“Polite?” Fox murmured.
While I tried to ratchet up the glare a few degrees, Indira said, “It’s not your fault, Dashiell.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re a lovely young man.”
“Thank—wait, why does it sound bad when you say it like that?”
“I think you and Mrs. Shufflebottom got off on the wrong foot,” Millie said. “Because you came to town, and you killed Mrs. Shufflebottom’s favorite author—”
“I didn’t kill anyone!”
“—and then it turned out that you didn’t kill her, but you exposed her as a murderer, and you destroyed her reputation, and you destroyed her legacy in Hastings Rock—well, her legacy all over the world, actually—”
“I didn’t destroy anything!”
“—and then you spilled that hot chocolate all over her library books—”
“That was Keme’s fault! What would you do if he jumped out of the closet at you and you were holding a nice, big mug of delicious hot chocolate?”
“—so Mrs. Shufflebottom probably just, you know, needs to get to know you.”
“If she has a chance to get to know me,” I said, “she’ll probably bonk me with that candy cane and turn me into kidney pie.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Shufflebottom is the SWEETEST. She did the best story times. I was always her favorite because I was the BEST at being QUIET!”
The excitement at the end meant a little ramp-up from ear-splitting to ear-shattering. Even Indira’s eyes widened slightly.
Once again, I was spared having to respond. A wave of interested murmurs ran through the crowd, and I craned my head to see Marshall Crowe enter the multipurpose room. He hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d seen him. He was tall and muscular, although at his age, muscular meant a build that leaned toward stocky. His hair was dark with presidential gray at the temples, and he wore a black military jacket over a black tee, with black jeans and black boots. I guessed black underwear was involved at some point. I knew for a fact that he needed reading glasses, and I was looking forward to when he had to pull out a pair of cheaters.
Behind him came two much younger people: a man and a woman. The woman was white, in her twenties, her mousy hair in a bun held by two pencils. Cardigan, cameo locket, pearl earrings, and dark pantyhose all suggested a Carter-era schoolmarm, and her face was set in grim severity. I pegged the man as close to my age, Black, his hair in twists. He was around my height, but muscular instead of, uh, whatever I was. (Slender. I should have said slender.) He wore a tweed blazer with a pocket square that, yes, somehow he actually pulled off, and he gave the general impression of a guy who owned a fedora (in a GQ way, not in a neckbeard way—did anybody still read GQ? Should I be reading it?)
“Who are they?” Millie whispered, which meant Mrs. Shufflebottom’s head came up and whipped around, and I tried to use Fox as cover.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m going to get this over with. Wish me luck.”
“GOOD LUCK!”
I swear, one of the acoustic tiles shifted overhead.
A few of Hastings Rock’s best and brightest hovered nearby, clearly waiting for a chance to approach Marshall. I wasn’t sure they were going to get it—as I watched, Marshall looked up from his conversation with the young woman who’d accompanied him and scowled at JaDonna Powers (church hair) as she made an approach. JaDonna swerved left, her face flushed as she scurried back to her seat.
I was jealous; I would have loved to scurry back to my seat. To scurry back to Hemlock House, as a matter of fact. But if I didn’t give Marshall his parcel now, I’d have to find an opportunity to do it later, and that would probably mean drinks, and a meal, and more drinks—and I could see the evening getting longer and longer. And why would any sensible person spend all that time in a bar or a restaurant, around other people, when they could be safely at home, in their pajamas, on the couch, watching, for the fourteenth time, season two of Supernatural? (With no one talking to them.)
So, I crossed the no-man's-land of open floor between the crowd and Marshall. Marshall hadn’t noticed me yet, his head bent as he whispered furiously to the woman who had arrived with him. As I got closer, I caught the tail end of his words.
“—don’t know why you’re acting like this,” Marshall said. “Anybody else would feel lucky to be in your position.”
The woman opened her mouth, and then she saw me. Something in her expression must have alerted Marshall because he turned. He didn’t recognize me. And then he did, and he pasted on a smile as he roared, “Killer!”
Egad. I’d forgotten about that stupid nickname.
Before I could recover, Marshall wrapped me in a bear hug. Then, with a shake, he released me. “Well—” And then Marshall chose to use several colorful expressions favored by Chase Thunder, which weren’t exactly fit for public consumption. “I was wondering when you’d pop your head up. Where’s Hubert?”
“Hugo,” I said. “And we broke up. That’s why I’m here, as I’m sure my parents told you. Dramatic flight across the country. Total mental and emotional breakdown. I have a pet seal now who makes all my financial decisions.”
I don’t know why I threw in the pet seal thing; to get a rise out of him, I guess. As usual, though, Marshall ignored it. He said another of Chase Thunder’s favorite words, and then “Really? That’s too bad; I liked him.”
“Not enough to remember his name.”
He gave me a considering look, and I realized the Dash of a few years ago—heck, the Dash of last year—wouldn’t have said something like that. But Marshall only grinned again and said, in a different tone, “Killer.” He reached out like he might scrub his hand through my hair—or, God, give me noogies—and I managed a dodge. The movement was uncoordinated, and I caught a whiff of his breath, and with a flash of surprise, I realized Marshall had been drinking. I gave him another, closer look—the slight slackness to his face, the cloudy eyes—and upgraded that to drunk.
Instead of trying again, though, Marshall only said, “How’s the writing going? I saw that gay thing.”
That gay thing (which was now how I was going to refer to it) was a story that I’d had published at an online crime fiction magazine called The Midnight Messenger. I had a feeling that Marshall and people of his generation looked down on e-zines because they weren’t print, but The Midnight Messenger paid pro rates, and even better, they were actively searching for diverse authors. One of the editors had reached out to me about a last-minute story, after they had problems with another author, and—miracle of miracles—I managed to get “Pickup at Pershing” (my take on a Chandler story) completed and sent off. Even better, it wasn’t a Will Gower story; I’d tried something new. Granted, I’d only finished it and sent it off because Keme had hidden the Xbox and Millie had brought me a million coffees and Fox had threatened to give me a “new” haircut and Indira had suggested the possibility of locking me in my room. And, of course, because Bobby had been so genuinely excited for me, and I honestly couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing him.
“God,” Marshall said before I had a chance to speak, “that’s got to have Chandler spinning in his grave.”
“He’ll survive,” I said. “Or not, I guess. I love Chandler’s stories and what he did for crime fiction, but he was a massive homophobe. There’s a ton of homophobia baked into the crime fiction genre, actually. I think it’s time to start pushing back on that, don’t you?”
Marshall gave me that considering look again and grunted; I didn’t think I’d be reading an impassioned speech from Chase Thunder about the importance of gay rights anytime soon, but Marshall didn’t argue. (Which was a good thing: my knees had reached melted-butter status, and I was so sweaty I thought I was going to slide out of my shirt.)
“This is Elodie, my assistant,” he said, jerking a thumb at the young woman. “She wants to be a writer. Like you. And that’s Hayes, my agent.” He must have meant the guy who had come in with him, but before I could check, he continued, “Elodie, work something out for Dash—dinner and drinks after.”
“I really can’t—” I tried, and I used all my mental energy to visualize a night of nachos, then Indira’s cookies, and then the episode of Supernatural when John—well, I don’t want to give anything away.
“Nonsense. We’ll call your parents; they’ll be thrilled.”
