chapter fourteen

On the way to Michaela’s kitchen, we ran into Emma Jan Thyme, a newbie who’d been with BOFFO less than a month. She seemed tense, and was avoiding looking at any one thing that might cast a reflection, however wavy and indistinct. I knew why she was doing the last, but not the first. Emma Jan had a monster living inside her head. She had to watch for it constantly.

“Hey,” she said when she spotted us. “I’ve gotta see the boss. Something weird is going on.” Seeing our expressions, she clarified: “Okay, but something weird even for us.”

“Uh-oh.” I was impressed, and scared. Emma Jan wouldn’t have said that lightly.

“I don’t think you should talk unless you’re handing me a plate of mashed potatoes.”

Emma Jan snorted. “George, I don’t think you should talk at all. Repeat after me: not everyone with a southern accent can cook comfort food on demand.”

“I’m standing here two minutes already and no potatoes!”

She caught my glance and rolled her eyes. I liked Emma Jan, but I was adjusting to the fact that she was Shiro’s good friend and not mine. They hung out at the shooting range together, had lunch together … like that. It’s not that I was jealous

(I was. I was jealous.)

I just needed to adjust. Usually people who knew our secret were my friends and tolerated Shiro. I couldn’t remember the last time that had gone the other way.

“Stop confusing me with Paula Deen,” she ordered George, and we laughed.

Though they both had accents, the resemblance ended there. Emma Jan had a broad, lovely face and a severe, militarily-short haircut that was so stark it emphasized her prettiness. Her skin was a gorgeous brown with red undertones, and she was neatly dressed in a reddish-brown blouse and a navy pantsuit. She’d had the jacket tailored to hide the bulge from her sidearm.

If you hadn’t seen her shoot, or witnessed one of her screaming breakdowns, you might confuse her with a prosperous bank manager. “And d’you want to hear my new unusual death?”

“No,” I said at the exact moment George nodded. That was another thing. Emma Jan collected unusual deaths, and had even updated Wikipedia on a few. She and Shiro would spend hours debating them—Shiro was a harsh taskmistress regarding what was and wasn’t unusual.

“It involves kayaks and swans,” she wheedled.

“No,” I almost snapped, then felt bad. “Sorry. Weird day.”

“That’s right, it’s Moving Day! What are you doing here?”

Excellent question.

“Hey, it could be worse. You could have had a day like Anthony Hensley.”

“No.”

“He drowned when his kayak—”

“Don’t.” A headache had popped up out of nowhere. Our suicide killer, unusual deaths, confusion over whether we should have gone to the scene, Greer showing and having a middle-aged tantrum in front of half the CSI team, Dr. Gallo being at the scene and now maybe a suspect—dang it to heck, why couldn’t people just be nice? Was that so darn much to—