“Hockey isn’t silly.”
“And neither is my writing the blog.”
I started to protest, but my computer dinged as an e-mail came in. It was from Marina, and there was a single word in the body of the text: “Hypocrite!”
Okay, so she had a point.
“Silly is in the eye of the beholder,” she said. “Put that in my obituary, will you?”
Thinking about Marina’s obituary was pretty much the last thing I wanted to think about. I’d rather think about writing my own. I was halfway through the second paragraph when Marina interrupted.
“Who’s left? You know, on The List?” She capitalized the words.
I pulled the by-now-tattered piece of paper out of the inside pocket of my purse. “Cindy Irving, Joe Sabatini, Erica, and Harry.”
“That’s not very many,” she said.
I didn’t say anything.
“You don’t want it to be Erica, do you?” she asked softly.
Not in the least. I got out my pen and crossed off Kirk and Dan. “What matters is keeping you safe and getting the killer into prison. What I want really doesn’t matter.”
Seven down, four to go.
“Did you see WisconSINs this morning?” Lois asked.
I almost dropped the load of books piled high in my arms. What had Marina done now?
“You know,” Lois said, rescuing a stack of Magic Tree Houses before they cascaded to the floor, “if you used the book cart, these things wouldn’t happen.”
“Too far away,” I said vaguely. “What’s on the blog?” I asked. Friday night I’d told Marina that it might be good to take a few days off from blogging. So much for my powers of persuasion. Her identity had become intertwined with that of WisconSINs, and it would take an act of Congress to separate her from the blog.
“Brand-new suspect for Agnes Mephisto’s murder.” Lois grinned. Today she was wearing a flowing white poet shirt over pale pink wide-legged slacks and black ballet slippers. I didn’t have the figure for the pants, but I coveted the shirt. “If I still had kids at Tarver, I’d probably be hauled down to the police station myself.”
“What?” Aghast, I stared at her.
“Not that I’d kill anyone,” Lois said, “unless she was after me or mine, but if she got me all riled up, who knows what might happen?”
“No, no.” I shook my head impatiently, and another book started sliding. “The blog. What does it say?”
“You know how it doesn’t name names, but it says the police should look at the mob connections in town.”
“The mob?”
“They’re everywhere,” Lois said seriously. “WisconSINs says there’s a restaurant in town that the police should look at. And that’s got to be Sabatini’s. It’s the only place in town even close to Italian.”
There was a loud banging on the back door. “Could you unlock that?”
“Sure.” Lois dumped the books she was holding back into my arms and went to flirt with the UPS guy.
I hurried to my desk, found a semiclear space for the books, and called Marina. “What are you thinking?” I whispered fiercely. “You’re getting death threats, and you’re still putting up posts about the murder? That’s what he said not to do!”
“Quit worrying,” she said over a background noise of toddler-sized shrieks. “I can only be safe when Agnes’s murderer is locked up and the key thrown away. What better way to speed the process than to help the police? I’m sure they’re reading WisconSINs. Everyone is.”
I rubbed my forehead. “You read that e-mail Friday night. You were scared. Scared silly. Did you forget about that?”
“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” she said airily. “If General MacArthur wasn’t afraid, I’m not going to be.”
“That was Franklin Roosevelt’s quote, and both he and Douglas MacArthur are dead.”
I banged down the receiver. “This is so stupid,” I muttered. “How can I help her if she’s going to ignore everything I say? Let her stew.”
“In her own juice?”
I jumped and looked up—way up—at Evan Garrett. When had he come in? It was just now ten o’clock; I hadn’t even realized we’d unlocked the front door. “Yes,” I said. “In a big pot, in lots of her own juice. A big fire might tenderize her. Make her easier to deal with.”
“Possible.” He looked thoughtful. “Or she might just get hot. And cranky.”
Suddenly, though the sky outside was October gray, the day felt bright.
“What do you say to a coffee break?” Evan asked. “Doughnut included.”
Lois was nearby, alphabetizing an end cap display of Harry Potter books, something I knew she’d already done.
“Lois?”
“Oh!” She gave a very fake jump. “Yes?”
“I’m going to show Mr. Garrett here the cookies at you-know-where. Would you like anything?”
In a few short minutes we were seated at a small round wooden table that had lived the best years of its life in the Rynwood Pharmacy. A few years ago new owners had taken out the pharmacy soda fountain, and Alice and Alan, owners of the cleverly named Rynwood Antique Mall, bought the furniture so Alice could sell the cookies she made instead of eating them all. “Getting big as a house,” she’d told me, thumping her hips with her fists. “Time to do something about it.”
I perched on the front edge of the chair, not wanting to lean against the stunningly uncomfortable wire-backed soda fountain chair.
Evan was on his second chocolate-chip cookie. I was almost done with my oatmeal and was debating whether to eat raisin next or go for the peanut butter. But I was finding it hard to make a decision because concern for Marina was taking up most of the space in my brain.
“What’s going on up there?” Evan asked. He tapped my head, just above my ear.
I twitched away, then smiled, but it was a weak attempt. “Sorry. I’m a little preoccupied these days.”
“Work? Kids? Parents?” He didn’t seem offended that I’d backed off from his touch.
“Um, not exactly.” The cookies sat there, getting stale.
“You’re my oldest friend, Beth.” Evan’s voice was soft. “Let me help.”
The blue eyes were close enough for me to drown in them. My breaths grew short, and before I fell onto the floor in a hyperventilation faint, I tore my gaze away and grabbed a cookie. “What would you do,” I said around small bits of peanut, “if your really stubborn, um, sister was doing something you considered dangerous?”
He considered the question. At least he wasn’t laughing out loud. “Can I assume she isn’t listening to the wise counsel of siblings?”
I waved the last half of the cookie at him. “Assume away.”
“Is what she doing illegal?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“But dangerous, you said. Dangerous only to her, or will her actions endanger others?”
The phrase rang oddly in my ear, and I suddenly remembered that, until recently, Evan had been a lawyer—a big-shot lawyer who’d probably charged more per hour than I made in a week. “Right now it’s just Ma . . . my theoretical sister.”
“But there is a possibility of future endangerment to others.” He made it a statement.
If the bad guy decided to kidnap Zach, yes. If the bad guy decided to burn down Marina’s house and all who were in it. If, if, if. “I suppose.”
“How will you feel if you do nothing?” Evan asked.
“Depends. If nothing happens to her, none of this matters.” I shrugged. “But if something does happen . . .” Friday’s e-mail came back in a rush, with its promise of pain and blood. I looked straight at Evan. “If something does happen, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Then you have to do what you can,” he said.