“At least they're not interfering with your team's work.“
“What work?“ he said, shaking his head. “Everyone just wants to stand around talking about the murder. I think what happened didn't really sink in for some of them till today.“
Jack returned to Cubeville. I noticed, when he left, that the place where he'd been leaning was showing signs of wear already, after only a week. Not so much from Jack leaning there, although he'd been doing that alarmingly often, but from everyone else imitating him. His other favorite leaning spots were also getting heavy use. Though why the wannabes bothered I didn't know. When Jack propped himself against a wall, tucked his chin in, and gazed at you from under his brow, he looked cool. And, yes, sexy. When the wannabes did it, they just looked as if they were imitating George. And large sections of the walls were starting to acquire that well-worn patina you usually see on the bottom foot or so of protruding corners in houses with large quantities of cats.
I went back to fielding calls. Including another call from Rob.
At least Rob wasn't hanging about waiting for me to reveal the murderer. He was home – if you could call the Pines home. And to judge by his tone of voice when he called, which he did about every five minutes or so, he was in a remarkably cheerful mood for someone around whom the net of a homicide investigation was slowly but inexorably closing.
Probably because he was the center of a whirlwind of attention. Apparently, Mother had put the word out on the Hollingworth grapevine that her baby boy was in dire legal peril, and every attorney in the family had called him once or twice already. The criminal attorneys, of course, wanted to drop everything and fly to Rob's aid, while the prosecutors offered sage advice about how best to deal with their colleagues in Caerphilly. The far more numerous civil attorneys, frustrated at being denied a major role in the ongoing drama, all offered to come down and take Rob out to dinner. I foresaw good times ahead for Caerphilly's more expensive eateries.
I wondered how long the local defense attorney I'd found would put up with the family interference. But I'd let Rob worry about that. Coping with the avalanche of attention seemed to occupy Rob's time rather fully, but it looked as if Mutant Wizards was carrying on just fine. In fact, did Jack look a little relieved not to have Rob underfoot?
Ah well. As long as Rob was happy. And he was happy. Deliriously, relentlessly happy, which struck me as odd; usually the only time he was this happy was when he thought he'd fallen in love again. Strange that he would react this way to falling under suspicion.
Or maybe not so strange, I realized, the fifth or sixth time he called to have me hunt down Liz. It dawned on me that he probably didn't realize that Liz's appearance at the police station had been motivated by her sense of corporate responsibility combined with my arm-twisting. He seemed to think she had rushed to his side for personal reasons. Well, he could do much worse. And often had. It had been a long time since Rob had fallen for anyone sane and likeable.
I wondered what Dad was up to now. Probably still looking for evidence somewhere. When I arrived, he'd already been doing his best Sherlock Holmes imitation. Mainly examining every floor, wall, and desktop in the place from a distance of about four or five inches, with or without his trusty magnifying glass. He was probably still doing the same thing, someplace. When Sherlock Holmes went through this routine, he would usually produce a clue at some point. So far all Dad had managed was a couple of sneezing fits. At least he wasn't wearing his deerstalker hat. Though since he wasn't expecting to encounter a murder when he came up to Caerphilly, he had probably left the hat at home. And had probably called last night to ask Mother to mail it to him. With luck, the chief would have arrested the killer before the hat arrived.
Dad also assumed what he called my “secret mission“ to find out anything fishy going on at Mutant Wizards gave me a head start over the police in finding the killer. He didn't seem to understand that to date, my so-called sleuthing efforts had been completely useless.
“Now, now,“ he said. “You're too modest. Just let me know if you think it's time to gather all the suspects so you can reveal the solution.“
I was about to explain how unlikely it was that I would be revealing the solution anytime this century when the switchboard blinked again. Another reporter. We'd been getting quite a few calls from reporters – who seemed to think, from the questions they asked me, that anyone whose job included answering the phone must automatically be an idiot.
“No, I will not give you Mr. Langslow's home number,“ I was telling the latest Woodward-and-Bernstein wannabe when I noticed that Roger was once again lurking beside the reception desk. “I can take a message, and if you rephrase that last remark a little more politely, I just might remember to give it to him. What was that? Thank you – the feeling is mutual.“
I hung up, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. When I opened them again, Roger the Stalker was leaning against the wall by my desk. He wasn't a relaxed leaner. The way he hunched his shoulders forward made it look as if he had been ordered to lean and found touching the wall vaguely distasteful.
“Yes?“ I said. “Anything I can do for you?“
He frowned as if this were a trick question.
“While you're thinking, do you want to make yourself useful?“
He shrugged. Was that a yes or a no?
“It's almost time to feed George; you want to take care of that?“
He glanced at George, pried himself awkwardly off the wall, and left.
Good riddance.
Of course, that meant I still had to feed George myself, eventually.
Later, I thought, answering another line.
“Meg! What's going on?“ shrieked a voice. I winced as I recognized the caller – Dahlia Waterston, Michael's mother.
“What in the world are you doing with my poor baby?“
“Michael's fine,“ I said. “He's out in California, remember? In fact, I just talked to him a few minutes ago, and he says the filming's going very well.“
“Of course Michael's fine,“ she said. “I meant Spike.“
“Spike's fine, too,“ I said. “He had a nice breakfast and a long walk, and he's sitting right here at my feet.“
“I knew it – you're still bringing him into that death trap!“
“It's not a death trap. It's a perfectly ordinary office,“ I said, and then winced at how inaccurate that was. “Anyway, you can relax. We iiaven't had any dogs killed. Just humans. Just one human, actually. So you don't have to worry.“
She didn't seem to be worried about my presence in the office, of course. I put her on hold, answered another call, and then returned.
“Sorry,“ I said. “Busy day.“
“I want to talk to him,“ she said.
“Talk to whom?“
“Spike. I want to talk to Spike. Put the phone near his face so he can hear me.“
Okay. I leaned down and put the phone to the wire at the front of Spike's crate.
“It's for you,“ I said.
He opened one eye, saw that I wasn't holding out food, and closed it again.
I could hear Mrs. Waterston's voice chirping out endearments. He ignored her, too. I gave it a couple of minutes and then took the receiver back.
“Is that okay?“ I said.
“He's not speaking to me,“ she said. “Is he ill?“
“Just asleep.“
“Are you sure he's really asleep? What if he's being slowly poisoned by carbon monoxide fumes?“
“We have a bird in the room,“ I said. “Remember how they used to keep little canaries in the mines, to detect gases before they affected the miners? I'm sure if we had any toxic fumes, it would affect the bird before Spike.“
Actually, George was as big as Spike, and I'd bet he was more impervious to toxic fumes than most humans, but it sounded good.
“I still don't understand why he won't speak to me.“
