As Chasin heads back to the crime scene, I am tempted to linger, see if Brenda appears with a set of knuckle-dusters and a baton. I can’t clobber the guy, but if she could do the honours, that’d be great.
No such luck.
Brenda is perched on the edge of a king-size bed in the master bedroom, I guess. It’s all floral wallpaper and lavender candles, like a scene from The Bold And The Beautiful, only tackier. I can’t read her thoughts anymore, but I imagine they are dark and depressing and involve doing things to nether regions that shouldn’t normally be done. I’ll second that! I can’t believe I ever entertained the thought of getting back with Cass. Was I really that lonely? That hard up?
I watch as a stream of tears start trickling down Brenda’s cheeks. She reaches for a handful of tissues and begins swiping at her face angrily. I know she’s not crying for me, I know these are tears for her marriage, but I have a sudden, unexpected flutter of sympathy. She doesn’t deserve my sympathy, God knows she doesn’t. I want it to stop. I want to snigger like I usually do and tell her to “Suck it up, bitch face!” But the sympathy is strong, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I turn away.
I go looking for Bob.
He’s lying on a blue sofa in what looks like the kids’ rumpus room at the other end of the house, his eyes shut, headphones over his ears. Whatever music he’s listening to, whatever thoughts it’s conjuring up, these, too, are no longer open to me, and this time I am relieved.
I don’t really want to know if I was an excruciating mother who drove her son to murder. Do I?
Speaking of excruciating, there’s mischief afoot, and it involves a pair of obnoxious tweenies, one of whom is clutching a bag of Twisties, a smug look on her pudgy face.
Remember Yana and Eloise from the corner shop? Yes, I know, how could you forget. Well, the little deviants are currently leaning into the police tape like it doesn’t exist (what’d I tell you about tweenie girls?) and trying to get the attention of the acne-faced officer.
“We need to speak to the detective guy!” calls Yana. “It’s, like, really important!”
The officer looks beyond bored and says, “He’s busy, girls. Come back later.”
“But it’s about Henrietta!” says Yana, her eyeballs bulging.
“And who she’s been kissing!” adds Eloise, which earns her a dimpled scowl from her accomplice, who clearly wants to be the first to blow the whistle.
The officer is still not taking the bait and says, “This is a crime scene, girls. We haven’t got time for gossip.”
I’m with Acne Face. That’s old news, bitches, get a life.
“But we saw them!” Eloise persists as the officer shakes her head and strolls away, towards another officer with whom she shares a patronising smile. Oh kids, that smile says, aren’t they just hilarious?
Na-uh! I want to say. There’s nothing funny about spreading idle gossip and wasting police time. There’s been a murder here, girls, and my son’s love life is irrelevant.
It is irrelevant, isn’t it? I’m beginning to think so.
Let’s move it along because there are more important things to consider, like the fact that Tandia has just found new evidence and she’s looking pretty chuffed with herself. Again.
“Spotted this down the side of the TV set in the living room,” she says, holding up what looks like a strip of yellow material with a set of enormous tweezers.
Chief is staring at it all squinty-eyed. “What is it?”
“Looks like a headband,” she replies. “You know, that keeps your hair off your face.”
“Could be the vic’s.” That’s code for victim, in case you don’t know. They’re talking about yours truly.
“Could be the perpetrator’s,” Tandia shoots back. “TV was on, gotta make you wonder.”
“Okay, bag that one too.” He can’t muster much enthusiasm, but my attention is now piqued.
I don’t wear hair accessories, but I know exactly who does. Perhaps the Terrible Tweenies were onto something.