I had reached the point when I could not see anything clearly ahead. I needed help, and I got it.
—Ross Macdonald
“PENELOPE? PEN? DID you hear me?”
“What?! What is it?”
“I asked if you were feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, Eddie, just fine.”
Stop humoring him. He’s Chief Ciders’ flunky, isn’t he? Tell him to blow.
I certainly would not. I’d known Deputy Chief Eddie Franzetti since grade school. Once upon a time, I even had a not-so-secret crush on him. The reason wasn’t much of a mystery. Eddie was kind, handsome, easy to talk to, and my late older brother’s best friend. He was also Pete’s fellow drag racer and took his senseless death in a road race as hard as I did; harder, actually, because Eddie blamed himself for egging my brother on.
After Pete’s fatal accident, Eddie stopped racing. He sold his vintage Mustang and parlayed the money into his education. With a degree in hand, he left the part-time job at his family’s pizza shop for a full-time career in law enforcement.
Now married with children, he was next in line for the top spot on the Quindicott police force—though it was beginning to feel like he’d been waiting for Ciders to retire longer than Prince Charles waited to ascend the throne.
“You shouldn’t be out here, Pen.” Decades younger than the chief, Eddie already had the intimidating “Ciders glower” down pat.
“Why shouldn’t I be out here?” I shot back. “What are you doing out here?”
“Chief Ciders notified me about the suicide and asked me to locate the deceased’s car. I did. Now I’m looking for a shortcut up to the house. Okay? Now it’s your turn.”
“I’ve been following the path a suspect took after leaving Emma Hudson’s apartment.”
“A suspect? In what?”
“Emma Hudson’s death. We aren’t convinced it was a suicide.”
“We? Who is we? It can’t be the chief. I already know what he thinks.”
Then you don’t know much, do ya?
Quiet, Jack!
“Did you hear me, Pen? Who is WE?”
I fluttered my hands, thinking fast. “It’s just a figure of speech! The Queen’s English, you know, the royal we . . . ?” I then recounted for Eddie my dealings with Emma Hudson—from her bizarre reaction to the pilfered book to the near wreck with Wanda and the strange scene inside the apartment.
Eddie tipped back his hat and scratched his head. “Did you actually see this person leave the house?”
“No. But I heard footsteps on the stairs. Then I came around the corner of the house, and the person had vanished. That’s why I’m out here. I’m tracing the suspect’s steps.” I pointed to the glossy piece of torn book jacket stuck to the pine branch. “See? Evidence!”
Eddie’s highly dubious expression told me three things:
(1) He didn’t think much of my “evidence.”
(2) He was seriously concerned about my stability. (No surprise, since he’d found me standing alone in the woods, talking to myself.) And . . .
(3) He was still on the same page as his boss, and that page read suicide, not homicide.
“Listen, Eddie, I admit I don’t have hard evidence of foul play. It’s all circumstantial, but you and Chief Ciders shouldn’t jump to easy conclusions.”
Eddie folded his arms. “Give me a little credit, Pen.”
“Okay. But give me a little, too.”
“I’ll keep an open mind.”
“Good. Now where does this path lead?”
Eddie put his arm on my shoulder. “Come with me.”