Page 8 of Wham Line
As soon as I thought the words, a memory drifted up: Mal’s white shirt in the dark alley.It had practically been the only thing I could see.
Two men, around the same height and build, both with dark hair and white shirts.Mal had given Jethro his jacket.
I mean, was that even a possibility?
Sparkie must have sensed my deliberation because she said, “What?What is it?”
I fumbled for something to say.“And you said the other man’s name is Larry?”
Rain pattered at the windows.An eddy of air shifted, bringing the smell of the candles’ hot wax.Low voices filled the dining room with the rolling swells and troughs of murmured conversation.
When Sparkie spoke, her tone suggested she hadn’t missed my evasion.“Larry Lizard.”She nodded to where he stood by the door, hair wet and bedraggled; I wasn’t sure when he’d come back inside.Sparkie gave me a moment and then added, “Live with Larry Lizard.”
Then it landed.“Oh!”I tried to come up with something and finally managed, “I love that show.”
Which was the kind of thing you said in public to a stranger, like,What a cute babywhen it was one of those little old man babies, orBoy, he’s really high-spirited, when observing a budding psychopath.Because even though I was clearly every cable food program’s target demographic (did you know they have multiple shows about people making cakes thatlook like things that aren’t cake?),Live with Larry Lizardwasn’t one I watched.Like, ever.For one thing, because the show wasn’tactuallylive, which annoyed me.And for another, because Larry was well…Larry.He talked over the people he interviewed.He criticized their food right in front of them.Once, he’d been interviewing a chef—super successful; her restaurant had reservations booked out almost a year—and on the air, he’d been so casually dismissive of her opinion of how to cook lamb, the kind of arguing-without-bothering-to-actually argue that arrogant people sometimes did, that she’d walked off the set.
“What’s he doing here?”I asked.I gave Larry a closer look.He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had one of those faces that made you feel like you knew him from somewhere—in this case, television.His clothes looked like the kind of expensive you’re meant to know is expensive without actually dressing up—a hoodie, jeans, and sneakers so clean and white Bobby would have been proud.“Is he filming?”
Sparkie’s laugh was surprisingly scornful.“Hardly.”There seemed to be more to that answer, but Sparkie went on, “God knows why he’s out here.Middle of nowhere.Are you sure you don’t want that drink?”
She helped herself to it without waiting for a response.As she drank, she gave me a long, considering look.
I glanced around, but still no Fox.
“I couldn’t help noticing—” Sparkie said, and it had an easiness that was entirely too casual.
An alarm began to ring somewhere deep in my brain.Whatever else Sparkie had wanted out of this conversation—her flirting, her probing about Mal’s death, the ham-handed way she had attempted to direct my attention toward potential suspects—it had all been building to this.This was what she really wanted.The rest of the patter had been meant to soften me up.
“—when you came in you were with Indira.”
She knew Indira.She’d recognized her.She referred to her by first name.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”I asked.
“Now don’t be that way,” Sparkie said with another titter.“I’m in the same boat, you understand.The ex-wives club, and all that.”But she must have seen something on my face because she said, “I’m not pointing any fingers.”
I turned toward her.The heat on my back was blistering, even through my coat, and that hot wax smell clogged my nose.“I think this conversation is over.”
“I just want to talk to her.I’ve got the most wonderful idea—”
I got to my feet.
Sparkie sat up straight, words pouring out of her.“Now don’t be like that.It’s a perfectly reasonable request.This is what I do; I connect people.And do you have any idea what some people would pay to have her working back-of-house?”
I opened my mouth to tell Sparkie to screw off—only I wasn’t going to use the PG version—but before I could, the sheriff called from the kitchen doorway, “Mr.Dane?”
For a few seconds, I wrestled with my need to defend Indira.Or at least put this smug, manipulative woman in her place.
The echo of Indira’s words blew through my head, cold and clear.“Excuse me.”
When I reached the sheriff, she gave me a considering look and then held one of the swinging doors for me.The kitchen was busy again, Talmage barking orders as the other chefs—or whatever they were called—worked.Apparently murder wasn’t going to keep Mizzenmast from its opening night.Was that strange?Maybe it was one of those situations where people simply didn’t know how to act in the wake of tragedy, and so they did what they thought was normal.
“What was that all about?”the sheriff asked.
“I honestly don’t know.”I told her about Sparkie.“God, I just sat there like an idiot, wondering why she was blabbing so much.”
The sheriff only nodded, though.“Dash, I’d like you and Bobby to go home.”
