Kyra said, surveying the tiled but ungrouted area in the breakfast nook that had expanded by several feet since she’d last visited. My current handyman, a flaky college kid trying to earn money for spring break, had left a wet saw pushed up against the butcher-block table, and the untiled portion of the floor was nothing but raw plywood. I hadn’t laid eyes on him in almost a week and he wasn’t returning my calls.
“Yeah, I expect House Beautiful to show up any day now,” I said. The clutter of trowels, buckets, and pallets of tile annoyed me, so I pulled some of Gran’s Noritake china from the cupboards and some Molson from the fridge, and led the way into my family room so we could watch Dancing with the Stars , our Monday-night ritual.
“So, what’s with the murder?” Kyra asked during the first commercial break. She popped a piece of sushi into her mouth, having started with the éclairs.
I told her what I knew about Jackson Porter’s death, which wasn’t much. “Had you heard any talk about his development, Olympus?” I asked. “Among the mall merchants, I mean?”
“Some. I wasn’t worried about it.”
“You run a magic store,” I pointed out. “I doubt Olympus was going to cut into your business.”
“Exactly.” She relaxed back against the terra cotta–colored leather sofa and took a swallow of beer.
“So who was worried?”
She slanted me a glance from her long, narrow eyes. “Mostly the clothing boutique owners and the sporting goods people. Finola Craig, Terrence Chou of the Upper Limit, Colin at Pete’s Sporting Goods. She was trying to get an injunction or a stay of execution or whatever you call it to stop the construction. She was working with Dyson Harding at the university, the archeologist who was against the resort because it was being built on Native American burial grounds, or something like that.”
“I vaguely remember reading about that,” I said. I had to admit I paid more attention to the international news, especially updates on the military’s progress in the Middle East, than the local news.
A growling noise came from behind us, and Kyra and I looked over our shoulders to where a giant rust-colored cat sat behind the sofa, twitching his truncated tail. Fubar. I’d adopted him as a young stray a year ago when I’d been released from the hospital. He had a mangled ear and a shortened tail, and I didn’t know if he’d tangled with a coyote, a car, or an abusive owner. After our first month together, when I’d imprisoned him indoors in order to keep him safe, we’d come to an agreement: we could each come and go as we pleased. To that end, I installed a cat door and he stopped flaying the furniture. Now, he blinked his golden eyes at me, demanding applause. A dead mouse dangled from his mouth.
“I hope you found that outside, Fubar,” Kyra said, eyeing the rodent with distaste.
“Of course he did,” I said with more certainty than I felt. Fetching a roll of paper towels from the kitchen, I persuaded Fubar to give up his trophy by bribing him with some hamburger. I was pretty sure Fubar only bothered to hunt in order to coerce me into upgrading his menu. I quickly shrouded the little victim in Brawny and put him in the outside trash. When I returned, Fubar had settled on Kyra’s lap and was purring loudly as she provided commentary on the samba talents of an Olympic javelin thrower.
“You could shake your booty better than that,” she told the cat. “I don’t know why they’ve never had a roller skater on the show.”
“The show is called Dancing with the Stars ,” I said, emphasizing the last word.
“Oh, please. Like you ever heard of that guy who was in a boy band two decades ago. Or that reality ‘star’ whose only source of protein is insects.”
“Call up the producer. Maybe they’ll book you.”
“Nah. I couldn’t be away from the store that long. How about your dad?”
I choked on a bit of curried chicken. “Please, don’t
“Yeah, I expect House Beautiful to show up any day now,” I said. The clutter of trowels, buckets, and pallets of tile annoyed me, so I pulled some of Gran’s Noritake china from the cupboards and some Molson from the fridge, and led the way into my family room so we could watch Dancing with the Stars , our Monday-night ritual.
“So, what’s with the murder?” Kyra asked during the first commercial break. She popped a piece of sushi into her mouth, having started with the éclairs.
I told her what I knew about Jackson Porter’s death, which wasn’t much. “Had you heard any talk about his development, Olympus?” I asked. “Among the mall merchants, I mean?”
“Some. I wasn’t worried about it.”
“You run a magic store,” I pointed out. “I doubt Olympus was going to cut into your business.”
“Exactly.” She relaxed back against the terra cotta–colored leather sofa and took a swallow of beer.
“So who was worried?”
She slanted me a glance from her long, narrow eyes. “Mostly the clothing boutique owners and the sporting goods people. Finola Craig, Terrence Chou of the Upper Limit, Colin at Pete’s Sporting Goods. She was trying to get an injunction or a stay of execution or whatever you call it to stop the construction. She was working with Dyson Harding at the university, the archeologist who was against the resort because it was being built on Native American burial grounds, or something like that.”
“I vaguely remember reading about that,” I said. I had to admit I paid more attention to the international news, especially updates on the military’s progress in the Middle East, than the local news.
A growling noise came from behind us, and Kyra and I looked over our shoulders to where a giant rust-colored cat sat behind the sofa, twitching his truncated tail. Fubar. I’d adopted him as a young stray a year ago when I’d been released from the hospital. He had a mangled ear and a shortened tail, and I didn’t know if he’d tangled with a coyote, a car, or an abusive owner. After our first month together, when I’d imprisoned him indoors in order to keep him safe, we’d come to an agreement: we could each come and go as we pleased. To that end, I installed a cat door and he stopped flaying the furniture. Now, he blinked his golden eyes at me, demanding applause. A dead mouse dangled from his mouth.
“I hope you found that outside, Fubar,” Kyra said, eyeing the rodent with distaste.
“Of course he did,” I said with more certainty than I felt. Fetching a roll of paper towels from the kitchen, I persuaded Fubar to give up his trophy by bribing him with some hamburger. I was pretty sure Fubar only bothered to hunt in order to coerce me into upgrading his menu. I quickly shrouded the little victim in Brawny and put him in the outside trash. When I returned, Fubar had settled on Kyra’s lap and was purring loudly as she provided commentary on the samba talents of an Olympic javelin thrower.
“You could shake your booty better than that,” she told the cat. “I don’t know why they’ve never had a roller skater on the show.”
“The show is called Dancing with the Stars ,” I said, emphasizing the last word.
“Oh, please. Like you ever heard of that guy who was in a boy band two decades ago. Or that reality ‘star’ whose only source of protein is insects.”
“Call up the producer. Maybe they’ll book you.”
“Nah. I couldn’t be away from the store that long. How about your dad?”
I choked on a bit of curried chicken. “Please, don’t
Similar Books
