Hardaway took the note from Lieutenant Webb and scanned it quickly. Then he folded it, slipped it into his pocket, and jerked his head toward the door. “All right,” he said to the kids. “Go on. Get out of here. Straight home and no stopping.”
“You sure, Chief?” said Lieutenant Webb. “The captain won’t like it.”
Hardaway’s face flushed—at least, his chin flushed, which was the only part of his face Max could see very clearly. “I don’t give a rat’s tail what the captain likes,” he said. “I’ve got a fiver on the game and a pint with my name on it.” He turned back to the kids. “You heard me. Hit the road before I decide to change my mind and haul you all down to the station.”
“But what about—” Pippa started to say.
“Thanks a lot!” Thomas jumped in, before Pippa could say any more. He looped an arm through Pippa’s and practically dragged her toward the door, even as she struggled against him. “We’ll, um, find our own way out.”
But before they could move into the hall there were footsteps on the stairs once again, and suddenly a young man with a shock of orange-red hair sticking straight up from his head, like a tall flame growing from his scalp, burst into the room.
When he saw Mr. Anderson, he let out a strangled cry and took two stumbling steps toward the body. Before the police could seize him, he stopped and recoiled, shrinking back against the wall as though noticing the other people in the room for the first time.
“Who are you?” he cried. His eyes were wide and his voice was as shrill as the whistle from a teapot. “What’s going on? What happened to my uncle?”
“Your uncle?” Hardaway repeated sharply.
“Uncle Arthur,” the boy said, and then let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a sniffle. “Is he . . . ? Is he really . . . ?” Although he was probably no older than eighteen, his shoulders were slumped as though he was carrying an invisible rock on his back. He was wearing the most hideous outfit Max had ever seen: vivid green trousers and scuffed brown shoes paired with an orange-checked shirt that clashed horrendously with his hair. If his clothing could speak, Max knew it would be screaming.
The cops exchanged a quick glance. “Why don’t you have a seat,” Hardaway said, jerking his head toward a chair. It was more of an order than a question. “Take a deep breath. Tell us all about it.”
Mr. Anderson’s nephew ignored him. He pulled out a lime-green handkerchief and began worrying it between thin fingers. “I should never have left him alone!” he moaned. “Oh, Uncle. Uncle!”
“Pull yourself together,” Hardaway said sternly, “Mr. . . . ?”
“Reginald,” the boy said, still twisting the handkerchief and staring at the body of his uncle. “Reginald Anderson.”
Hardaway nodded. “Start at the beginning, why don’t you, and don’t stop until you hit the end. Were you and your uncle close?”
Reginald nodded miserably. “Been working at the store since I was just a kid,” he said. “My uncle took me in after my mom and dad died. Spanish flu laid ’em both flat the same winter. Uncle Arthur was like a father to me.” His voice began to tremble again and his eyes filled suddenly with tears. “It’s all my fault! I should never have gone to visit Betsy! I should never have left him alone!”
“Betsy?” Hardaway said.
“Betsy Williams, sir.” Now Reginald’s face slowly turned pink, as though someone had dipped him like an Easter egg into dye. “She lives in Boston. We’re friendly-like, me and Betsy. I guess you could say we’re engaged to be engaged. Well, we will be engaged to be engaged, if her dad ever comes around to—”
“Understood.” Hardaway gave an impatient wave of his hand. “Get on with your story.”
Reginald stared pleadingly at both detectives in turn. “Uncle Arthur’s been in a bit of a funk. Business was bad and he was worried about money. But I never thought—not in a million years did I imagine— I would never have gone if—” He wailed again.
Lieutenant Webb coughed.
“So your uncle was in a bad way,” Hardaway said.
Reginald frowned. “Like I said, he’d been in a funk,” he said. “You see, he’d recently sold off an item to a friend. And he was convinced he’d made a bad deal and he should have asked for triple the price.” Max caught Sam’s eye. He gave an almost imperceptible nod as Thomas’s hand tightened on Pippa’s arm. Reginald was surely talking about the shrunken head. “So that had got him peeved, especially since we had a hard winter and not too many people buying.”
“It seems to me like it all hangs together nicely,” Hardaway said. “No pun intended,” he added.
“But I don’t understand,” Reginald whimpered. “How did this happen? When did you find him?” His eyes swept across the room and landed on Max, Sam, Pippa, and Thomas—still huddled near the door—for the first time. He frowned and balled the handkerchief in a fist. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”