We went down the same corridor, but the other way. The floor was linoleum, kind of sticky under my paws. We passed a few doors, TV voices leaking out from underneath them, plus some fast-food smells-fast food being a wonderful human invention-and also pot. Bernie says that practically the whole country is stoned out of its mind at all times, which is why we are where we are, but where we are is pretty good, right? So maybe it wasn’t a problem.
We stopped in front of a door. A horseshoe was nailed to the frame. You see that sometimes, a total puzzler. And what’s with horses wearing shoes in the first place? So it was kind of a double puzzler, way too much for me. Bernie knocked.
Someone moved on the other side of the door, a woman, actually, and she’d been drinking.
“Yes?” she said.
“Mrs. Mizell?” said Bernie. “My name’s Bernie Little. I’m a private investigator, and I need your help.”
“I haven’t done anything,” the woman said.
“I didn’t say you had,” Bernie said. “I’m looking into an old case.”
Her voice got a bit wavery. “Old case?”
“Which it would be better to discuss in private,” Bernie said.
She was silent.
“Maybe I’m making a mistake,” Bernie said. “But if your surname used to be Spears and you had a daughter named April, then I’m not.”
The door opened.
The woman peered out. She had rusty red hair and wore very big glasses. The eyes behind the lenses looked small and watery. They took in Bernie, and then me.
“This is Chet, Mrs. Mizell,” Bernie said.
“April had a dog,” said Mrs. Mizell. Holding her housecoat tight at the neck, she stepped to the side and let us in.
We were in a small living room, separated from an even smaller kitchen by a counter. On the counter stood an open jug of red wine and a half-filled glass. Mrs. Mizell made a gesture toward a couch facing the TV. Bernie didn’t sit there. Instead he pulled a footstool closer to the couch and sat on that. Was an interview about to happen? Maybe: Bernie always got fussy with seating arrangements when it came to interviews.
Mrs. Mizell screwed the top on the wine jug and pushed the glass out of sight, behind the toaster, then turned quickly, the way humans do when they’re checking to see if you saw. So complicated. And of course we saw. We’re pros, me and Bernie.
Mrs. Mizell came over, smoothing her housecoat, and sat on the couch, shifted herself away from Bernie, but because of where he’d placed the stool, she couldn’t go far. She sat up straight, a kind of bloated woman, but her feet were bare and they were nice, well-shaped in a way that’s hard to describe, the nails red, a very bright red I had trouble taking my eyes off.
Mrs. Mizell gave Bernie a sideways look. She was real nervous; the smell, not unpleasant to me, filled the room.
“What was the name of April’s dog?” Bernie said.
“Kurt,” said Mrs. Mizell. “She was a big Kurt Cobain fan.” She put her hands together, wrung them a bit. “He got unmanageable after she… after. I had to give him away.”
“After what?” Bernie said.
Now she looked him right in the eye and her voice got harsh. “After April got murdered,” Mrs. Mizell said. “Isn’t that the old case you’re talking about?”
“It is,” Bernie said.
“Old and cold,” said Mrs. Mizell. She gazed down at her feet. I gazed at them, too, and was hit by a strong desire to give them a lick. Was this a good time? I wondered about that.
“What happened to her, Mrs. Mizell?” Bernie said.
She shook her head. “April was a good kid, no matter what any-no matter what,” she said. “And she was as pretty as a movie star.”
“Have you got a picture of her?”
“I do.”
Mrs. Mizell rose, her knees cracking, and went through a door into a dark room. Bernie turned to a desk by the wall, opened the top drawer, glanced inside, closed the drawer. Mrs. Mizell returned and handed Bernie a picture. He studied it.
“Yes,” he said. “She was very pretty.”
“Beautiful,” said Mrs. Mizell.
“Is that the old Flower Mart in the background?”
Mrs. Mizell, looking over Bernie’s shoulder, nodded. “She worked there part-time.”
“Who’s the boy with her?”
Mrs. Mizell’s face hardened. “The boyfriend,” he said. “Ex-boyfriend, but this was before she dumped him.”
“Why did she dump him?”
Mrs. Mizell took a deep breath. “By that time I maybe wasn’t keeping the close eye on her that I should. And I had problems of my own. A single mom, in case you haven’t guessed. This was before Mr. Mizell. Now is after him.”
“So she didn’t tell you?” Bernie said.
“I wasn’t really around much, is what I’m saying. April was here alone. I’d gone up to Vegas that summer, looking for work.” There was a silence. “Aren’t you going to ask what kind of work?”
“No,” Bernie said. “I’d like to know more about this boyfriend.”
“Manny? I never liked him.”
“The boyfriend’s name was Manny?” Bernie said. My ears went up right away. There was a change in the sound of Bernie’s voice, not big, but that change, a slight sharpening, almost always meant something.
“Short for Manuel.” Mrs. Mizell said Manuel in a way that was kind of-what was the word? catty? whoa! I’d never thought about that, clearly a huge subject, and no time now. And where was I? Manuel. Yes. She stretched it out like she was making fun of the name.
Bernie leaned forward. “Do you remember his last name?”
“Chavez.”
Bernie went very still. When he spoke again, his voice was back to normal. “Do you know what became of him?”
“Became of him?”
“Since then.”
“I never saw him again.”
“Was he a suspect?”
“In my mind he was,” Mrs. Mizell said. “April was stabbed to death, and if you’re a private eye, then you must know all about Mexicans and knives.”
Bernie said nothing.
“And he had a motive,” Mrs. Mizell went on.
“What was that?”
“Jealousy, of course. I think April had started seeing someone else.”
“Is that why she dumped Manny?” Bernie said.
Mrs. Mizell got angry. “I told you I didn’t know. I just think.” She glanced over at the toaster.
“What makes you think she dumped Manny for this other person?”
“It was a long time ago,” said Mrs. Mizell, eyes still on the toaster.
Bernie rose, took Mrs. Mizell’s chin in his hand and turned her face toward his, not hard, even kind of gently. Her eyes got big.
“But you remember,” he said, and let her go.
Mrs. Mizell nodded. “I overheard her telling a friend on the phone.” Her hand went to her chin, felt it, almost like she was making sure it was still there.
“Did she mention the name of the new boyfriend?” Bernie said.
