thirty-nine

As Nigel and I watched Detective Brady and Officer Hax pull out of our driveway, Nigel whispered into my ear, “I don’t think Detective Brady likes you.”

“I’d be offended if he did.”

“I wonder if his gut has told him that we think he’s an idiot?” he asked as he made a production of cheerily waving good-bye.

“Impossible,” I answered, as I did the same. “That would mean he had a gut, and he’s clearly all ass.”

“You know what this means, though, don’t you?” he asked.

“You want to marry me and take me away from all of this?” I suggested.

He smiled down at me. “I believe I already did that.”

“You could always do it again,” I offered. “But this time we could have an Elvis impersonator officiate. That’s a Christmas card picture that’s just begging to be sent to your family.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Nigel said. “I’ll make all the arrangements right after you solve this case, which you are on as of now. Because, let’s face it, Fred from Scooby-Doo had more brains than Detective Brady.”

I turned and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Nigel, Scooby had more going on than Detective Brady.”

Nigel pulled me closer and kissed me lightly on my nose, but his expression was serious. “Exactly,” he said, “which is why you need to find who really did this to DeDee. She’s lying in a hospital bed with no memory all because of those damn tapes.”

I leaned back, my arms still around his neck, and met his gaze. “Well, I think I have some good news for you then,” I said. “I think I know who did it.”

Nigel cocked his head. “You think?”

I nodded. “I just need to make a quick phone call first.”