LITMIR.BIZ

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the whole activity center. I sat in stunned silence.

      It seemed like hours before a San Diego Sheriff car pulled up. A woman got out wearing street clothes but with an air of command that made the officer who had arrived first stand a little straighter while he answered her questions. She was about my height, with short dark hair that she pulled behind her ears and a thin face. She looked both my dad and me up and down, and then directed her partner to talk to my dad while she swung her legs over the bench to sit across from me at my table. I felt like I was somehow thrust into the middle of a movie and couldn’t get out.

      “Are you okay?” the woman officer asked me in a concerned yet professional voice. She must have to ask that a lot.

      I nodded. “Yes, Officer.” My voice was shaky.

      “It’s Detective, but you can call me Norma,” she said. “It’s just a formality, but I need to read you your rights.”

      I nodded, her calm recitation of the Miranda rights feeding into the sense that this couldn’t be happening to me.

      The deputy talking to my dad looked like a tough guy, holding himself erect even on the picnic table bench. His biceps were so big they forced his arms away from his sides.

      “You play ball?” I heard my dad ask, and I knew he’d bond with the guy over sports and be okay.

      Norma jerked her head toward the residents gathering behind the tape, and a younger officer responded by turning the video camera he was holding toward them. She turned back to me. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

      “I don’t know,” I said. “I had to leave in a hurry and Twila offered to clean up for me. When I came back, she was…like that.” My mind couldn’t wrap itself around what I’d just seen. How could Twila be dead? What would her husband do? Her kids?

      “The security guard said there was some kind of event here tonight.”

      I nodded. “The Sunnyside Power Moms—”

      She raised her eyebrows. “Power Moms?”

      “Yes. We’re mothers who have home businesses, and we hosted a trade show tonight.”

      She took out her notepad. “What is your business?”

      “I own Meowio Batali Gourmet Cat Food,” I said. “One of my knives was used.…”

      “One of your knives was the murder weapon?”

      “Well, one of the ones on display,” I said. “I’d placed them on the back table to keep them away from kids.”

      She wrote that down and asked as if it wasn’t important, “And why did you leave early?”

      “My son texted me that my father had started coughing a lot,” I explained. “He’s getting over pneumonia, and I was worried.”

      She nodded once, communicating, “Go on,” without saying a word.

      I explained about his conversation with Bert Merritt. “I heard the same beeps as the security code here, so we came back to talk to him. But he wasn’t here.”

      She made a note. Probably thinks she can tell security code sounds apart.

      “Why would your father’s financial advisor be here?” Norma asked.

      “He’s married to Sharon, the closet lady,” I said.

      She raised her eyebrows.

      “She builds closets and organizes people’s stuff,” I explained. I took a deep breath and tried to quiet my spinning mind. Then I gave her the list of moms who were at the event and their businesses. By the end, she looked a little overwhelmed. I didn’t blame her. We were a pretty eclectic group.

      “Back to the financial advisor,” she said. “Was he here?”

      I shook my head. “Not by the time we arrived.”

      “Does he know Twila?” Her voice was still calm, but I could sense where she was going.

      “I don’t know,” I said, now panicking that I might be implicating my colleague’s husband.

      “How well do you know Twila?” she asked.

      Oh man. I did not like the emphasis she put on “you.”

      “She organized our group,” I said. “She’s, was, my friend.” I bit my lip and for the first time, had to blink back tears. Twila was dead. How could this happen?

      Norma stared at me, noticing my emotion, and then asked me all the same questions, but in different ways. After answering them again, I heard my dad’s hacking cough. I looked over and he seemed pale. “Look, I’m happy to help you. Twila was really great to me. But my son is alone and my dad’s still sick. I have to get him home to rest.”

      She looked like she wanted to object, but I stood up. “Dad,” I called out. “Time to get back to Elliott.”

      The detective interviewing my dad jumped to his feet and stepped close, puffing out his chest in a blatant attempt to intimidate me. “I’m not done.”

      My dad coughed again, so hard he had to wrap his arms around his chest.

      I gestured with my hand toward my dad. “He’s recovering from pneumonia.”

      “It’s okay,” my dad choked out.

      “No, it’s not,” I insisted. “I’m taking you home.”

      The policeman scowled, obviously ticked off that I was challenging his authority.

      “Detective.” Norma’s voice held a command. “They can go.”

      He took a long moment to respond by taking a step back, and I could practically feel the anger emanating from him.

      Norma turned to me and said, “We’ll need you both to come downtown to make a statement first thing tomorrow.”

      I nodded, helped my dad to his feet, and we headed to the car. The officer made a big show of staring at the license plate of our car and writing it down on his notepad. Norma spoke to him while I was closing the door, and I hurried to open my window to hear what he said.

      “This is just like the Wilson case,” he said, his voice carrying in the quiet evening. “Open and shut.”

      * * * *

      Elliott was both appalled and morbidly fascinated by Twila’s murder. He’d met her once at the grocery store. She’d been wearing a Minecraft T-shirt, and they’d bonded over a mutual love of the game. Elliott had been totally impressed that she made a living doing something as cool as inventing puzzles.

      No matter how I spun it, making cat food would never be cool.

      “Did you see her…dead?” Elliott asked. He was trying to hold Trouble on his lap, but the cat had been on edge the whole time we’d been home, as if she’d caught our agitation.

      “Not now,” I said, while my dad coughed so hard in his chair I thought he was going to implode. I rushed to fill the whiskey glass and shoved it in his hand. “Do you need your inhaler?”

      He shook his head, which meant he’d already used it too much today. As soon as he could breathe, he took a huge swig of the whiskey. “Thanks,” he wheezed out.

      “But what did you see?” Elliott asked again.

      “Elliott Dean Summers,” I said, focused on my dad. “If you don’t stop asking me questions immediately—”

      Luckily for me, he didn’t force me to finish my threat, which was good because I didn’t have a good consequence in mind yet. He groaned as if under terrible torture, let the cat jump to the floor, and then stomped up the stairs to his room. It was past his bedtime anyway.

      “Curious little brat, isn’t he?” my dad said, with enough affection in his voice that I wasn’t offended.

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