Page 67 of By the Book
I nodded—and, because I was working on being a mature, responsible adult, I refrained from pointing out that the electric company didn’t accept unpublished books as currency.
“I understand that I crossed a line,” my mom said. “And I’m ashamed that I’ve lost your trust. I hope one day you’ll believe that my efforts, misguided though they were, came from a place of love. Because Idolove you, Dashiell. Even if I do a poor job of showing it. I am so proud of you. I could never be disappointed by you.”
I nodded again. I could let the conversation end there. I could tell her I loved her, and that would be the end of it.
But in the last year, Ihadgrown—even if that growth sometimes seemed microscopic. And I wanted to be braver. I wanted to be honest. And I wanted to have a relationship withmy parents—it would never be the one I’d hoped to have as a child, but it could be something now.
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” I said. “I’m grateful for all the support you and Dad have given me. I believe you when you say you want what’s best for me. Right now, I think what’s best is that you let me work on this writing stuff on my own for a while. Let me fumble my way through it. Let me make mistakes. When I get tired of banging my head against a wall, I’ll ask you for help—I promise.”
Her voice was neutral to the point of stiffness. “Of course, Dashiell. Whatever you want.”
“But even though I don’t want to talk to you about my books,” I said, “I’d love to talk to you about my murders.”
At first, her face was blank. And then, for the first time in my life, I saw my mom grin.
Chapter 17
We gathered in the servants’ dining room: my parents, the Last Picks, and Bobby and I. It was late, and on the other side of the gingham curtains, the moon was yellow and low. Indira had made coffee, and she’d even produced—by magic, if anyone wants my opinion—a lemon poppyseed bundt cake. I was on my third slice, and I had chosen not to notice when my mom slid the cake away from me.
“We need a trap,” my dad said. “Something to lure this woman, Wanda, back to Hastings Rock. We should make an announcement that we found the book they were looking for.”
“I’m not convinced she had anything to do with killing George,” my mom said. “Why would she kill him? The whole point of this mess was to recoup money, and you can’t recoup money if the man is dead.”
“You can if he’s one of those ghosts that drags money around,” Millie informed us. “Like Jacob Marley.”
It was oddly satisfying to see my parents speechless for a change.
“My problem with this whole thing is that I don’t know what they want,” I said. “They searched Hemlock House, but I have no idea what they were looking for. I don’t buy that story about a valuable book. I mean, if George had seen something valuable, why not simply sneak in and take it? It’s not like I’d have noticed.”
“Nobody would have noticed,” Fox said. “Not until Bobby made us clean again.”
“I don’tmakeanyone clean,” Bobby said mildly.
“Oh, remember when he made Dash VACUUM?” Millie’s excitement was not, in this case, contagious. “Dash tried to talk his way out of it for, like, an hour, and Bobby kept listening and nodding and listening and nodding. And then DASH HAD TO VACUUM!”
“We had a conversation—” Bobby tried.
“We didn’t have a conversation,” I said. “You just stood there, looking at me, until I got to work. It was terrifying. I even vacuumed the drapes, Bobby. I climbed a ladder!”
Keme snorted.
“You’re very good at delegating, dear,” Indira told Bobby.
“And I don’t know why we have to worry about the cobwebs on the chandeliers,” I said. “That’s where spiders aresupposedto live. It’s their natural habitat.”
“And the windows,” Keme said.
“Oh right! And the windows, Bobby! Why do we have to clean the outside? It literally rains the next day. They’re clean for, like, six hours.”
“They’re making it sound worse than it is,” Bobby said to my parents. “I’m not a dictator.”
“Of course not,” my mom said. But from the way she was considering Bobby anew, I thought a terrifyingly efficient cleaning czar might appear in one of her future books.
“The murders,” Indira said.
“We’re missing something,” I said. “Something to do with George’s death. I agree it doesn’t make sense for the killer to be Wanda, but I can’t figure out what we’re not seeing.”
“Isn’t this where the forensic evidence comes in?” my dad asked. “Shouldn’t you consider what they found at the scene?”
