“Who knows?” he replied, his voice sounding broken. “We just...sat. We’re all friends. We wouldn’t have cared where we sat. When we get together...we talk.” He swallowed and then said, “It makes these things bearable. For me, at least.”
“I think we more or less sat where our names were,” Roberta Alan said. “I have personally never seen numbers before, and we’re all friends. We don’t care where we sit, and I just honestly don’t remember if we sat by number. Oh, maybe Marnie and Cara switched around... I’m not sure. It’s honestly like I said—I don’t remember. It never mattered to us. We even sometimes play musical chairs. That way, we all got to talk to each other. Oh, yeah, and after these things, at least one of the nights, we’d head out for a meal together.”
“She loved those dinners we’d have,” Jeremy said. When he spoke, he looked old. He wasn’t a spring chicken, but he usually appeared like a very handsome and distinguished older gentleman with his thick iron gray hair and straight and elegant posture.
Now, he just looked old.
“Tonight,” Marnie said softly. “We were all supposed to be together tonight.”
“We really were her family!” Jeremy said.
There was a little more conversation, none of it really helpful toward finding out why a Blood-bone-costumed killer would have singled them out.
“God knows, maybe it was random!” Sophie Manning murmured to Grant Vining.
“No, no. It wasn’t random. Trust me,” Vining said.
Finally, Marnie found herself being led out by Detective Manning. She went to the police station, she turned over her clothing and she was given a strange rough outfit to wear—it made her feel as if she had been arrested herself.
Detective Manning wasn’t so bad; she asked Marnie if there was someone she should call.
Marnie’s parents were going to hear about what happened, but they were off on a dream trip to Australia and New Zealand. She would just text them that she was fine, and she was going to be home and trying to sleep, and she would talk to them in the morning.
She had friends, of course.
But no one that she wanted to talk to at that moment.
Her cousin Bridget lived in the other half of her duplex. She would hear about this soon, but Bridget was down in San Diego for the weekend, visiting one of her friends from college who was there for a writers’ retreat. There was no way she could have gotten home yet.
“I just want to go home,” she told Manning.
“All right, of course. But you know, I can take you to a hospital if you wish. You might not want to be alone. You might be suffering a form of shock.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Of course.”
The detective didn’t call for a patrol officer. She brought Marnie home herself. She checked out the duplex off Barham Boulevard where Marnie lived and declared it safe.
“Do you have an alarm system?” Manning asked.
“No, but I do have a camera that watches my living room, and it’s connected to my phone, so in a way...it’s kind of an alarm system.”
“No, it’s not,” Manning told her. “It’s bizarre. Just your living room?”
“I played with the idea of getting a dog.”
“I see. Well, a dog would have been good. When I leave, just make sure that you lock yourself in.”
Marnie looked at her, startled. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be in danger.
She’d only known that Cara was dead.
That Cara had stared up at her while the light had gone out of her eyes.
She shook off the notion of fear. Really. She just wanted to be alone. She did have good locks on her windows and on the front and back doors. She had bought the duplex; she shared it with Bridget. She had made sure they had windows and doors that were up to code—thinking more about earthquakes than home invaders—but whatever the thought, her place was solid.
“I’m good. Really. Quality locks on the windows. My doors would need a battering ram if someone wished to break them down, and I have three bolts on each.”
“All right, then. We’ll be in touch. Oh, my card—” Manning paused, digging around in her suit pocket “—and my partner’s card.” She shrugged. “People tend to like him more. If he’s easier to call and you do need help or you think of anything, call him, or call me.”
“You will find out who did this?” Marnie whispered. She winced. Oh, Lord. It sounded like such a Hollywood line.
Manning smiled. “We’re good, Miss Davante. My partner and I are good together. We’re going to do our best. But...if there’s anything, call us. There’s one thing that Grant Vining taught me right off the bat—if you can get help from somewhere that will solve a murder—take it. So...”
“I wish I had something to tell you. I wish I had something to say,” Marnie assured her.
“Lock up.”
Manning left, and Marnie did so. She headed to the bathroom and turned on the hot water.
She must have stayed beneath the showerhead for an hour.
When she came out of the bathroom, she got in bed and turned on the television. She didn’t seem able to find a channel that did anything but talk about the murder of Cara Barton that day.
Finally she found the Three Stooges.
And still...
She stared up at the ceiling. So exhausted...
And so unable to sleep. Eventually, she closed her eyes. She could still faintly hear Moe, Larry and Curly as they taunted and teased one another.
Her phone rang; it was her mother. Naturally, her mom was hysterical. Her parents had known Cara Barton. They had visited the set. But not only that, it could have been Marnie who had been killed.
It hadn’t been.
The only way to get her mother to calm down was to remind her that sometimes in life, Cara Barton had been a wee bit...obnoxious. She might have offended someone.
It took her twenty minutes to convince her mother not to cut short her dream vacation. She was okay. Not hurt at all. She wasn’t alone in the city.
So Marnie had a nice long conversation, calming down her mother.
Then she had to talk to her dad.
When she hung up, she found herself talking to the air.
“I’m sorry, Cara, I hope I didn’t sound uncaring. I had to get my mom to be okay.”
Sleep...
Watch Moe, Larry and Curly, and be grateful for the channels that kept old classics alive.
Yes, sleep.
She drifted. And as she did so, she thought that she felt a gentle touch on her face and heard a soft whisper beneath the canned laughter on the TV.
“Darling, I know you. I know you didn’t mean anything evil at all. Not to worry. I’m here. I’m with you. Get some rest, sweet Marnie. You really were a friend.”
It was nice; it was kind. As if Cara were trying to help Marnie accept what had happened.
Marnie couldn’t forget that day.
I’m not a bad person, am I? Cara had asked her.
And that had made Marnie smile. Nope. Not bad. Ambitious, trying to get by