“Where’s Calvin?”
“He’s working,” I insisted.
“At the Emporium?”
“Er….”
“I simply don’t understand how so much mayhem can befall a single individual,” Pop said as he flipped the coffee maker on.
“Apparently I’ve got a reputation on the streets.”
“What kind of reputation?”
I shrugged. “Busybody, know-it-all, I guess.”
“And habitual dead-body discoverer.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
Business had been booming for the last twelve months, but it wasn’t merely because waves of folks were suddenly discovering a joy in tangible history. I’d been briefly mentioned in the media after crashing Good Books to stop loose cannon Duncan Andrews from killing innocent patrons. I’d definitely been discussed publicly after uncovering the murderous rampage NYPD officer Brigg had gone on. And revealing Pete White to be an art and antiques thief, followed by being shot in the Javits Center—let’s say that while I was in the hospital, I briefly required a security detail.
Even taking these past events into account, my private life was still surprisingly private. I mean, yeah, people knew I was the gay, antique-hoarding amateur sleuth. And yes, my fiancé had gone from the back-back-back of the closet to sort of finding himself a reluctant poster child the NYPD used to showcase their diversity. But outside of crime scenes, Calvin and I managed not to have any serious issues. I suspected word of my crotchety disposition had made the rounds along with my inability to let a mystery rest.
I was an acquired taste and not to most people’s liking. For once that was doing me a favor.
I moved around Pop, fetched cream from the fridge, and added a splash to both mugs. “At least I didn’t trip over this one,” I told him. “And it wasn’t even a whole body.”
Pop was frowning. A lot. The kind of face that adults warned kids would stick if they held it for too long. He opened a cupboard and took out a plastic container of black-and-white cookies. He placed several on a plate and handed it to me. “Are we making a repeat of last Christmas?”
“No.” I walked the cookies to the dining table near the bay windows, the curtains drawn tightly shut. “No reimagining of Poe tales. And Calvin likes me a lot more this year than last. Hey, Dad—is it a hard-and-fast rule that wedding tables need centerpieces?” I turned.
Pop was watching me. Silent.
“Because they’re kind of expensive,” I added.
The coffee garbled.
Dog toys squeaked from the corner of the room where Maggie and Dillon were pawing through a box.
“There was a logical transition in subject matter.”
Pop raised a hand. “I’ve got experience in deducing your thought process, kiddo.”
Point A to Point Q, as Calvin liked to tease.
“Let’s focus on the bigger issue.” Pop turned and poured the coffee into our mugs.
“I don’t know anything about centerpieces.” I obediently shut up and sat at the table when Pop walked across the room with the beverages and gave me The Look.
“Tell me what happened,” Pop said, sitting beside me.
I gave him the most accurate account I could, starting with the courier and ending with Neil’s bold defiance of Calvin’s direct order not to share any prior crime-scene details with me that might have linked the events. I did my best to leave out the grislier details, though, both for Pop’s benefit and my own.
The bloated tongue protruding from the mouth.
The missing eye.
The fluids pooling in the thick plastic.
