by Tessa Kelly
And what did he have to complain about? After he'd helped us carry the wedding cake from Kathy’s bakery to the restaurant, he simply joined the party, leaving us to do all the running around.
Several tense minutes later, we pulled up to the seven-story building in the middle of the quiet block I'd been calling home for the past three months. I hastened to get out.
"Thanks for the ride, guys. Are you opening the bakery tomorrow?"
"Of course we are," Jeff muttered, looking ahead and tapping an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. "Murder or not, we still have a business to run."
Ignoring him, I gave my sister a warm smile. "See you tomorrow then."
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "We'll wait until you get inside. But, listen, don't hesitate to call me if you need to talk tonight."
"Sure thing."
With a wave to her, I slipped into the building's spacious lobby and waited behind the door, listening. On my left, the mirrored wall showed me the reflection of a pale young woman in a hunter green jacket over a blue evening gown. The light-brown chignon at her nape was falling apart and she looked like she was in dire need of sleep.
Outside, the sound of my sister's departing car died in the distance. I opened the door and stole outside again.
Sleep would have to wait. There was someplace else I needed to go first.
Chapter 3
I walked up the block and rounded the corner to Smith Street, a popular destination for trendy cafés, restaurants, and boutiques in our neighborhood. Most of them were closed by now, except for a few bars, where music and loud voices spilled out through the open doors and windows. I walked past them at a brisk pace.
Three blocks down, Dad’s house stood tightly wedged into a solid row of buildings. The chipping yellow façade set it apart from the rest, as did my childhood memories of growing up within its walls with my siblings.
The ground floor, once a spacious family room, was now taken up by Dad’s used-book store. I unlocked the metal grate over the storefront and lifted it just high enough to open the front door.
The musty smell of hundreds of books filled my nostrils. To the left of the entrance stood the small register, an L-shaped desk next to it piled high with books. In front of me, three rows of bookshelves emerged out of the darkness, their outlines only just visible in the sliver of street light stealing in through the window. I sneezed. The store needed some serious dusting and airing out.
There was a rapid patter of footsteps on the parquet, and Marlowe, Dad’s brown and white Springer Spaniel, rushed out at me from the depth of the book aisle. He sniffed my legs, long tail beating the hem of my dress with enthusiasm. I crouched down and took his shaggy head between my hands to rub him behind his floppy ears.
Marlowe was just a puppy when I rescued him from the life of illegal dog fighting in Seattle. Now, three years later, he was my Dad’s pride and joy. As he gave a low whine, I sighed.
“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you, Marlowe? He won’t be coming home tonight, sweetie. It’s just me.”
Straightening, I reached over and lit the small table lamp on Dad’s desk.
In the sudden light, two balls of fur, one black, the other with brownish stripes, unfolded on a large pillow on the windowsill. Two pairs of eyes stared unblinking accusations at me. Then Asimov, the younger and friendlier of the two cats, leaped gracefully to the floor and padded over noiselessly, stopping to sit at a wary distance from Marlowe. Hemingway, the black one, stretched and gave a demonstrative yawn. Turning his back on me, he curled up again and covered his face with his paw.
I rolled my eyes. “Sorry to wake you, Your Highness. It’s not like we have a real problem. Just a small matter of Dad being the number one suspect in a murder.”
I picked up Asimov from the floor and walked down the book aisle. On both sides of me, the shelves burst with volumes in desperate need of sorting and alphabetizing. Mom and Dad had started the book store together five years ago, as part of their retirement. For the past two years, with Mom gone, Dad treated the place as more of a hobby than a business, so it tended to get neglected a lot.
At the back of the store, an open door led to the rest of the house. Passing the kitchen, I made sure the dog and the cat dishes had food and water. Dad had been in such a state over losing the bid on Raymond Chandler, I wouldn’t have put it past him to leave the house and forget to feed his little zoo.
Seeing that the dishes had food in them after all, I moved on. Marlowe pattering behind me, we walked up the flight of carpeted stairs to the second floor. Dad’s office, only marginally less cluttered than his store, was the first door on the right, followed by the master bedroom. I turned on the light in the office and stepped around the papers strewn about on the floor.
The glass cabinet next to the work desk contained Dad’s prized Raymond Chandler collection. There were some short stories, hardcover anthologies of Chandler’s works, and of course, the six first editions of the Philip Marlowe detective novels. The first book in the series, The Big Sleep, was notably missing. Dad often complained that, without it, his collection couldn’t be complete.
I went to the desk and pulled out the old, duct-taped swivel chair. A newer edition of The Big Sleep stared up at me from among Dad’s paperwork. I picked it up and read the first passage. In spite of myself, I felt the corners of my mouth lifting. Dad certainly wasn’t the only Raymond Chandler fan in our family. Even at the worst of times, the irreverence and the subtle humor of Chandler's writing sent a tingle of pleasure down my spine.
But what was it about first editions that made some people lose their heads? As far as I was concerned, a great book would be great no matter how many printings it went through, and that would never change.
With Asimov curled up in my lap and Marlowe staring up at me from the floor, I set the book aside and opened the top desk drawer.
Dad’s Colt Government pistol was missing. Though I expected it, a weight of disappointment sank in my chest. A small part of me had still hoped that the pistol found next to Sonny’s body was just a look-alike, a doppelganger, and that Dad’s Colt was safely tucked away in his office. Now, there was no more doubt.
I leaned against the chair’s back and closed my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose as if that could erase the visual of Sonny’s prone body from my mind. That was probably branded in there for life.
But what about Dad? What if he would have to spend the rest of his life locked up in a tiny cell, punished for a crime he didn’t commit? Mom had often berated him for keeping the pistol in the house, but no amount of reasoning was going to make Dad part with his grandfather's Colt, even if it only meant keeping the weapon in storage. It was no secret that he owned the pistol. No doubt, many people knew about it.
The question was, which of those people had had the opportunity to sneak up to Dad’s office and take it, and when? I pushed my chair away from the desk, careful not to tread on Marlowe's tail. My eyes roamed the office in search of anything unusual.
It was no use. Even if the theft had happened recently, the habitual mess made it impossible to tell the difference. The rest of the house bore no signs of a break-in.
Did the intruder have a key?
The only ones with the keys to the place were me, Kathy, and my brother. My own key never left the key chain. I made a mental note to find out if either Kathy or Will had recently misplaced theirs, or given them to anyone. It was unlikely, though.
The other way the killer could get the gun was by sneaking into Dad’s office while Dad was in the house. Dad rarely had guests. He and his buddies preferred to hang out at their favorite pub down the street because it had a wide selection of dark beers and a dartboard in the back.
This left only one other possibility: the gun was stolen while Dad was in the book store downstairs. It would have been easy. Dad had no security camera in the shop, and he often neglected to lock the door that led upstairs. Someone could’ve slipped up here while he was distracted
by a customer. It would take less than a minute to get into his office and take the pistol from the top drawer if the intruder knew where to look.
But who had the motive to do this? Who wanted Sonny dead badly enough to go to all this trouble? I shuddered, a cold finger of fear running down my neck. Whoever it was had obviously planned this murder. For days, maybe weeks. Thinking about it, waiting for his chance while the rest of us went about our lives, unaware of the evil in our midst.
No. I shook myself from my thoughts. Giving in to gloom and paranoia wasn't going to help anyone, least of all Dad.
The antique clock on the wall showed it was half-past two. I had done what I came here to do, and it was time to get home. Lifting Asimov who’d gone to sleep in my lap, I rose from the chair and was about to go, but a folder on Dad’s desk drew me back. The sage-green Manila folder. I knew it well, though I hadn’t looked inside it in years. It had been stashed away in the attic when I moved out. Why did Dad decide to take it out after all this time?
Sitting down again, I pulled the folder toward me. It contained the short stories I’d written in middle school, including the first five chapters of a fantasy novel I'd started but never finished. Back when I thought I would grow up to be a writer.
I leafed through the loose pages, remembering how I used to print each one out in four copies and leave space in the margins for my family’s commentary. Even if I didn’t know their handwriting, I could always guess whose page I was holding. Kathy’s contained sparse praise and mild criticism, and Will usually limited himself to one-word comments like “cool”, or “thumbs up”, or “lame”. Dad’s feedback was more generous, but Mom gave the most copious notes. She took my writing seriously for some reason and often said we had a future writer in our family.
Of course, by high school, I had discovered boys and writing became forgotten. And now, Mom was gone. A sad smile quirked the corners of my lips. Things certainly turned out much differently than my twelve-year-old self had imagined them.
I closed the folder.
With Asimov in my arms, I headed toward the stairs, calling Marlowe over my shoulder.
“Get up, sleepyhead. Let’s go! I’m not leaving you here by yourself overnight. Until Dad comes home, you’re staying with me and Felisha. How does that sound?”
Marlowe jumped to his feet. The late hour seemed to have little effect on him as he cheerfully trotted after me and sniffed at the cat carrier I picked up in the kitchen. As expected, Asimov went in willingly, but Hemingway hissed and beat his tail in protest. Once inside, he erupted in earsplitting meowing.
"Shame on you!" I wagged my finger at him, but he refused to be silenced.
With Marlowe secured on a leash, I turned off the table lamp in the store and squeezed outside, locking the door and pulling down the grate behind me.
Weighed down by the cat carrier and Marlowe, I slowly waddled down the block. Marlowe kept straining the leash and made me pause twice while he lifted his leg against the lamp post. Each time we stopped, Hemingway redoubled his yowling, so loud I was sure he'd woken half the street. At any moment, I expected an angry rebuke from one of the windows above.
It was with enormous relief that I finally reached my building. I took the elevator to the fifth floor where Felisha and I shared a two-bedroom apartment. Having met in French during the first semester of college, we stayed friends even after she dropped out two semesters later, deciding disciplined studies weren’t her thing.
Felisha's friendship had been my saving grace during the terrible upheaval of my last year of undergrad. As it was, the experience had sent me on what turned into a two-year backpacking and healing journey around the world. The journey that ended with the rescuing of Marlowe in Seattle. I finally returned to New York, feeling strong enough to apply for my Master's at Columbia. But, if not for Felisha's shoulder to cry on all those years back, I might not have finished undergrad at all.
Now, for the first time in our lives, Felisha and I were roommates.
I'd moved in with her, following the expiration of the sublet on my upper Manhattan studio. The rental belonged to an eccentric Italian studies professor. On a year-long sabbatical in Rome, she'd needed a responsible graduate student to take care of her talking parrot. She returned to the States a month after my graduation from Columbia. I regretted losing the sublet, but not the parrot whose talking consisted mainly of reciting love poems in Italian.
As luck would have it, Felisha’s long-time roommate had decided to move in with her boyfriend, leaving the spare bedroom empty.
The old lady who’d rented Felisha the apartment was a friend of her family. She agreed to give Felisha a steep discount, as long as she promised to keep the place clean and not throw any wild parties. Apart from moving in with Dad, the discount made it the only place in the neighborhood I could afford. The little closed balcony it came with gave me a chance to start the herb garden I’d been wishing for.
As I shuffled in through the door with my brood, the spicy scent of sage and lavender hit my nostrils. Felisha must've heard about the murder if she was cleansing the place with her aromatherapy candles.
Before I could put the carrier down, she hurried out of the living room. The excess of beaded bracelets jangling on her wrists set Marlowe’s ears at attention. The terry robe over her trademark Strawberry Shortcake pajamas alerted me that we had company.
Chapter 4
“Oh my gosh, Sandie! We’ve been so worried. Where’ve you been? We were about to call the police!”
I set down the carrier and let Marlowe off his leash. He immediately began sniffing at Felisha’s robe.
“I was at Dad’s, getting these guys. And who is we?”
“We is me,” Will said, coming out of the living room after Felisha. Marlowe yapped in excitement and hightailed it over to him. Will knelt to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Felisha called me when you didn’t show up. I came over straight away.”
“Valeria texted me about what happened at Luce della Vita,” Felisha explained. “She said you were on your way home. Then you didn’t come in and I tried calling you, but it went straight to voicemail.”
I poked inside the plastic bag for my cell phone rattling around at the bottom under my clothes. It had been switched off. Guilt prickled my stomach. I’d made them worry.
“The battery must’ve died,” I explained. “I didn’t even check it, my mind was so full of everything else.”
Felisha’s eyes softened. “It’s okay, Sandie. We understand.” Then she pointed her chin at the cat carrier. “But they can’t stay here. You know I have allergies.”
“But...you’re not showing any symptoms,” I pleaded. “Maybe you’re not allergic to Hemingway and Asimov. I felt so bad about them being back at Dad's all by themselves.”
At that moment, Asimov stepped cautiously out of the carrier. He looked around, flicked his tail a few times, and sat on the floor to lick his flank. Hemingway stayed inside. Of course. He'd have to be coaxed out with treats.
Felisha broke out in a smile at the sight of Asimov. “I so wish I could have a cat! I’ve always wanted one.” She bent down to stroke Asimov’s back and let out a sneeze that sent him hurtling into the living room and under the sofa. Her face fell. “Oh, no. It's starting already.”
Will got to his feet and patted me on the shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe, sis. I was about to go out searching for you.”
“I’m fine,” I said, and my stomach chose that very moment to rumble. We all laughed, then grew serious again.
Felisha headed into the kitchen. “I got some raw milk cheddar at the health food store today. I’ll make us some grilled cheeses, and we’ll talk.”
“Raw milk cheese?” Will wrinkled his nose.
She gave him a stern look. “It’s good for you.”
“So is a colonoscopy. I still don’t like it.”
“Did you get any gorgonzola?” I asked, ignoring him.
She shook her head. “You know I can�
�t stand that stuff. It’s stinky!”
“It’s gourmet. And delicious.”
“Not in this house. You’ll have to, like, eat it somewhere else.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Raw cheddar it is.”
Will took a beer from the fridge and sat at our small kitchen table while Felisha got busy with the food. I threw a yearning glance at the coffee maker. Too late for caffeine. Instead, I poured myself a glass of milk and pulled up a chair opposite my brother.
He ran a hand through his blond hair. “So, Dad’s been processed,” he said. “Was really tough watching him being locked up. I almost stayed at the precinct overnight.”
I reached across and gave his hand a comforting squeeze. “Staying overnight wouldn’t have solved anything. If we’re going to help Dad get out of this mess, we need to be rested and clear-headed. I don’t believe for a moment Dad could’ve done this awful thing.”
“Me, neither. The captain's sympathetic, I think. But the whole thing stinks.”
Over by the stove, Felisha flipped the grilled cheeses until the thick golden coating of cheddar spilled over the crust. She stacked them on a plate and set them in front of us, then took a seat at the other end of the table, fidgeting with an aquamarine bracelet on her right wrist. New, if I wasn’t mistaken. Apart from aromatherapy and health food, jewelry making was Felisha’s biggest obsession.
“Did you tell your captain many people knew about your dad’s gun?” she asked.
“Of course." Will took another swig of his beer. "Until the ballistics report comes back we won't know for sure it's the same gun that killed Sonny. Though I wouldn't hold out hope. The problem is finding out who could’ve gotten inside Dad's house and taken it.”