“Just telling one of Emily’s stories.” Terry clasped Rosalind’s shoulder. “Turns out my granddaughter has been collecting them.”

Granddaughter? Had I known that little fact and forgotten it? Or had I never known? And did it matter at all?

“Emily.” The man made what sounded suspiciously like a snort. “Not to speak ill of the dead and all, but I won’t be attending her funeral.”

“Well, Warren,” Terry said affably, “not sure anyone asked you to go. Now.” He clapped his hands. “We need to get going to make sure we’re back before dark. Tallyho!”

There was a general move bike-ward, but I hung back and inched toward Warren. “You didn’t like Emily?” I asked.

“Barely knew her.” He grabbed his bike’s handlebars and slung one leg over the crossbar. “But some people you don’t have to know well, if you know what I mean.”

“Like sometimes you meet someone and you instantly know you could be good friends, only the opposite?”

“Sure. I guess.” He put one foot on a pedal.

“What about Brown?” I asked quickly. “I hear the family has scheduled his memorial service. Will you be going to that?”

He frowned. “Look, are you trying to ask me out? Sorry, but I’m not interested.”

“What? No!” Heat flushed over my face, undoubtedly turning it bright red. “No, I was just wondering about Brown. He seemed like a nice guy.”

Warren shrugged. “To some, I guess. I won’t be putting on a dark suit for him, either.” He leaned forward and rolled off, leaving me standing there with my mouth half open.

Eventually I closed it, but went on thinking.

And increased the suspect list by one.

Chapter 11

That night my sleep was broken into numerous little bits, mainly because Eddie kept yelling at me.

The third time he did it, at 2:23 a.m., I sat bolt upright and yelled back. “What is your problem?”

“Mrr!”

“Really? Do you hear me mrr’ing at you when you’re trying to get some sleep?”

“Mrr!”

I opened my mouth, but shut it. Because there’d been numerous times in our life together that I had, in fact, woken him up from a sound sleep and felt not the least amount of guilt. “In my defense,” I said, “you get, what, fifteen hours of sleep a day and I get seven or eight. This makes my sleep more valuable than yours. Besides, I’m the one with the paycheck, so—”

“Mrr!”

“Of course monetary value isn’t the only kind of value,” I said, a little snappishly. “But it’s two thirty in the morning and I’m talking to a cat. What do you want from me?”

I’d fully expected a “Mrr” of increased volume in return for my outburst. There was nothing. I leaned over the side of the bed and, in the dim light, saw Eddie looking down at his feet.