“A catchy little tune like that … It’ll be stuck in my head all day long.”
She knocked on the door and, a moment later, it was opened by a far more casual version of Emma than Savannah had seen the day before.
Wearing a tank top, a pair of baggy men’s boxer shorts, and hot pink flip-flops, Emma looked like most of the other residents of The Lanes—relaxed and ready for a day of doing absolutely nothing.
Savannah decided she wanted to be a Lanes resident when she grew up someday.
“Good morning, Savannah,” Emma said, throwing the door wide open. “Come on in.”
“And a good morning to you, too.”
Savannah walked inside the tiny house with a living room that was approximately the size of her own bathroom.
One glance around told her that the place had once been decorated with careful consideration and good taste. Like the exterior, yellow and white were the principal tones on the walls and country cottage furniture. The sofa was upholstered in a cheerful lemon and cream French toile, accented by sapphire throw pillows.
A collection of antique cobalt blue bottles sat on shelves in the windows, sparkling in the morning light.
And several bright, colorful, abstract watercolors hung on the walls. Savannah recalled what Helene had said about Emma being a talented artist, and she suspected they were hers.
But like the space in front of Emma’s house, this area had also been invaded by an alien presence.
When Emma invited Savannah to take a seat on the sofa, she could hardly walk across the floor without tripping over the jumble of musical equipment. Black electronic boxes—small, large, and enormous—connected by what seemed like miles of tangled cords occupied nearly every inch of spare space in the small room.
“Sorry about the mess,” Emma said as Savannah nearly sat on a microphone shaped like a penis with pointed studs protruding from the top.
Gingerly holding it with two fingers, Savannah moved the mic to a nearby chair. “A girl wouldn’t wanna park herself on something like that,” she said. “She’d wind up sitting on a heating pad for the rest of the day.”
“Like I told you at Oma’s, my boyfriend, Kyd, is in a band,” Emma said, plopping down on the other end of the sofa. “You probably heard him practicing when you walked up.”
Savannah listened for a moment to the screeching and shouting, which could still be heard all too clearly. “Uh … yes. And I’m still enjoying it, even in here,” she said. “I saw his van outside. Poison Nails, huh? Creative name. Did he think of that himself?”
“Yes.” She shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. “It’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but …”
“Hey, art comes in all forms. Expression of the human spirit and all that.”
A particularly loud screech set Savannah’s teeth on edge and made her think of the time Dirk had accidentally stepped on Cleopatra’s tail, hard enough to warrant a visit to the vet.
She wondered what aspect of Kyd’s spirit that particular riff expressed. Would it qualify as pure demon possession or just a case of bad taste?
“I came to talk to you about your grandmother,” Savannah said. “And to tell you what I’ve uncovered so far.”
“Actually, Oma Helene called me this morning, right after you did. She told me that you found sleeping medication in her cocoa.”
“Yes, the police lab processed it yesterday and confirmed my worst suspicions.”
“The police are involved now?”
Savannah nodded. “I invited a friend of mine to your grandmother’s property to have a look and give me his impressions. He’s a detective in the San Carmelita Police Department. I was his partner for a long time, back when I was a cop. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s a gifted investigator.”
“And he thinks there’s foul play, too?”
“Absolutely. We also found an area of the road that had been dug out, right by where your grandmother lost control of her motorbike. We figure that’s at least two
She knocked on the door and, a moment later, it was opened by a far more casual version of Emma than Savannah had seen the day before.
Wearing a tank top, a pair of baggy men’s boxer shorts, and hot pink flip-flops, Emma looked like most of the other residents of The Lanes—relaxed and ready for a day of doing absolutely nothing.
Savannah decided she wanted to be a Lanes resident when she grew up someday.
“Good morning, Savannah,” Emma said, throwing the door wide open. “Come on in.”
“And a good morning to you, too.”
Savannah walked inside the tiny house with a living room that was approximately the size of her own bathroom.
One glance around told her that the place had once been decorated with careful consideration and good taste. Like the exterior, yellow and white were the principal tones on the walls and country cottage furniture. The sofa was upholstered in a cheerful lemon and cream French toile, accented by sapphire throw pillows.
A collection of antique cobalt blue bottles sat on shelves in the windows, sparkling in the morning light.
And several bright, colorful, abstract watercolors hung on the walls. Savannah recalled what Helene had said about Emma being a talented artist, and she suspected they were hers.
But like the space in front of Emma’s house, this area had also been invaded by an alien presence.
When Emma invited Savannah to take a seat on the sofa, she could hardly walk across the floor without tripping over the jumble of musical equipment. Black electronic boxes—small, large, and enormous—connected by what seemed like miles of tangled cords occupied nearly every inch of spare space in the small room.
“Sorry about the mess,” Emma said as Savannah nearly sat on a microphone shaped like a penis with pointed studs protruding from the top.
Gingerly holding it with two fingers, Savannah moved the mic to a nearby chair. “A girl wouldn’t wanna park herself on something like that,” she said. “She’d wind up sitting on a heating pad for the rest of the day.”
“Like I told you at Oma’s, my boyfriend, Kyd, is in a band,” Emma said, plopping down on the other end of the sofa. “You probably heard him practicing when you walked up.”
Savannah listened for a moment to the screeching and shouting, which could still be heard all too clearly. “Uh … yes. And I’m still enjoying it, even in here,” she said. “I saw his van outside. Poison Nails, huh? Creative name. Did he think of that himself?”
“Yes.” She shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. “It’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but …”
“Hey, art comes in all forms. Expression of the human spirit and all that.”
A particularly loud screech set Savannah’s teeth on edge and made her think of the time Dirk had accidentally stepped on Cleopatra’s tail, hard enough to warrant a visit to the vet.
She wondered what aspect of Kyd’s spirit that particular riff expressed. Would it qualify as pure demon possession or just a case of bad taste?
“I came to talk to you about your grandmother,” Savannah said. “And to tell you what I’ve uncovered so far.”
“Actually, Oma Helene called me this morning, right after you did. She told me that you found sleeping medication in her cocoa.”
“Yes, the police lab processed it yesterday and confirmed my worst suspicions.”
“The police are involved now?”
Savannah nodded. “I invited a friend of mine to your grandmother’s property to have a look and give me his impressions. He’s a detective in the San Carmelita Police Department. I was his partner for a long time, back when I was a cop. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s a gifted investigator.”
“And he thinks there’s foul play, too?”
“Absolutely. We also found an area of the road that had been dug out, right by where your grandmother lost control of her motorbike. We figure that’s at least two
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