“Bybrunch,” Rose corrected. “And I wasn’t the only one who had a beef with that woman.”
“Oh?”
“No one liked her.”
“She’s got dozens of five-star reviews.”
“Clientslove her,” Rose spat. “They think she’s God’s fucking gift.”
“So why doesn’t the community like her?”
Rose scoffed and put her hands on her hips. “I’ve got the gift, like my Nonna Rose did. But that—thatbitchcomes out of nowhere, laying stakes down on an already-claimed neighborhood, and in a few years, siphoned off at least half of Midtown’s clientele. She doesn’t even interact with the community. Just takes, takes, takes. Money, money, money. So yeah, I wrote those fake reviews, and I’m not sorry. But if you think I killed her, you’re out of your mind.”
“People kill for a lot less.”
“My freedom isn’t worth the price. She’d be dead and still have beaten me if I wound up in prison. No way in hell am I letting some dweeby killjoy walk in here and accuse me of homicide.”
If Calvin didn’t put Dweeby Killjoy on my headstone when I died, I was going to come back and haunt his ass, with or without the help of Midtown Mediums.
“Who do you think killed her?” I asked.
“How the fuck should I know?” Rose was sounding more New York and less new-age life coach by the minute.
“What’s your gift say?”
“Smartass.”
“Yeah, usually,” I said with a smile. “Sandra’s cleaner said none of her belongings or valuables were disturbed, so she wasn’t robbed. And unless she was phenomenally clumsy, I doubt she fell on a kitchen knife and managed to puncture a major artery. So what do you think? Business revenge?”
Rose shifted foot-to-foot in a display of classic discomfort. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Like I said, Sandra had enemies. Too many for me to name—and I wouldn’t, by the way. But our community is about love and light, not misery and murder.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe she pissed off her landlord. Stiffed a waiter. Gave the finger to a taxi driver, who knows. People kill for a lot less,right?”
I got to my feet, pulled the strap of my bag across my chest, and asked, “Where were you Monday night and Tuesday morning?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“You’d rather tell the police?”
She laughed this time. “I’m not saying shit to them.”
“Look, this will take too long to explain, but the quick and dirty is, I know how these tight-knit communities work, I know how the cops work, and I seem to be forever wedged between the two. If you’re innocent, if you’ve got an alibi for when Sandra was murdered, I’d say so. Because right now, you look real suspicious, and it’s only a matter of hours before the NYPD puts together the same clues I did to find you. And they won’t pay two hundred bucks to talk to you.”
I couldn’t see Rose’s expression, couldn’t discern any body language through the tapestry and shadows, but her outline—the general impression—was that of hesitation.
She wanted to say something.
She wasgoingto say something.
But then all I got was “Even your spirit guide hopes you get hit by an MTA bus.”
I sighed and went to the door. I turned the knob, glanced over my shoulder, and asked, “Have you ever heard of the spiritoscope?”
“Get bent, Mr. Snow.”
“All right, thanks.”
