“That was the worst part.” Manfred shuddered theatrically. “It was awful. Just when they were wheeling Rachel out, Lewis showed up, screaming and making a terrible scene. He was making an asshole out of himself, like his mom’s dying was really all about him. It would have made Rachel so embarrassed. I don’t mind telling you, when I heard him yelling? I asked the police if I could go to my new room.”

“What was he saying?” Fiji was fascinated.

“Oh, he said I’d killed her,” Manfred said bitterly. Bobo and Fiji were horrified, their mouths open, their eyes wide. “He said there’d been people following her for days. I guess those were supposed to be my many minions. Worst of all, he said that she’d been carrying a king’s ransom in ‘jewels’—that’s what he said, jewels—in her purse, and I must have stolen them.”

3

Fiji, who’d been getting the dessert plates out, paused. “You’re kidding,” she said, thinking of how scary that would be, being accused of something so low.

“No,” said Manfred. “That part was awful. Maybe even worse than Rachel dying like that.”

“The police didn’t believe him, surely?” Fiji began to cut a cherry pie into generous triangles. They can use the calories more than me, she thought, and squirted whipped cream from a can into fluffy spirals on the pie. It looked pretty.

“I think it was obvious he’s nuts,” Manfred said. Though his words were confident, to Fiji he sounded uneasy. “And I had already told the police that Rachel had just said that she’d hidden her jewelry from Lewis.”

“Did she tell you where?” Bobo asked.

“No,” Manfred said. “I didn’t even think of asking her. None of my business.”

Bobo looked delighted to see the cherry pie. Fiji smiled at him, curbing her stupid urge to pat him on the head. Over dessert, the conversation veered away from Rachel Goldthorpe’s death and the trouble it had caused Manfred to broader concerns. They talked about Midnight things: the latest curiosity a customer had brought into the pawnshop, the continuing search for a permanent manager for Gas N Go, and the way an overabundance of zucchini in Madonna’s garden was affecting the cuisine of Home Cookin. Manfred seemed to feel better since he’d vented, Bobo seemed thoughtful, and Fiji herself was content in her kitchen (still sunny at seven thirty) with her company. It had been hot work cooking, but the window air conditioner kept the room at a tolerable temperature.

Fiji watched as Bobo ate all of his pie, and Manfred ate about half of his. She urged them both to take another piece home, and both the men said they would, Bobo with more enthusiasm than Manfred. She was grateful. Leaving her alone with the remains of the pie would not have been a friendly act.