Our discovery of a dead body at the home of Gerald and Denise Hamilton that Saturday night in February had certainly loused up our Sunday morning. Not that I'm blaming the victim, but instead of grabbing a few extra hours of much needed sleep, my brother and I were entertaining Detective Jonah Sykes of the San Diego Sheriff’s Department. He sat on the oversized white couch in the living room of Edward's Spanish-style house where we both lived.
The detective had bags under his eyes, and he frowned not from irritation at me but because he was too tired to hold up his lips. He’d rung our doorbell at six a.m., which was early for a Sunday, especially as we’d just left him three hours ago. Five hours after we’d found the body.
Since I was the only one standing, I had a good view of them both. With dark hair that tended to curl, gray eyes, a trim goatee, and the physique of a former college linebacker, my brother had all the markings of a romantic hero, perfect for schmoozing with his readers. I shared the same looks minus the goatee, a few inches and pounds, and, if you’re interested, I played running back.
Sykes had dark curly hair, a trim goatee, and the physique of a former college linebacker. With his topaz eyes, he had the look of a hunter, which he was.
Except for the eye color, the two men could have been twins. And the fact that Edward was White and Sykes was Black.
Moved to pity, I fetched coffee and banana muffins from the kitchen, returning in time for Sykes to break the silence and make me regret being nice to him.
“Why were you at Gerald Hamilton’s party?” the detective snapped. “How do you know the man? What were you doing there?”
One deputy had asked us these questions and more, several times, which is why my brother responded in less than his usual polite tone. “Do I need to explain my schedule to you?”
“Yes.”
Edward raised his eyebrows. “I see.”
The detective hadn't used that pointed tone with us since we first met him in Citrus Grove, when Edward was his favorite suspect in a murder investigation. Two years later, he knew us well enough to know we weren't murderers, but he thought we were hiding something.
After a few swigs of coffee, the detective sighed and dialed his tone back a notch. “It was an unusual choice for you. As long as I’ve known you, you take to large groups of people like a vampire takes to garlic. I want to know the impetus behind your decision to go. Have you met Hamilton before? Or his wife? Did you know Terrance Davies or anyone else at the party? Did you owe any of them a favor?”
As irritating as I found Sykes’ rapid-fire delivery, they were all good questions. Edward ghost writes the Aunt Civility etiquette series. He makes public appearances as the author’s nephew, since the nonexistent old lady who allegedly pens the books is agoraphobic and can’t leave the house to meet her public in person. What can I say? It’s the publisher’s call and makes the fans happy. I’m Edward's secretary, errand boy, and lackey. And, when necessary, to get him moving, his irritant.
Naturally, I went on the defensive. Even though it was my brother’s fault I was missing my Sunday morning ZZZs, he was still my brother. Only I get to harass him.
“Stop treating Edward like a suspect. It wasn't his fault we were there.” I left there vague. The cricket match wasn’t his fault. Our presence at last night’s victory party was one hundred percent on him. “It was a direct request from Mr. Periwinkle.”
Sykes frowned. “You mean your brother’s publisher?”
“Yeah. Him. He called on Friday and suggested Edward play in the cricket match that took place on Saturday. Get his picture taken breathing in the fresh scent of manly sweat. Be seen. That kind of thing. If we hadn't gone to the match, we wouldn't have been at the party afterward.”
Sykes directed his frown at my brother. “He wanted you to play cricket. Aunt Civility's fans care about cricket.”
Sykes didn't believe it, and he was right. The women who made up ninety percent of my brother’s audience wouldn’t give a fig for sporting events unless Edward released a book on proper tailgating party techniques.
“I was there as myself.” My brother added, with false modesty, “You may remember I released a book under my name last year.”
The book he referred to paid homage to former Cubs center fielder Rick Monday. Edward was nuts about sports and prouder of this book than all the Aunt Civility books combined.
“Monday Morning. I forgot about that.”
There wasn’t a chance Sykes had forgotten the book. Edward made sure everyone knew about the release. And since my brother thought his book should be on everyone’s mind twenty-four hours a day, Sykes’ alleged memory gap didn’t please him.
“Mr. Periwinkle thought the cricket match would appeal to fans of Monday Morning. Sports fans.”
“Sports fans I get, but how cricket fits in, I don't get.” Sykes shook his head.
“Tell me about it.” I grinned, hoping to infuse some levity into the conversation. “You want to know what they call the batter?” I gave it a pause to let the suspense build, but Sykes cut in.
“Do you mean the striker, or the non-striker?”
I let my disgust show. “Not you, too.”
“I played in my youth. And while I enjoyed it, I don't see where a bunch of American baseball fans are going to be drawn to a cricket match.”
“It was a fundraiser for Peter Steele's mayoral campaign. To be fair, I think Periwinkle assumed the beneficiary was a worthy charity, like puppies or children. He hoped to get some publicity. Edward Harlow, author of Monday Morning, scores a six for his team.”
“And this relates to the murder? How?”
Edward sighed as if it were all too much. “The match is how we wound up at the party. If we hadn't been at the cocktail party, we wouldn't have wound up with the dog. That's why we went back to the Hamilton home. To return the dog.”
Sykes got his notebook ready and looked at me. “Tell me about yesterday and leave nothing out.” He pointed his pen at me. “That means don't decide what you think I might find relevant. Give me all of it.”
In the past, I’d shown Sykes my excellent recall abilities. It’s a family trait, but Edward is smart enough to keep his talent quiet.
Both men were waiting, so I closed my eyes and gave my memory a shake, trying to capture every detail of yesterday's events. When I had it, I began.
