I ignored the renewed flight of questions and parted the throng by lowering my head and making gravity my friend. I’d gotten down the steps and across Bryant, all the way to my car in the lot, when I heard footsteps, someone running up behind me. It was Jason Blayney, damn it, and he was calling my name.

I kept my back to him, got into the Explorer, had the door half closed behind me when Blayney put his hand on the door handle and pulled.

Was he kidding? This was over the freaking top.

I whipped around and faced him down.

“Blayney, are you crazy? The answer is no. No statement. No nothing. Now back the hell off.”

Grinning, he took my picture, then shut off his tape recorder and said, “Thanks for your nothing statement, Sergeant.”

I knew I was going to see my picture on the Post’s front page and that I was going to look insane.

So much for wise and cool.

I was steaming as I drove out of the lot. Blayney was a cockroach, but frankly, he and I both had the same questions.

Who were the victims?

Why had heads been dug up at Harry Chandler’s mansion?

And why didn’t we have a single bloody clue?

Chapter 31

CINDY NOT ONLY dubbed our gang of four the Women’s Murder Club but also branded Susie’s Café our clubhouse. It was a small miracle to have this big hug of a hangout where we could get lost in a cheerful crowd and one another’s company.

I was checking my rearview mirror to see if that a-hole Jason Blayney was following me, and at the same time I was looking for a parking spot on Jackson.

I was about to go around the block again when a car pulled out from the curb, leaving me a space right outside Susie’s front door.

I got out of the Explorer, my legs wobbling with exhaustion, and then I was inside Susie’s, enveloped by calypso music, laughing people, golden-yellow sponge-painted walls, and the smells of coconut shrimp and curried chicken.

Cindy was at the bar in the front room. She was wearing pink with a sparkling barrette in her hair and was putting down a cold one.

She waggled her fingers and at the same time gave me the evil eye. She was unhappy with me. I knew why, and I didn’t blame her.

I ordered a root beer and when the bottle was in my hand, I took a swallow, and then I tried to make peace with my friend.

“I know you’re pissed at me.”

“I’m pissed at Richie too, so go ahead, both of you can take it personally.”

“I brought you something,” I said.

I opened my bag, took out a printout, handed it to Cindy, and watched her expression change.

“Oh. No. I mean. This is one of the Ellsworth house victims?” She was staring at the artist’s sketch of Jane Doe, the woman whose head was in Claire’s cooler.