The Marsh Madness

Of course, Uncle Mick was on his way by then. He’s quite crazy about Walter, so I could only assume that, although he was back from Manhattan, he still had plenty of places to go, people to see and things to do. The less I knew about any of that, the better.

Lance was supposed to go with Mick in the Beamer, but he wasn’t all that keen on leaving me, even with Walter the Fierce snuffling at my side. “What are you going to do if Shelby does show up? You can’t go in there yourself. Promise me you won’t do that, Jordan.”

I yawned, not a good start when there might be a long night ahead. “If I call you, will you come?”

“I’ll sleep in my clothes. If the phone rings, I’ll head right over.”

Uncle Mick leaned on the horn.

I said, “Thank you, Lance.”

“It’s only about twenty minutes away. Don’t get impatient and go inside, Jordan.”

“It’s a deal. I don’t really want to get killed either.”

“What if she’s with the other guy or guys?”

Uncle Mick actually stepped out of the car and loomed. Lance leaned away, bravely, and said, “Why don’t we call the police?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Uncle Mick. “What’s the matter with you, fella? You call the police over every little hangnail, do ya?”

Lance blinked.

Uncle Mick said, “What did I tell you, my girl?”

Lance said, “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. It’s sort of rhetorical.”

“Did he tell you something about me?”

No way was I repeating the “light in the loafers” remark, whatever that stupid phrase even meant. “Focus, Lance. We can’t call the police because they don’t know who Shelby is. They don’t believe us that she and the others staged that lunch at Summerlea. We don’t know who the others are. We need more.”

“But you said yourself that Shelby wouldn’t last in an interrogation room.”

“She wouldn’t, but she won’t be in an interrogation room. It’s called due process. Cops need a reason to take someone in for questioning—especially someone from an affluent family—and they aren’t going to listen to me. I’m one of their prime suspects.”

“So what is going to happen?”

“We need to learn more. Then we can find a way to involve the police. Too soon and it blows up in our face.”

“Boom,” said Uncle Mick. That was his opinion of most police involvement.

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

I knew he meant “keep me posted but first let me sleep.”

I sat in the Navigator with a view of Shelby’s parents’ house through the trees. There was no sign of life for the next few hours.

As hours went, they were pretty long. Even the Oreos didn’t help much. Or the new Taylor Swift album from my iPhone.

The sky was starting to lighten when I figured I might as well quit. Shelby probably wasn’t coming home.

But I still needed to find out what was going on. Where was she? Who knew? If she was living at home, surely her family must have noticed that she was not looking normal. From what I’d seen, she was teetering on the edge of the abyss, as someone might have said in all seriousness in a Ngaio Marsh book.

I wasn’t going to be able to sit there all day in the Navigator. People in this neighborhood would notice an unfamiliar vehicle hanging around. I didn’t want that.

I made a phone call to Cherie. I already owed her a lot for favors done, including carting Uncle Kev and his moonshine empire away from Van Alst House.

Now I needed something else.


*

I WAS GROGGY when I called Van Alst House at six a.m. We all know the signora never seems to sleep, but Vera is in the conservatory for breakfast at eight every morning and therefore up some time earlier. I figured they would be worried if I didn’t come home. Yes, I was an adult, but I made a habit of mentioning if I’d be away as a rule, and there had been a murder.

“It’s about time,” Vera blustered as soon as she picked up.

“Sorry—”

“How do you expect to keep any customers if you don’t show up when you say you’re going to?”

Really? I said nothing.

Vera added, “That furnace won’t fix itself, you know. We are good customers, and you are not the only game in town.”

Oh.

“Are the cops there?” I said.