He raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about urinals?”
I gritted my teeth. “I know that most men prefer not to stand too close to each other with their willies hanging out. I guess they’re afraid a fencing match might break out.”
Slate cleared his throat and changed the subject. “The guards said you insisted on bringing your cell phone into the interrogation room. Why?”
“C’mon, Barry. You know me. Or at least my father,” I said, blinking rapidly and fighting off a flash of Peter Hardgrave. “My foster father that is. He’s your uncle. Do you really think he’s capable of raising someone who would burn another human being alive?”
“Jeffery Dahmer had a very nice mother.”
“Barry, seriously.”
“It’s Detective Slate, Rosemary.”
“Then it’s Miss Casket to you.”
“Fine, Miss Casket, isn’t it possible you had some kind of remote detonation device in your phone?”
“I left my phone in the locker.”
He nodded to my thighs. “Do you have it in your pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Unlock it for me.”
“No.”
“It’ll make this a lot easier.”
“I’m not unlocking my phone, Barry. I don’t know the slightest thing about tech. I was an English teacher.”
Detective Slate turned back to the window and motioned for them to roll tape again.
I glanced to the giant mirror. “Are they recording this?”
“Yes. Watch.”
I turned back to the monitor. On screen, the door in the prison visitation room opened. There was no sound. The guard behind the door passed Phyllis Martin to the guard who led her into the visitation room. Our view was from behind Phyllis’s shoulders as she sat down at the stool.
Slate pointed at the screen. “Your lips are moving there. What are you asking her about?”
I closed my eyes, trying to recall our conversation, trying to sort through the confusion of Phyllis’s new haircut and nickname, but I kept seeing that blast of orange.
“We talked about family,” I said.
“Why would Phyllis Martin bother talking to you? You’re the whole reason she was convicted.”
“Believe it or not, we were friends.”
“She tried to kill you. She pleaded guilty.”
“She claimed it was an accident.”
Detective Slate crossed his arms. “It’s always an accident,” he mumbled. “Why did you drive all the way to Thomaston to talk about family?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have much family,” I said.
“What does Phyllis know about your family?”
“You mean your family?”
“I mean your biological family.”
“She knew my mother,” I said. I decided not to mention anything about my half sister Lori, nor Peter Hardgrave.
Slate tapped the monitor. “And what was that moment there? Her shoulders look like they slumped.”
I looked at the black and white version of myself on the monitor. I had leaned into the glass. “That was probably when she got mad at me.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t tell her that her daughter was dead.”
Slate pointed to the monitor hard enough to nudge it. “Right there, she seems to have gotten really angry. What did you say to her?”
“She wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know.”
“Which was?”
I had to play it safe and stick to what was public knowledge. “About my missing sister.”
“Right there, she stood up.”
I looked away, knowing exactly what was coming next. “Yes.”
Slate watched the screen intently. Me, I couldn’t stand it. Out of the corner of my eye, there was a flash of white light on the screen.
“Did you curse her?”
I shook my head. “What? No. Turn it off, please.”
Slate pushed the button and the screen went black. “How can you explain that? A woman who had been locked in her cell all day long suddenly catches on fire. This morning’s records show nothing out of the ordinary. She woke up, she went to the bathroom, she went to the library for a little bit, and then a guard came and escorted her down to the visitation room.”
“I told you. I have no idea what happened,” I said. “I was on the other side of the glass. The guards patted me down. They took my phone. I wasn’t carrying anything.”
“And that’s why they’re calling you a witch.”
“That is so ridiculous.”
“A woman got angry at you and then burst into flames right in front of you. Do you have any explanation other than magic?”
“No,” I said quietly. Then louder, “Except this is not Salem for Chrissake.”
“Are you happy she’s dead?”
I looked up at him. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“You mean my uncle?”
“He’ll support me.”
Slate shook his head. “No, no need for that. You can talk to me freely.”
“What about the men behind the mirror?”
“Yes, them too,” Slate said. “We’re on your side, Rosie. We really are. Phyllis Martin was a real piece of work and nobody’s upset she’s gone. Especially not me. She tried to kill my uncle. We just want to get to the bottom of this, check off a few boxes, and close the case.”
“Other than magic, what’s the other explanation?”
“Self immolation.”
“How is that possible?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“If I haven’t been charged with anything, I’d like to get back to my inn. I have customers waiting.”
Slate sighed. “Sure thing. C’mon. I’ll walk you out.”
In the parking lot, Matt Mettle was waiting for me. He got out of his cruiser and came to meet me. The sun was setting and my little gray Honda looked tiny next to all the blue cruisers.
I nodded toward the coroner’s building on the other side of the lot, the place where Meat Locker Joey did his slicing.
“Is Phyllis in there now?”
“I don’t know what they did with her,” Mettle said. “The prison has its own protocol for disposing of expired prisoners and contacting next of kin. In Phyllis’s case, she has none, and no will, so they’re free to conduct their own internal investigation.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Like her organs?”
“Not that kind of internal investigation. I mean the warden is conducting interviews with the guards and other prisoners. They’re supposed to share the findings with us, but they’re not going to tell me. I’m too low on the totem pole.”
“Then what good are you?” I said.
He narrowed his eyebrows. “The totem pole would fall over without a sturdy
