After getting myself settled (coffee!!), I went to work. Over the last few months, I’d been drafting a mystery novel. Like, a real one. That I was actually writing. Not just something that lived in my head. It featured Will Gower, a private investigator in—Portland? My original thought had been not to use Portland, but now I had it back in the rotation. Seattle was also a possibility. Or would Vancouver make more sense? I mean, I was basically trying to invent a new genre (cozy noir). Would that be more of a Canadian thing?

  And while I had a good chunk of my plot figured out—Will Gower was in pursuit of something, um, valuable. Like the priceless statuette from The Maltese Falcon. Only not that. I mean, was it too on the nose to have everybody in the story looking for a priceless statuette of, say, a crow? Would a raven be better? Did anybody like jays?—I was also still trying to work out more about the characters. Their relationships, in particular.

  This is your official spoiler alert.

  One of the things I loved best about Dashiell Hammett (hey, my namesake!) was the constantly shifting web of relationships in the story. It made it feel real. It made the characters feel human. It starts in the backstory, when femme fatale Brigid O’Shaughnessy allies herself with a bodyguard to steal the falcon. Later, she uses her feminine wiles to seduce and then to kill. Detective Sam Spade’s own backstory isn’t any neater. He was having an affair with his partner’s wife, which is part of why he’s a suspect for his murder. Sam and Brigid’s relationship is even more complex. There seems to be genuine affection between them, but at the same time, Brigid is using Sam to get the statue, and Sam turns Brigid over to the police for the murders she committed (also, he weirdly promises to wait for her, but not if she ends up being hanged, which must have sounded a lot more romantic back then—the ’30s were a different time). And that was one of the things noir did for the mystery genre: it blurred the lines of who was good and who was bad. And that was so much closer to reality, right? So much closer to being true.

  So, I wanted something like that. I mean, motive usually ended up being cut-and-dried in a story. Somebody wanted money. Somebody wanted drugs. Somebody wanted revenge. But cozy noir—if that was even a thing, or if I could make it a thing, if it was even a possibility—had to be more than that. It had to be about what it meant to be human. And it had to be about the nuances of the terrible things people did. Those nuances didn’t make the terrible things any less terrible, but they made them comprehensible. They shaded in that human element. And, of course, cozy noir had to be about exploring what it meant to be just in a world where we all inherited the trauma of living in a broken world.

  Maybe, I thought, Will Gower should have an evil ex.

  Okay, there was nothing nuanced about that. But it did sound kind of fun.

  I puttered around with that idea for a while. Then I ordered myself to take a cookie break. (No complaints here.) I texted Bobby to see what he wanted for dinner after his shift was over, but he must have been busy because he didn’t text back. He’d told me that Halloween was always a crazy time for the sheriff’s office. Not only did they have to deal with a rash of adolescent misbehavior—broken windows, graffiti, knocked-over mailboxes, etc.—but they had to deal with adults who thought a silly/sexy costume was a great reason to drink too much and then get behind the wheel of a car, or pick a fight with their spouse, or, um, use the slides at the park as a public restroom. (Ladies, if you didn’t know this already, for some weird reason there is an entire subset of guys who love peeing on things they’re not supposed to pee on.)

  After about eighteen of Indira’s brown-butter-and-maple chewies (best cookie name ever), I ordered myself to get back to work. (Lots of complaining this time.) I was just settling down with blanket and laptop and, yes, more coffee, when there was a knock at the door.

  It was Bobby. And he was in uniform. And he had Deputy Tripple with him.

  Tripple was—to put it kindly—not my favorite deputy. In fact, Tripple was pretty solidly on my naughty list. He was White, middle-aged, and bald. He also thought I was an attention-seeking lunatic and that I searched out/exaggerated/invented murders to get more attention. More attention from Bobby, in particular; Tripple had taken an indecent amount of pleasure in embarrassing me about my crush on Bobby before we’d started dating. Oh, and you know the other thing? His scalp. I mean, it wasn’t a problem that he was bald. But his scalp was disturbingly loose on his skull and the whole wrinkle situation got weird—and fast. (I mean, it was like crepe paper.)

  Bobby’s face was so serious it was almost stone. Tripple looked like he was about to smile.

  “Bobby?” I looked past them, but all I saw was their cruiser. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “Is Keme home?” Bobby asked.

  “No. Why? Did something happen?”

  “Did he come home last night?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?” Tripple asked.

  “It’s a big house. I was asleep. What—”

  “So, he might be here right now?”

  “No, he’s not here right now. I already told you that.”

  “Why don’t we have a look?”

  That shocked me out of my daze. I stared at Tripple. At the almost smile. And I said, “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Dash,” Bobby said.

  “You’re not searching this house for Keme—for anything—until you tell me what’s going on.”

  The tightness in Bobby’s jaw should have told me, but all he said was “We just need to talk to him.”

  And then Tripple grinned: sharp, narrow teeth yellowing at the gumline. “About a murder.”

  Chapter 3

  “I am not going to calm down,” I said, trying to keep my voice low. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”

  We were in the kitchen, just Bobby and I. The air smelled like yeasty dough and cardamom and brown sugar. My stomach turned, and I wondered, from a far-off point in my head, if I was going to be sick.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Bobby said mildly.

  Which was fair. And true. And made me want to scream my head off.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said. I was still fighting to control my volume because Tripple was in the servants’ dining room. (And, outrage of outrages, eating my cardamom rolls. I mean, Indira’s, but it’s basically the same thing.) “You think Keme killed someone?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you’re going to arrest him.”

  “We’re not arresting anyone,” Bobby said in that same even tone. “But we do need Keme to come in for questioning.”

  “Who is he supposed to have killed?”

  “I told you,” came Tripple’s voice from the next room.

  Bobby didn’t exactly sigh, but he did appear to brace himself.

  A moment later, Tripple pushed into the kitchen. He was still carrying his plate. The cardamom roll was untouched.

  “I told you,” he said again. “Look at him. He can’t wait to get his nose in it.”

  “This is a private conversation,” Bobby said. It was about as close as Bobby ever came to telling someone to screw off.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Go eat your roll in the other room.”

  “No, thanks.” Tripple set the plate down and leaned against the counter. “Don’t care for sweets.”

  “Okay,” Bobby whispered, and he squeezed my arm. “Take a breath.”

  “You don’t care for—”

  “Dash.”

  I swallowed my outrage—and my total bewilderment—and finally managed to say, “I’m not sticking my nose into anything. But Keme’s my friend, and I think I ought to know what you’re accusing him of.”

  “He’s my friend too,” Bobby said, and I was surprised by the hardness of his tone. “And no one’s accusing him of anything.”

  “JT Haskins,” Tripple said. He was watching me like it might mean something to me.

  I glanced at Bobby. “Who’s that?”

  “Keme hasn’t told you about him?” Tripple asked. “Hasn’t complained about him? Told you his sob story?”

  “I’ve never heard that name from anyone,” I said. “Certainly not from Keme. Who is he?”

  “He owned the Gull’s Nest.” At my look of confusion, Bobby added, “It’s the RV park on the north side of town.”

  “That’s where Keme lives,” I said with a flash of realization. “Well, he doesn’t live there, but you know what I mean.”

  “His mom lives there. Some of the RVs are more or less permanently there—you can rent by the month, and enough people stay that it’s like a mobile home community in some ways.”

  “What happened to—JT? Was that his name? And why are you looking for Keme?”

  “This is an ongoing investigation—” Bobby began.

  “Somebody bashed his brains in,” Tripple said. He had that weird almost-smile again. “And that boy got in a big fight with JT last night. Everybody saw it.”

  I couldn’t imagine Keme getting into a fight. Or rather, I could, but it was terrifying—and not consistent with the Keme I knew. The Keme I knew was more than capable of murdering me by stabbing me with a pencil. But a fight? A big, blowup argument? The Keme I knew would have been filled with cold rage, maybe. He would have thrown some icy silences. But I couldn’t imagine an actual fight.

  “This is crazy. There’s no way Keme would hurt someone, let alone kill them.”

  The pained look on Bobby’s face came and went so quickly I thought I’d imagined it, but it was Tripple who responded. He laughed and said, “You don’t know him at all, do you? That boy’s a bad seed. Always has been. Vandalism. Destruction of property. Shoplifting. Assault. He always walked away from it because he was a minor, but now that he’s an adult, well—” Tripple’s smile flashed out. “—now something’s going to stick.”

  My automatic reaction was to tell Tripple he was full of, uh, beans, but I glanced at Bobby first. His expression was totally closed off, and that was its own kind of confirmation.

  “So, what?” I could hear myself scrambling, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “He got into an argument. That’s not a crime.”

  “It is when it gets physical,” Tripple said.

  Ignoring that, I pushed on. “What evidence do you have that he had anything to do with this man’s death? Tell me one single piece of evidence.”

  Tripple opened his mouth, but this time, it was Bobby who spoke. “We don’t have anything, Dash.” The yet in that sentence was painfully loud, even though he didn’t actually say it. “Right now, we just want to talk to him.”

  “So,” Tripple said, “if you know where he is, and you want what’s best for him, you’ll help us run down that little pup.”

  “He’s not here,” I said. “You want to find him? Help yourself. Look around. He’s not anywhere in this house.”

  “I’ll do that,” Tripple said. “You two have fun playing kiss-and-tickle.”

  Bobby’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Tripple laughed to himself as he sauntered out of the kitchen. As the door swung shut behind him, he started to whistle—a jauntily off-key tune that I couldn’t recognize.

  “What in the blankity-blank is wrong with him?” I asked.

  Several long seconds passed before Bobby answered in what must have been his attempt at a normal voice. “Believe it or not, this is Tripple in a good mood. He finally put in his retirement papers, thank God.” More quietly, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you think Keme had anything to do with this.”

  “I don’t. I told you I don’t think that. And the sheriff knows I don’t. Why do you think she’s got me paired up with Tripple on this bogus errand? She sidelined me as soon as she realized Keme was a person of interest. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t put me on a desk until it’s over.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. In the shock that had followed Bobby’s arrival, I hadn’t really thought about anything. But now that he said it, I could see what he meant—Bobby wasn’t usually partnered with Tripple (for obvious reasons), and he was the best deputy Sheriff Acosta had. (That’s not just my personal preference speaking—everyone knew Bobby was the best.) There was no way Sheriff Acosta would waste him on pickup duty unless she was worried Bobby’s friendship with Keme would compromise him in the investigation.

  So, I said the perfect thing to repair my social-emotional blunder: “Oh.”

  A hint of a smile showed in the crinkle of Bobby’s eyes. He pulled me into a hug. It felt good to touch him again; it wasn’t like we’d been separated for all that long, but there was something so reassuring, so comforting about the physical contact. Also, he smelled like french fries, and my stomach rumbled.

  Bobby laughed.

  “It’s not my fault,” I said. “You smell delicious. Why do you smell delicious?”

  “Because Tripple treats his patrol car like his personal trash can. When he goes off shift, you wouldn’t believe how much trading and haggling and complaining the deputies on the next shift do to avoid getting his unit.” He ran his hand over the back of my head and threaded his fingers through my hair. “It’s going to be okay.”

  I shook my head. Then I stepped back, and Bobby let his arms drop. My face felt hot, and I put my hands to my cheeks as I asked, “That’s all? Keme had a fight with this guy, and he ended up dead?”

  “Pretty much. His wife found him this morning. I guess they’re in the process of separating. That’s kind of an understatement, actually. They had a huge fight last night. Someone called in a domestic disturbance, and a deputy had to go out there. Tripple said it was pretty bad.”

  “Hold on, this guy, JT, had a fight with his wife, and a few hours later he’s dead. And even though the spouse is always the most likely suspect, for some reason, we’re looking at Keme?”

  “Well, the wife—Channelle—has a pretty solid alibi.”

  “What? She was having dinner with the sheriff?”

  The corner of Bobby’s mouth twitched. “Not far off. After Tripple separated them, he got her checked in at the Bay Bridge Suites, and she spent the night there. She went back to the RV park the next morning, and that’s when she found him. There’s security camera footage of the motel parking lot. She didn’t leave.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. She could have snuck out the back—”

  “There’s no way out back.”

  “She could have disabled the cameras. She could have fabricated the footage from last night, like on, um, Speed. She could have gone from her room to another, prearranged room, put on a wig and a fake mustache, and left through the front door.”

  “What were you doing today? Brainstorming?”

  “Bobby, she obviously killed him!”

  Bobby looked up at the ceiling and the faint sound of Tripple’s footsteps above them.

  In a quieter voice, I asked, “What about a murder weapon?”

  “It looks like it was a blunt object. We haven’t found it yet.”

  “What did Tripple mean, Keme got physical with JT last night?”

  “Have you ever been to the RV park?”

  I shook my head.

  “The pads are right next to each other. They have hedges, that kind of thing, but no real privacy. I mean, most of it is a glorified parking lot. We’ve got an eyewitness, and he says Keme threw the first punch.”

  I shook my head again and sagged against the counter. Whatever had been powering me up until now—adrenaline and fear and a thin oil slick of anger—it drained out of me. My head was empty and throbbing. I wanted to close my eyes.

  “Hey,” Bobby said, and he chafed my arms. “We just need to talk to him. Once we can establish where Keme was last night, it’ll be over.”

  I didn’t say what we were both thinking: what if Keme couldn’t prove where he’d been last night? What if he’d been sleeping rough, the way he used to, and there was no one and nothing that could verify what he claimed?

  The creak of the treads from the servants’ staircase announced Tripple’s return. I drew myself up as best I could. I waited for Bobby to take a step back, establish that professional distance to avoid another nastygram from Tripple about our relationship. But Bobby stayed where he was, hands on my arms, too close for anyone to have any doubt about who we were to each other or that he was trying to comfort me.

  Tripple poked his head into the kitchen, spotted us, and sneered. All he said, though, was “I can’t find him.”

  I managed not to say, I told you so. But only because Bobby was on duty, and me being a petty, um, witch wouldn’t help anything.

  “Please let us know if he comes home,” Bobby said. “If you can talk him into going to the station, even better. It’d be good if he came in on his own.”

  I nodded. And then I followed Bobby and Tripple to the door and watched them drive away. The smell of french fries lingered, but it only made me feel sick now.

  For a while, I paced. Hemlock House was big. And it had lots of connecting rooms. Which meant it was easy to make a big loop—perfect for pacing.

  Keme wouldn’t hurt anyone. But Keme had punched this guy, and people had seen it. The spouse was always the most likely suspect. Cameras on the motel parking lot. Cameras everywhere. An airtight alibi. Tripple saying, That boy’s a bad seed. Always has been. But Keme wasn’t a bad seed. Keme was a teenage boy. They did dumb things, sometimes, sure, but he was loyal, and he was protective, and he cared so deeply about the people he loved.

  I remembered the cold rage on his face as he’d watched Louis and Millie walk away.

  That kind of rage didn’t go away easily. It lingered. It held on to you. It made it hard to think rationally. It made you want to hurt someone else so that you weren’t the only one hurting anymore.

  Vandalism. Destruction of property. Shoplifting. Assault.

  But Keme wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.

  He always walked away from it because he was a minor, but now that he’s an adult…

  And then something clicked into place. Keme had been at the Gull’s Nest last night. He had to have been—he’d gotten in a fight with JT. So, wouldn’t it make sense that Keme had stayed the night with his mom? Maybe she’d look at me like I was crazy and say, He was here the whole time. Or at least checked in? Maybe he’d stopped by, talked to her, told her where he was going? Maybe she knew where he was, or where he’d gone last night. Maybe she hadn’t felt comfortable telling the deputies. Maybe she’d kept quiet because she thought she was protecting Keme.