Pippa opened her mouth to protest, but Evans cut her off.
“It’s all right,” he said, settling back against his pillows. “I’d do the same thing myself. Never could resist a good story. You know what they used to call me back in Atlanta? The Bloodhound.” Evans chuckled and then immediately began to cough. He thumped his chest with a fist.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Sam said. He was still lurking in the doorway. Max, on the other hand, had her back to Mr. Evans. She was circling the room, smelling flowers, opening cabinets, and probably, Pippa thought, looking for something she could steal.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a little banged up. I got lucky. When that car clipped me, I rolled over the hood and everything went dark as dungeons. I woke up here. If it had been going any faster . . . If I’d fallen differently . . .”
“The papers said you were walking home,” Thomas said. “Is that true?”
Evans snorted. “True enough. Nearly made it, too. I was half a block away on Hester. I could have spit on my own front stoop. That’s when it happened.”
“Do you remember anything about the car?” Thomas asked.
Evans grinned at him. “Good question, Tommy. You’d make a crack reporter in no time. You aren’t looking for a job, by any chance? I could use an assistant, now that I’m head honcho at the Daily Screamer. No? Well, your loss.” The smile suddenly faded from his face, and his expression turned grim. “Sorry to say, I didn’t notice squat about the car, except that it was headed directly for me.”
Thomas lapsed into silence. There seemed nothing left to say. They were at a dead end.
Max spun around to face Mr. Evans. She had located a box of chocolates some visitor had brought for Evans and had stuffed two at once into her mouth. “Whaf abuf the drivumpf?” Everyone stared at her blankly, and she rolled her eyes and swallowed. “What about the driver?” she repeated. “You said you were on the windshield, didn’t ya? So you must of got a look at his face.”
Pippa couldn’t help but be a little impressed. The feeling quickly passed, however, as Max popped three more chocolates into her mouth.
“It was dark,” Mr. Evans said apologetically. “But I did notice his hair.”
“What about it?” Thomas said.
“It was red. Carrot red. No—no. More like fire red.”
Thomas stiffened. Pippa felt a small thrill of excitement, and Sam looked quickly to Max.
They knew someone with fire-red hair—had just met him recently: Mr. Anderson’s nephew.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Max said, as soon as they had regained the street. She had a slight chocolate mustache above her lip.
“Oh! Have you learned to think?” Pippa said.
“Not now, Pippa,” Sam said. He turned to Max. “I’m pretty sure we’re all thinking the same thing.”
“Anderson’s nephew,” they chorused together.
Thomas blew out a long breath. “Okay,” he said. “So now we just have to track him down, and—and . . .”
“Ask whether he axed his uncle and poisoned Potts?” Max raised an eyebrow.
Sam thought of the boy’s pale face and spattering of freckles, the way he trembled and nearly keeled over when he saw his uncle on the ground. Could someone like that be a murderer?
He wasn’t sure. In gangster movies, killers almost always wore black. Reginald Anderson had worn green trousers and an orange-checkered shirt. Still, he supposed in real life murderers were just as likely to have bad taste as nonmurderers. “I don’t get it, though,” he said. “He worked for his uncle. Why kill him?”
“Maybe he wanted the business for himself,” Pippa said.
“Or maybe he made a deal with Potts.” Thomas’s face was scrunched, as it often was when he was thinking hard. “Maybe he wanted the head for himself. Maybe he was going to resell it.”
“And his uncle found out and got mad,” Sam said slowly, trying to follow Thomas’s reasoning.
“So Reggie bumped him off!” Max put in.
“And then Potts had to go,” Pippa added.
“Right.” Thomas’s eyes were shining. “It all fits.”
“But even if he did do it,” Pippa said, “he won’t just confess.”
Thomas looked at Sam. Then Max turned to look at him as well. Slowly, so did Pippa.
“What did Thomas say the other day?” Sam said, wishing his voice wouldn’t sound so squeaky. He cracked his knuckles. “We’ll just have to make him talk.”
“That’s the spirit,” Thomas said, and grinned.