He sighed, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her into his side, forcing her to stand up, but her limbs were like those of a rag doll.
“Thanks, Ollie. We owe you one,” Mr. Feizel said, and with a friendly pat on the arm, he wandered off, leaving Rachel there, holding her service tray.
There was nothing he could say that could possibly improve the situation now, but he looked at Rachel as Marlene waved happily at someone across the room. “I meant to ring,” he said.
“Did you, Charlie?”
Flynn winced slightly. “I’d rather like a chance to explain—”
“By all means. Explain away.”
To hell with it, then. She had her knickers in a wad, and he had a sot hanging off his bloody arm. “I would. I will. But now does not seem a very convenient time for it. Cheers, then,” he said irritably, and without another look at her, he dragged Marlene across the room and from the party altogether, rolling his eyes at some of the more colorful things the Americans shouted at him.
He dragged Marlene’s almost useless body onto the drive (although she was still lucid enough to laugh at how inoperable her feet were). “What’s the matter, Charlie?” she asked, looking up at him, her head balanced precariously on a roly-poly neck.
“If you must know, I’m a bit brassed off at Rachel.”
“Who?”
“After all, it’s only been two bloody days,” he said, making Marlene move. “There is not, as far as I am aware, some rule about the time frame in which one must ring a girl after a kiss, and I did not, to the best of my recollection, say, I’ll ring you in the morning, or I’ll ring you within forty-eight hours. I said I would ring, and I fully intended to ring, but I hadn’t gotten round to it quite yet, that’s all.”
“I’m freezing! Where’s my coat?” Marlene demanded, confused.
“Your coat?” Flynn asked absently as he pulled her down the walk.
“I want my coat!” she wailed.
With a sigh, Flynn stopped just at the end of the house, propped Marlene up against the wall, shrugged out of his coat, draped it round her bony shoulders, and hauled her back into his side. “You’re really quite a piece of work, Marlene.”
“I just love the way you talk,” Marlene giggled.
Flynn pushed on, and at the end of the drive, he saw Joe get out of the driver’s seat and stand behind the open door, staring in disbelief as Flynn dragged Marlene to the car.
“Hi!” Marlene said, laughing as she tried to wave. “Who are you?”
“He’s a mate who’s to give us a lift,” Flynn said, and opened the door to the backseat.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Joe said as Flynn pushed Marlene into the backseat head first.
“Frankly, I’d give all that I had to say that I was,” Flynn avowed earnestly as he made certain all of her body parts were inside. He shut the door, braced himself on the car, and looked at Joe. “But unfortunately, I cannot.”
Joe groaned. “So what are we going to tell her?”
“Just what I said—that you’re a mate who’s come to give us a lift.”
Joe planted his hands on his hips and thought about it, dipping once to see her, sprawled across the backseat. “Okay,” he said at last. “As long as she stays half conscious back there. We just can’t let her see any of the equipment in the front.” He looked at Flynn again. “So where are we taking your girl, here, dude?”
Right. Where? “Bloody rotten hell,” Flynn groaned.
Fortunately, although Marlene couldn’t remember where she was, she could remember her address, but was passed out cold by the time they reached it. A quick search through her purse and Joe found keys. It took the combined efforts of Flynn and Joe to drag Marlene into her upscale condo and deposit her carcass on the couch. When they were quite satisfied she’d not expire, Joe (being the sort of chap that he was) wiped down all the surfaces with a kitchen towel, and they slipped out, leaving a snoring Marlene behind.
Once they had cleared Marlene’s neighborhood, Joe asked Flynn what he’d learned about Wasserman.
“Quite friendly, that one. Likes to chat it up,” he said. “But I don’t believe he’s our man.”
Joe snorted. “Bullshit. Of course he is. Think about it—he’s the first guy to arrive on the scene. There’s no evidence of forced entry—”
“It was four o’clock in the afternoon. She might have left the door open at that hour,” Flynn interjected.
“Okay, but what about the dog?” Joe shot back. “She’s found stabbed to death in the master bedroom, her dog is found stabbed to death in the master bedroom, but his dog is just roaming free in the kitchen? And don’t forget, no one heard the dogs bark all afternoon, so the dogs probably knew the perp. So who does that leave, Sherlock? Her mother and her husband, and her mother has an alibi. Her husband doesn’t.”