Bones and Roses by Eileen; Goudge

himself the chances of his making an arrest, without a single witness or DNA evidence that’d hold up in court, are slim to none. Add the fact that he has it in for me, and you’ve got a recipe for my butt getting kicked out the door. I’m telling you, he hates me.”
    â€œBecause you torched his Camaro? Don’t tell me he’s still holding a grudge after all this time? Over a little thing like that?” Ivy never misses an opportunity to make me regret having confided in her about my brief and inglorious career as an arsonist. “Though, in hindsight, maybe you should’ve slashed his tires instead. You know guys and their cars. They’d sooner lose a nut.”
    I shoot her a dirty look, then heave a sigh. “I would’ve told him I was sorry if he’d given me the chance.” Or if he’d ever made amends for what he did to me.
    â€œYou’d go to him if you had actual evidence, though?” Ivy’s jocular tone gives way to a serious one.
    â€œOf course. I’m not authorized to make an arrest, so I wouldn’t really have a choice.”
    â€œWell then, we’ll just have to find some. Evidence, that is. What’s our next move, Sherlock?”
    â€œI’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out. In the meantime I’m keeping my eye on Stan.”
    â€œYou mean spy on him?” she asks excitedly. When I glance over at her, her eyes are glowing and her cheeks pink at the prospect of some covert activity. Now I’m talking her language.
    â€œSorry to disappoint you, but I think it’s best if we leave any spying to my brother’s imaginary cohorts,” I reply archly. “I’ll see what McGee can come up with. He’s got more connections than a Mafia don. The kind that are on the right side of the law, that is,” I hasten to add.
    â€œWhatever, count me in.”
    â€œAre you sure? It could get dangerous.” I realize who I’m talking to—the kind of person who takes pleasure in bungee-jumping and packs a derringer—only after the words have passed my lips.
    Ivy laughs. “Please. It’s the least I can do, if you’d help me dispose of a dead body.”
    My Craftsman bungalow is a welcome sight when I pull into my driveway after dropping Ivy off at her house. I glance around me, to make sure no one’s lurking about, before getting out. But it seems the press has moved on. It’s been days since I’ve seen or heard from a reporter. The only eyes peering out at me are those of my cat, from the hydrangea bushes that border the porch.
    Hercules streaks past me into the house when I let myself in the front door. Normally he comes and goes through his cat door, and as soon as I enter the kitchen, I see he was up to some mischief while I was out. He’s gotten into the African violet again. Potting soil is scattered over the windowsill and sink below. Typically he’s accomplished this feat without disturbing the plant itself or the ceramic pot it’s in—he’s nothing if not fastidious. “Bad kitty,” I scold him as I clean up the mess, but my heart’s not in it and he knows it. He purrs loudly, rubbing against my ankles.
    I pop a frozen pot pie in the oven and shake some premixed salad greens into a bowl. Hercules’s dinner is a more elaborate affair: a mixture of dry and canned food and diced chicken livers. The house is quiet. The only sounds are the rhythmic clinking of my cat’s bowl against the fridge as he licks it clean and the soft tinkling of the wind chimes outside—one of Ivy’s creations, made from bits of sea glass and seashells strung on lengths of fishing line. Normally I’d be unwinding, but instead I feel unsettled. A feeling that in the old days could only have been remedied by a belt of something stronger than the Fresca I’m sipping. I pick up the phone and call my sponsor, a no-nonsense older woman named Ann