said.

“Oh, you know what you need?” She patted herself down. “You need a tattoo! Give you a bit of an edge. I’ve got a butterfly—if you’re good, I’ll show you—and my friend owns the Skin Art Collective, that’s where we all hang out—dang it, IknowI have one of his cards.” And if my head wasn’t about to explode already from a sixty-something woman spouting phrases likethat’s where we all hang out, she went and topped it by givingBobby a coquettish look and adding, “He’s not my boyfriend, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

And Bobby said, “How do you know I don’t have a tattoo already?”

That was it. The end. My head officially exploded.

Candy, who was now somehow holding Bobby’s hand again, gave him a playful swat. “Oh you!”

“Yes,” I somehow managed to say. “Oh you.”

I know nobody’s going to believe me. I know that I’m going to sound like I’m making things up. I know it’s flat-out crazy. But even though I can’t prove it, I swear to God, in that moment, staring back at me with his typical impassive expression, Bobby winked at me.

“But what are you doing here?” Candy asked.

“It’s a long story—” I began.

“We heard about your brother,” Bobby said.

Which, to be fair, could have been taken any number of ways.

Candy chose to take it one particular way. Her eyes widened, and her expression quickened with what I wanted to call restrained jubilation. She looked like someone trying not to smile at a funeral. “You’re sleuthing!”

“I’d call it investigating—” I tried.

---