“All done,” Flynn said, withdrawing his wallet and tossing a few bills on the table. “We appreciate your help, sir,” he said, coming to his feet. Joe did, too, but not before reaching for a toothpick. “Thank you kindly for your time.”
Mr. Castaneda nodded and got up to go. But before he got too far, Flynn said, “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Castaneda, but there is one more little thing.” He casually put his wallet in his trousers. “Did you like the Wassermans’ dogs?”
“Their dogs?” he asked, confused. “I’m not a dog guy—my wife’s got cats.”
“Did they bark?”
He thought about that for a moment and shook his head. “Not at me. I don’t know, I didn’t see them much. They were spoiled. Always inside.”
“Thank you again,” Flynn said.
Mr. Castaneda beat a hasty exit out the door. Joe chuckled as the door closed behind him and clapped Flynn on the back. “Hate to say I told you so, but I told you so. It was Wasserman.”
“And exactly how do you come round to that stunning conclusion?” Flynn asked as he picked up the check and started for the counter.
“Easy. Listen to a pro, pal. The yard man doesn’t see anyone coming or going all day. The lady is dead since late morning—”
“Or early afternoon, after Mr. Castaneda’s departure. The coroner did give quite a long range to time of death. You might recall reading that fact in the coroner’s report,” he said as he handed the pretty girl behind the register a twenty-dollar bill.
“Just like you to read all the crap. Me? I just called up the doc and asked him straight up to save myself some time. So anyway, Mom and Mom’s dog are already dead when Castaneda arrives. Pop has already left for work. No one hears or sees a thing that morning. It’s pretty clear cut, I’d say. Pop killed Mom and Mom’s dog, made it look like some sort of break-in, and skipped off to work. Just need to wrap up a motive and there you have it.”
The girl gave Flynn change, let her middle finger slide suggestively across his palm. He gave her a smile and pocketed the change. “Ah, but therein lies the rub, eh?” he remarked as he turned and motioned for Joe to proceed him. “You haven’t got the slightest bit of a motive, have you?”
“Like I said,” Joe announced as they walked into the bright sunshine of a brilliant fall day. “Watch a pro at work. Bet I’ve got a motive before Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll bet I’ve got the killer before then,” Flynn said, and grinned. “One hundred of your American dollars says I do.”
“You’re on, pal,” Joe said with a snort, and punched the automatic lock on his key chain. “What have you got going on the other deal?” he asked as he opened the driver’s door.
“I’ve a weaving class this evening,” Flynn said as they got into the car.
Joe laughed. “Dude, you have got to be the first guy in the history of the world to take a fucking weaving class just to get inside some chick’s pants!”
“Rather effective, wouldn’t you say?” Flynn asked breezily. “At least more so than rubbing against her to show her what I’m working with,” he said in his best American accent, mimicking Joe’s earlier advice.
“Hey, whatever floats your boat. I happen to like the direct approach. Sounds like you prefer the . . . what do you call it? The nancy-boy approach.”
He started the car over Flynn’s objections to the use of the term nancy-boy, and he was hardly done with it. At the precinct, he told the chaps he worked with that Flynn was off to a weaving class, and before Flynn could escape, they were asking after personalized pot holders. Not to be outdone, and to their considerable and collective amusement, he’d called them a fat lot of uncultured plebeians as he had taken his leave.
Flynn purposely arrived late to class, hoping that he’d be dismissed from it altogether for his tardiness. But as luck would have it, no one seemed to notice. So much for being expelled.
The other students were already paired off at one of four looms; Chantal and Tiffinnae, obviously, David and Lucy (David insisting that Lucy stay on his right so that he could get a proper feel for the loom, the nesh wimp), and Jason and Rachel were working together. Rather, Rachel was stringing the loom while Jason was watching her with the expression of a young man desperately in love.
That left Flynn to share a loom with Sandy, who, he couldn’t help noticing, was on crutches this week.
“Twisted my ankle,” she said cheerfully as Flynn pulled up a chair.
“Put a bit of ice on it?” he asked absently as Rachel turned and smiled at him, her eyes lighting up.
“Oh, I did everything, trust me,” Sandy quickly assured him. “I probably should have stayed off of it, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I tore some ligaments, and if that’s the case, then I might as well get used to getting around on these things!” she said brightly, and pulled a giant plastic bottle of Gatorade from her bag. “You ever jack up your ankle, Finn?” she asked as she began to stack a variety of pharmaceutical bottles on the small table next to her.