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“You’re kidding, right? How many times did you call to remind me about the weapons ban? Eight?”
“At least.”
Aroostine pointed toward Sasha’s updo, secured by the metalkanzashihair stick she’d worn at her wedding. “You brought one, though.”
It was true that the traditional Japanese hair ornaments were sometimes modified to serve as weapons. The one Sasha had inherited from her grandmother was sharp enough that it could be used to rake an attacker’s eyes or, in a pinch, stab someone. And as Sasha’s mother had helpfully suggested, the end could be dipped in poison.
“I’m not sure it’s the most useful weapon. It is pretty, though.” She sighed and scanned the kitchen. Spotting Connelly’s personal chef’s knife in its leather sheath, she handed it, blade down, to Aroostine. “Here. This is better than nothing. And take someone with you.”
“Any suggestions?” Aroostine asked as she tucked the sheath into her right boot. She turned her face toward Hank, but Sasha shook her head.
“Take Chris.”
“Chris? The pianist who’s dead on his feet from his run this morning?”
“He’s a forager. He goes out on the weekends and gathers nuts and berries or whatever foragers do. He’s the least likely to spend the whole time moaning about the cold.”
She nodded. “Fair enough.”
Hank clapped his hands. “I’m going to check out the main building.”
“For what?”
“Weapons. Or things that can be used as weapons.”
“Or murderers?” Sasha pressed him.
“If I run into any, sure.”
“Nobody goes anywhere alone,” she declared. “But we have to be smart about how we split up.”
He nodded. “You, Leo, Aroostine, Daniel, and I are the best equipped to defend ourselves. So we should make sure Bodhi, Naya, Carl, Chris, and Maisy are always with one of us.”
“Agreed,” she said. “But don’t let Naya or Maisy hear you saying that.”
He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a short laugh. “Noted. I’ll take Naya with me. Keep her out of trouble.”
“Good luck with that,” Aroostine and Sasha said in unison.
They walked back into the living room to brief the others. As Hank explained the plan, one sentence ran through Sasha’s head on a loop: If some murderous enemy thought they were going to ruin her tenth anniversary, they were dead wrong.
CHAPTER6
Leo stared down at Rex Stoddard’s corpse. The body was splayed on its back across the parlor floor. A deep red stain ran down the side of Rex’s crumpled skull onto the faded Persian rug, where it mixed with the colorful motif of the ruined floor covering.
While Bodhi squatted beside the dead man and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, Leo used Maisy’s camera to snap several pictures of the scene. He knew that one federal agent and a forensic pathology consultant made a poor substitute for an actual crime scene investigative unit, but he figured they beat a blank.
The position of the body and its surroundings thus memorialized, he slung the camera around his neck by its strap. He moved on to searching the room for the murder weapon with his hands clasped behind his back to remind himself not to touch anything. Whatever had been used to brain Stoddard had to be heavy and bloodied.
He roamed around the perimeter of the room and stopped to study the contents of a rough-hewn, built-in corner cabinet. A pair of ornate ceramic and pewter beer steins that looked to be authentic German antiques took up most of the top shelf. Now, one of those could have done some damage. He leaned in for a closer look. But neither appeared to be dented, dinged, or bloodied—at least not from his vantage point.
He turned back to Bodhi, who was studying the dead man’s hands.
“Do you happen to have another pair of gloves?”
Bodhi released Stoddard’s right hand, and it flopped to the ground with a thud. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a sealed package.
“Here you go,” he said, tossing the bag across the room.
