“Years, she says.”
“Hey, guys, it’s all in the past because, y’know, Angela here says it’s been years and years and—”
“She thinks last Christmas is ‘years’?”
“She thinks last month is ‘years.’”
She groped for the flyswatter hanging on a nail between the living room and kitchen, then lunged forward like a fencer on the offense. “Back! All of you, get back!” The Horde collectively flinched as the swatter swung and hissed through the air.
“Oh, gross.”
“Seriously with this, Angela?”
“Don’t point that thing at me.”
“We have a flyswatter?”
“Yeah, it’s usually on one of those little hooks on the keyboard.”
“All right!” Swish, lunge, parry. If I didn’t know better, she thought, I’d think I was a fencer in a former life. But nope. Alas: She’d been nothing more exotic than a minor league baseball pitcher just after World War I.
Which was probably why she didn’t consider softball a real game. “You’re right.”
“Hear that? I’m right!”
“Which one of us is right?”
“Shut up, you’re all basically a hive mind, anyway.” She’d stopped ducking and weaving (literally as well as figuratively) and held them all at flyswatter length. “I admit it: I was a shit to Archer through most of our childhood—”
“The sordid truth comes out!”
“It was awful, I was awful, and I’ve apologized to him.” So many apologies. Even now, she flushed hot with embarrassment when she remembered the cutting things she’d said over the years. The fact that, as an adult, he tolerated her with absent good humor was more a testament to his easygoing personality than to her amends. Which she found perversely irritating. The guy can’t even hold a grudge right.
But, again: The Plan.
“We need to put that behind us now because— Oh, my God they’re here!” She almost dropped the flyswatter, hesitated—it had kept the throng at bay pretty well—then hung it back up. She would not meet Leah Nazir with a flyswatter in one hand. Most likely.
“This is the most excited I’ve ever seen you.”
“Of course I’m excited! She’s the Mangiarotti of Insighters.” She could actually feel the puzzled silence, and tried again. “The Mozart of Insighters.”
“She’s a famously immature genius harpsichord player who loves jokes about shit?”
“Scatological humor,” she corrected automatically, then cursed herself. “I mean, no!” She flinched as she heard car doors thunking shut in the driveway. They’d be heading up the walk to the front door. They’d be entering the front door! Her cousin/maybe brother/worst enemy and the James L. Brooks of Insighters! Here! In her house! Where she’d been stood up for prom! Twice!* “Please. I’m begging you guys. Be nice. Be . . . not weird. I mean—as best you can,” she modified.
No use asking for miracles.
TWO
The James L. Brooks of Insighters stared at the cream-colored two-story house and tried not to vomit.
“Home,” Archer announced (unnecessarily), already tugging their suitcases out of the trunk. “The place where they are morally and sometimes legally obligated to let you in.”
“I don’t think I can do this,” the Mangiarotti of Insighters muttered.
“What’s that, babe?”
“I said I don’t feel well.”
“Okay, let’s get you inside and you can have a ginger ale and lay down.”
Ah, Archer Drake. The love of her life. (Well. This life.) Straightforward and not a man to get lost inside his own head. Product of a close, large, loving family. Brave and sweet and gorgeous.
And clueless. Also, lay/lie was one of her peeves. “It’s lie. Unless you are physically laying me down, it’s lie.” Her peeves were legion.
“You’ll lay yourself down,” he said, with aggravating cheer. “I stand by what I said! And you know it’s totally fine to be nervous, right? Hell, I’ve met all the players, and I’m nervous. Actually that’s probably why,” he added thoughtfully. “I know ’em. But they’ll love you.”
Leah found a smile. “I’m certain that’s a lie.”
“Well, they won’t hate you.”
“That’s better.”
“They can’t hate you, they know you’re here to solve a murder.”
“Why are they so adamant the wrong man is in prison? Is it—” Her experience with such things was nearly non-existent, so she chose her next words carefully. “Is it a family thing? Or is it more objective than that?”
“A little from Column A and a little from Column B. Listen: There’s no way my father killed his brother. They were always tight, to the point where my aunt hated it. My dad adored his brother. Still does, how’s that for depressing?”
“I don’t know.”
“And anyone planning a murder would make sure they had a much better alibi than Dad did. It’s stuff like that, all little things. You look at the facts, and you can’t shake the idea that something’s missing. Something huge.”
Her normally good-natured sweetheart had gone pensive, so she held off from more questions. “This won’t be an instant fix, you know. I’m not sure your cousin understands that.”
Archer’s brow furrowed. “What? I’m not following.”
Before she could say anything else
(not a fix—and also, get me out of here)
(what was I thinking)
(I mean it, get me out of here!)
the front door popped open so hard, it rebounded in the face of the young woman standing just inside. “Archer!” she called as she wrestled with the screen door and bounded out in a burst of energy with which, by now, Leah was familiar. The woman—his cousin?—strongly resembled Archer, with the same long limbs and barely suppressed hyperactivity, the same bright eyes, and a mouth made for smiling. Her hair—a riot of shoulder-length reddish-blond waves—was the only visible difference. Well, the hair and the breasts, too. Obviously.
“Huh,” Leah mused. “You’re all like that.”
“Only when we’re freaked out. Or nervous. Or horny. Or in fear for our life . . . yeah,” Archer finished, giving up. “We’re all like that. All the time. Except my aunt. But you’ll see for yourself.”
Splendid.
Archer’s cousin had finally fought free of the screen door. “Hi, it’s so great to meet you oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re here how was your trip oh, my God!” This as she rushed over so quickly and shook Leah’s hand so enthusiastically, she nearly knocked her back into the car.
THREE
They’re insane. I should be terrified.
And perhaps she was. Deep down inside, where she crushed most of her fears. Mostly she was fascinated. It was like observing a pack of Archers in the wild, and she was the hapless nature lover trapped in the high hide, praying the predators were vegetarians. Or at least full, and thus would not eat her.
Angela had begun by introducing her brothers and cousins. Or her cousins and brothers; there were a lot of them, they all vaguely resembled each other, and they all spoke in unison.
“Guys, this is Archer’s fian—”
“Hi.”
“Do you know who James L. Brooks is? Will you tell us?”
“Arch captured you, right? Set some sort of bizarre trap and you fell right into it? Blink twice if you want an extraction team.”
“Man, not cool. Archer doesn’t like ‘Arch.’”
“He also doesn’t like when you insinuate he makes a habit of felony kidnapping.”
“He didn’t like Toe Cheese, he didn’t like The Thing That Smells Like Gym Shorts, now he’s yanking ‘Arch’ from circulation . . . Cripes, what does he like?”
“It’s nice to meet you, Leah.”
“Angela made me put on pants. You’re welcome.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Leah managed. Probably. There were a half dozen of them, all gangly and dark-haired and energetic. The youngest—Jack? Jordan?—was still in his teens, the oldest—Mitchell? Paul?—was in his early twenties. Angela was the oldest of them all, at twenty-five. “All of you.”
“What?”
“What’d you say?”