so? It’s the real me?” I smiled. “I would love to bring a therapist over to your apartment sometime.”
“Already been done,” he said. “Now, look at this fabulous little bar cart. Estelle, does this come in any other colors? With some nice glasses, it will look very classy in the dining area. And we’ll need an ice bucket, maybe something silver or beaded…” And he was off, with Estelle jotting notes on a pad. I followed, picking up a piece and looking at prices here and there.
My credit card was considerably taxed when we were finally seated in our favorite restaurant, Number One Chinese. Michael ordered for us and we were well into our soup before he brought up the murder again.
“So, who do you think did the deed?” he asked.
“I have no idea, really,” I said. “I don’t know Neville very well, outside of the group, and even there, I haven’t even been a member for a full year. It’s hard to say. I don’t think it was Kenneth, I mean, they had some issues—doesn’t every couple?—but they just adopted a baby, so that would be crazy, wouldn’t it? And I don’t know much about his business or his finances, so that could be something, I suppose. And who knows, there could be some other conflict in the group, I guess.”
“Well, that’s why the police think you did it, so I wouldn’t share that theory with anyone else,” he said. “You’re pretty terrible at solving mysteries, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “When I read a mystery novel I can never figure out whodunit. I’m always surprised at the endings.”
Our entrees were delivered and we hunkered down to eat. I knew that I had to be quick because Michael would eat his first choice and then move onto mine when he’d vacuumed up every morsel in his dish. I held off his chopsticks until my hunger was sated, then sat back and drank a cup of watery tea.
“It looks like somebody planned the attack pretty well, though,” I said. “And if I was paranoid, I might think that whoever killed Neville was trying to set me up to take the fall.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, the fact that the entire living room was covered with the pages of my manuscript, for starters,” I said. “The room looked like we had a fight and somebody—probably Neville— threw the whole thing up in the air. And the murder weapon. It looked, well, kind of familiar.”
“What?” he squeaked. “That’s kind of a big thing to leave out. Oh, by the way, the murder weapon happened to be mine…Duh. No wonder they questioned you all night.”
“I didn’t say it was mine,” I said. “If I did do it, I’d be pretty stupid to leave all that evidence there to implicate myself, don’t you think?”
“That’s true, you’d never leave your manuscript lying on the floor like that,” he said. “It is pretty obvious. So, how was he killed, anyway? You never mentioned that part. Was there a gun? You didn’t pick it up, did you?”
“No, he was stabbed in the throat, and the knife was still….stuck there,” I said.
“Eeew.”
“I know. I lost my supper when I saw all the blood. Spoiled the crime scene a little, I’m afraid,” I tried to smile. “I know my manuscript was there, because that’s what I was going over early to meet with Neville about. The knife, I don’t know. I don’t know for sure about it, but it seems like I’ve seen it before. It all happened pretty fast, you know? One second I found him, and the next thing I knew, the cops were hauling me out of there in handcuffs.”
“Where would you have seen a knife like that? Was it, like, a kitchen knife? A Swiss Army knife?” he asked, pushing the dishes away and filling his own teacup. “I can picture that—one with the red handle, and all those tools hanging out of it. No? A shiv?” He continued when I kept shaking my head.
“At least there won’t be any fingerprints on it,” he whispered.
“Oh, Michael,” I said. “That’s not really true about the fingerprints, you know. You can’t get rid of them. Even with acid. And sandpaper, it doesn’t really erase them.”
“So what you said before, with Estelle,” Michael began.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to be mysterious. I mean, gymnastics does a number on your hands, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t set you up for a life of crime.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Too bad. It sounded believable to me.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “What else?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What else should I be looking for, checking on?” I asked. “You seem to know about this kind of thing.”
“Murder, you mean? I know about murder?”
“Well, whatever. What else do you think I should be doing?” I asked.
“Maybe you need to get a lawyer,” he said. “And maybe you should talk to some of the other people in that writing group, and see if you can find out anything from any of them.”
“Like what? What I am I supposed to ask? Hey, Joanie, do you happen to know who killed Neville and may have decided to frame me for it? Was it you, by any chance? Hey—maybe I should call Kenneth and ask him, too. What do you think?”
“I think you can be a little more creative than that, Cassie. God, do I have to do everything for you?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll pay for lunch, though. If my credit card isn’t rejected.”
We walked back to campus, strolling through the crowded streets of the East Village, stopping once for frozen yogurt and twice for Michael to try on hats at street vendors. Both of us slowed down to peruse tables stacked with used books, easels displaying art and photography, and once to throw a dollar bill into the open guitar case of a talented young man performing an athletic version of “Classical Gas.”
“Did you see that?” Michael asked. “What a face that kid has.”
“Talent is what that kid has,” I said.
“And looks,” he added.
“I guess,” I said. “Not my type.”
“So just what is your type, anyway?” he asked. “I’ve known you for almost a year and I haven’t been able to figure it out. Do you not like men? Are you a dyke or something?”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m just really, really focused on my career right now. I don’t have time for a social life. And besides, you’re my type. I’m just waiting for you to get over this fascination you have with men, and realize that I’m the woman for you.”
“Oh my God, that is so not what you just said,” he said.
“And that is so not proper English,” I replied.
We were crossing the park, closing in on the residence towers, when I saw the cruiser.
“I think I may have company,” I said,
