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Total silence. I hastily cut out more biscuits. At the range, Cook is listening so hard she’s forgotten to stir the gravy. I smell it burn before she does. Or maybe she doesn’t care.
Hélène is gone. She must tend beds, start the daily cleaning regimen. Or she’s made the mistake of returning to her room—in which case, the Bad Man probably already has her, and is playing with his knife, wringing her neck.
When painting, black is not the absence of color. It is the presence of many colors. Which makes pure evil hard to predict.
“Does your wife have a personal office in addition to the inn’s?” The blonde again, sounding as if she’s offering the mayor a break.
“No. Just the one office. For the business.”
“All right. I’ll go through it myself. We find the proper paperwork for your staff, then all is well.”
“You need to leave. The night has been long and hard enough. The guests are headed downstairs. I need to pull things together.”
“With all due respect, sir,” says the other police lady, “that’s not an option.”
“My wife committed suicide—”
“Your wife died a suspicious death.”
“What?” The mayor, sounding bewildered.
“That’s the current classification.” The Southern cop again. “Suicide is an official ruling. The ME hasn’t made it. Meaning currently, your wife died a suspicious death, and your entire lodging establishment is a crime scene. Be happy Sergeant Warren only wants paperwork.”
Another pause. Then a sound I don’t completely understand. Suppressed sobbing. Mayor Howard is crying. In all my years, through all that’s happened...
The death of his wife has caused him suffering. Does that make me happy, ease my own pain?
The sausage gravy is smoking now.
I don’t care that the mayor is crying. I have heard so many girls cry and what did it ever get them? I’m happy he hurts. So happy, I slam my round cookie cutter through the biscuit dough and shake the prep table.
Cook eyes me sharply at the unexpected display of emotion, then seems to realize she’s failed in her own cooking duties. Belatedly she snatches the cast-iron skillet off the burner, then curses a blue streak.
I smile maliciously at her back.
My mother, my beautiful mamita, brushes my shoulder again. “Chiquita,” I can almost hear her whisper, as if to soothe.
If I drew me, what colors would I use? Fire like the blond detective? Earth like the second? Or have I become what made me, bright and shiny on the outside with a dark, soulless core?
I don’t have the answer.
I worry again about Hélène. Where is she? Why hasn’t she appeared again? She should be as eager as Cook and me to learn what’s happening next. Pulling some sheets doesn’t take that long. And she’s not allowed to start the vacuum cleaner till all the guests are up. Meaning she should be back in the kitchen by now, inventing busywork while eavesdropping on the cops grilling the mayor.
Unless she did go downstairs.
Unless the Bad Man did take the opportunity to silence one more weak link.
Something terrible: That’s what my mami’s presence always means. Danger ahead.
I can’t take it anymore. I set down the biscuit cutter. And with my hands and apron still dusted with flour, I limp determinedly for the swinging door.
Behind me, Cook makes a strangled sound. I feel the air move. Maybe she tries to grab me. Maybe, the silvery spirit of my mother blocks her. I don’t look back. No time for looking back.
I burst into the breakfast room.
I don’t pay any attention to the mayor, or the burly sheriff, or the FBI lady. I grab the hand of the blond detective.
I play with fire.
