thing. “That’s either the most massive coincidence in the history or, or somebody’s set you up, Gin.”
Ginny nodded, moving slightly out of frame, then moving back in as she readjusted the laptop. He could see the beige-on-beige wallpaper behind her, and what looked like a modernish padded headboard behind her, so he assumed that she was sitting on the bed, not at the hotel room’s desk. He didn’t see Georgie so he assumed she was, as usual, sleeping at her owner’s feet.
“Yeah. You know how I feel about coincidences,” Ginny was saying. “And the fact that my alleged client doesn’t actually exist, far as I can tell, prior to this year . . .” She made a face. “But even so, a coincidence makes more sense than someone trying to set me up for murder, doesn’t it?”
“There’s coincidence, and then there’s whole lotta coincidence, Gin. A client accidentally giving you the address of a house where there just happened to be a murder, okay, wild but potentially a coincidence. That, plus your client going AWOL and probably being bogus? Shades of a made-for-TV Lifetime mystery. The dead body having your contact info?” He shook his head. “You probably should be bracing yourself for Bogart to show up in a sharp-cut suit.”
He could hear Ginny’s sigh all the way back in Seattle, even without the connection. “Bogie wasn’t the one in the—okay, noir movie education can wait. And yeah, all right. You’re right, Ron’s right, my gut instinct is right, we’re all right: something is rotten in the state of Denmark. But, I mean . . . why? Why me, why this, why drag me all the way down here just to find a body? I’m pretty sure I haven’t pissed anyone off that much.”
But she stopped to think about it. So did Teddy: they’d been sticking their noses into some dangerous things lately—as Seth never tired of reminding them—and maybe someone had decided to stick back?
“No, you’re right,” he said, “that doesn’t make sense. It’s too . . . lumpy.”
“Lumpy?”
“Badly designed. Not smooth.” It had made more sense in his head. “Like the entire thing was stitched together out of a bunch of separate parts, by someone who couldn’t actually sew?”
“Like Frankenstein’s monster? A Frankenstein frame-up?”
“Yes. Kinda. Maybe?” He shook his head and tried to vocalize his thoughts better. “Okay, let’s look at this logically, from the start.” That was usually Ginny’s job; he was the one who worked with hunches and people-reading. “You got called down for a consult with a client in another city. Which, yay, good on you, expanding the base, all that. But where did she hear about you?”
Ginny looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “She said she’d gotten my name from a relative of Mrs. Kern. The one with the twins’ birthday parties?”
“Right.” He had a vague memory of horror stories about that client. “But not directly from the client herself?”
“No. And I didn’t call to confirm, because there was no way in hell I wanted to talk to Mrs. Kern again. She—the alleged Mrs. Adaowsky—said in her original email that a relative had raved about how smoothly everything had gone off, and how calm Mrs. Kern had been. Mainly because she was tipped up with Xanax the entire time, but anyway, Mrs. Adaowsky—the alleged Mrs. Adaowsky,” she repeated, “said that she wanted someone who could keep their cool no matter what happened, because, and I quote this, ‘I love my friends but they’re prone to hysterics if someone uses the wrong fork.’ ”
“Huh. And she couldn’t have found someone a little more local who came as highly recommended?”
Ginny made That Face at him, clear even through the webcam. She had that expression down cold: Are you implying that I am not as awesome as my credentials suggest?
He kept his expression serious, but he was pretty sure she knew he was holding back a snicker. He didn’t think needling her would ever get
Ginny nodded, moving slightly out of frame, then moving back in as she readjusted the laptop. He could see the beige-on-beige wallpaper behind her, and what looked like a modernish padded headboard behind her, so he assumed that she was sitting on the bed, not at the hotel room’s desk. He didn’t see Georgie so he assumed she was, as usual, sleeping at her owner’s feet.
“Yeah. You know how I feel about coincidences,” Ginny was saying. “And the fact that my alleged client doesn’t actually exist, far as I can tell, prior to this year . . .” She made a face. “But even so, a coincidence makes more sense than someone trying to set me up for murder, doesn’t it?”
“There’s coincidence, and then there’s whole lotta coincidence, Gin. A client accidentally giving you the address of a house where there just happened to be a murder, okay, wild but potentially a coincidence. That, plus your client going AWOL and probably being bogus? Shades of a made-for-TV Lifetime mystery. The dead body having your contact info?” He shook his head. “You probably should be bracing yourself for Bogart to show up in a sharp-cut suit.”
He could hear Ginny’s sigh all the way back in Seattle, even without the connection. “Bogie wasn’t the one in the—okay, noir movie education can wait. And yeah, all right. You’re right, Ron’s right, my gut instinct is right, we’re all right: something is rotten in the state of Denmark. But, I mean . . . why? Why me, why this, why drag me all the way down here just to find a body? I’m pretty sure I haven’t pissed anyone off that much.”
But she stopped to think about it. So did Teddy: they’d been sticking their noses into some dangerous things lately—as Seth never tired of reminding them—and maybe someone had decided to stick back?
“No, you’re right,” he said, “that doesn’t make sense. It’s too . . . lumpy.”
“Lumpy?”
“Badly designed. Not smooth.” It had made more sense in his head. “Like the entire thing was stitched together out of a bunch of separate parts, by someone who couldn’t actually sew?”
“Like Frankenstein’s monster? A Frankenstein frame-up?”
“Yes. Kinda. Maybe?” He shook his head and tried to vocalize his thoughts better. “Okay, let’s look at this logically, from the start.” That was usually Ginny’s job; he was the one who worked with hunches and people-reading. “You got called down for a consult with a client in another city. Which, yay, good on you, expanding the base, all that. But where did she hear about you?”
Ginny looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “She said she’d gotten my name from a relative of Mrs. Kern. The one with the twins’ birthday parties?”
“Right.” He had a vague memory of horror stories about that client. “But not directly from the client herself?”
“No. And I didn’t call to confirm, because there was no way in hell I wanted to talk to Mrs. Kern again. She—the alleged Mrs. Adaowsky—said in her original email that a relative had raved about how smoothly everything had gone off, and how calm Mrs. Kern had been. Mainly because she was tipped up with Xanax the entire time, but anyway, Mrs. Adaowsky—the alleged Mrs. Adaowsky,” she repeated, “said that she wanted someone who could keep their cool no matter what happened, because, and I quote this, ‘I love my friends but they’re prone to hysterics if someone uses the wrong fork.’ ”
“Huh. And she couldn’t have found someone a little more local who came as highly recommended?”
Ginny made That Face at him, clear even through the webcam. She had that expression down cold: Are you implying that I am not as awesome as my credentials suggest?
He kept his expression serious, but he was pretty sure she knew he was holding back a snicker. He didn’t think needling her would ever get
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