I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed, to be accosted by nosy reporters. All they had to do was link me to Abraham’s murder and the Scotland murders and I’d be known forever more as Bloody Brooklyn—or some equally annoying nickname.
Brooklyn’s Bloody Bodies “R” Us. Very catchy.
“Where are the cops?” I wondered aloud.
As if on cue, a siren screamed in the distance, growing louder and finally stopping right outside the front door.
“About damn time,” I muttered, more than ready for a good stiff drink.
Chapter 8
As the sirens faded outside the building, I had a sudden realization. What was I doing here? Why was I the one protecting a crime scene as if it were my job? As if I were some officer of the court? I wasn’t. I was just some poor schnook who’d seen too many dead bodies lately and knew the score. I realized the area needed to be as undisturbed as possible so that evidence could be saved and justice served. This time, I’d even left a fabulous old book on the floor, untouched. I wish I’d taken it, though. After all, it wasn’t like the book had killed her, right?
I’d done my duty, but now I was starting to freak out over my recent proclivity for finding bodies. I couldn’t blame my head for screaming, Get away from the dead body! People are starting to talk!
I heeded the message and signaled Mitchell over. “I need to return to the classroom.”
He was taken aback. “You’re starting up the class?”
“No, no. No more class tonight. I just need to get away from here. Can you watch her for me?”
Mitchell glanced over at “her,” and said, “Sure. Go. I’ll let the cops know where you are.”
“Thanks, I think.”
He chuckled as I scurried off, back to my empty classroom. I toed my shoes off and curled up in one of the cushioned high chairs stationed around the worktable. Now that it was quiet, I took a moment to wonder, again, what was up with my karma. Why me? Why dead bodies? Was the universe sending me a message? Whatever it was, I couldn’t read it.
Layla was dead and I felt nothing. I mean, I was alarmed that a killer might be getting away with murder. But otherwise, I felt nothing except complete relief that I’d never have to deal with her crap again.
Maybe I would break into tears later, or struggle all night to get the picture of her dead body out of my head. But for now, I felt nothing. And that probably wouldn’t help my karma situation much.
Since I planned to drive to Sonoma this weekend, maybe I would ask my mother for suggestions. She was dabbling in Wicca lately and could run a happy positivity spell on me. If not, I could always undergo some ojas replenishment. Or, what the heck, I might even get my chakras lubed. I was desperate.
And not that it was all about me, but did Layla have to die on a night when I was wearing my cutest outfit for my big night out with the hot British guy?
Yes, I was whining, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble earlier, calling up my best friend and fashion maven, Robin, and opening myself up to possible mockery by asking for her advice. So I deserved to whine for a minute in the privacy of my own brain.
Sure enough, Robin had enjoyed a few laughs at my expense. Then she’d gotten down to business, insisting that I wear the one dress I owned with my sexiest pair of black heels. She knew I owned them because she’d forced me to buy them a few weeks back for an art opening I’d attended that featured some of her newest sculptures.
I’d done exactly as she suggested. Why ask for expert advice if you’re not going to take it? I’d even managed to fix my straight blond hair the way she’d instructed, using a touch of gel on my bangs for a chunky, punky look. Those were her words.
And it all seemed to work, if my students were any gauge. I was looking good. I was uncomfortable and my feet were killing me, but I looked good. And I felt good. Until Layla had to go and die.
So here I sat, feeling sorry for myself and guilty for it, plus worrying about my karma and my feet and Derek Stone and the future of BABA. Because even though I disapproved of some of Layla’s methods, I couldn’t see Naomi or Karalee or Alice running this place with the same skill and panache.
“Meow.”
“Hey, Baba,” I said, and leaned down to pick up the cat. He was large and unwieldy, but he seemed to need a comforting touch. I held him in my lap, stroking his soft fur, and wondered what he thought of this odd place he called home. Had he seen anything? Heard anything? Had he looked into the eyes of a killer tonight? If so, he would take his secrets to the grave.
“Meow.”
“Yeah, I know, you’ll never tell.”
The door opened slowly and Alice poked her head in. “Oh, you’re in here. I was worried. Are you okay? Do you mind if I come in?”
I smiled at her, glad to be distracted from my selfish woes. “Come in and sit down. I’m just hiding in here with the cat. We’re feeling sorry for ourselves.”
“Pretty kitty.”Alice leaned over and scratched Baba’s ears for a minute. The cat allowed it for a few seconds, then ran off. Alice straightened and pushed her long hair back off her shoulders. “Are you feeling sorry about Layla? Because I feel awful. And I’m so worried. I hate to even think these thoughts while Layla is . . . well. But I just don’t know how we’re going to go forward. Layla was everything to BABA.”
She paced the floor, wringing her hands as she spoke a mile a minute.
“Naomi is a mess,” she said, almost to herself. “The managers are both in a dither, and there’s Ned. He’s an odd Thomas, isn’t he? Well, I just hope nobody expects me to pick up the slack. I’m one step removed from a basket case at the best of times.”
“Alice,” I interrupted, amused despite the fact that I had the same concerns, “things will work out. Nobody expects you to grab the helm. Everyone here needs time to grieve and regroup.”
She pursed her lips in thought. “You know what, Brooklyn? I think I should grab the helm. Now is not the time to shrink back, but to move forward. Now is the time to hit the ground running, to ask ourselves, What would Layla do?”
She began to march back and forth, a little soldier now, shaking her fist with firm resolve. “I can’t give in to the fear. We have a festival to get off the ground. And next month, the print arts program will be launching a new book. There’s already publicity out on that and we’ve got a huge party at the end of the month. No, Layla would want us to proceed full steam ahead. There’s no time for lollygagging, no time indeed.”
Maybe she was channeling Layla, but whatever she was doing, I was glad to see she wasn’t crying or rubbing her stomach anymore. Maybe her taking charge was a good thing, just the diversion she needed to take her mind off her friend’s sudden death.
On impulse, I said, “Alice, I’m having a girls’ night at my place tomorrow night. There’s just a few of us, dinner, drinks, some laughs. Would you like to come?”
Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Is that a yes?” I said after a moment.
“You . . . you’re inviting me over to your house? To meet your friends?”
“Yeah. You want to come?”
She sniffled. “I would be so honored. Thank you.”
“We’re just talking pizza and cheap wine here.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she whispered. “I’ve hardly met anyone since I moved here and I don’t get out much, so you’ve got to excuse me if I’m overcome with emotion.”
I laughed. “Okay, good. I’ll write down the directions.”
The door swung open and Inspector Nathan Jaglom walked in. I smiled, happy to see the homicide detective who had investigated the murder of Abraham Karastovsky less than two months before. Was it perverse to feel as if I were greeting an old friend?
“Inspector Jaglom, hello,” I said, hopping down from the chair and walking over to shake his hand. “Do you remember me?”
“Ms. Wainwright,” Jaglom said with a broad grin. “Of course, how could I forget you? Are you involved in this?”