Bones and Roses by Eileen; Goudge Page B

full-fledged investigation.”
    â€œYou keep saying ‘we.’ It’s making me uncomfortable.”
    I ignore him to go on, “You helped me once already, and not just because you’re a good guy. You miss the action. Admit it.” He’s quiet, which I take as a positive sign. “Let’s say I’m right about the accomplice. Suppose we were to track him down and convince him to testify against Stan in exchange for immunity.”
    â€œYou watch too much TV,” he scoffs.
    â€œAnd you drink too much.” I don’t miss a beat. “Which is why we’d make a good team. We can keep each other honest.”
    â€œJesus. You’re like stray cat, Ballard. I toss you a scrap and now I’m your meal ticket?”
    â€œIf you won’t do it for me, then do it for the sake of justice. You can’t let a killer go free.”
    The silence that ensues is so lengthy I wonder if the connection’s been broken. Then he growls: “Just so you know, I’m holding you personally responsible if another dead body turns up on my watch.”
    â€œEven if it’s mine?”
    â€œ Especially if it’s yours.”
    I smile. “I’ll take that as a yes. Oh, and by the way, I’m saving you a chair.” It’s an AA expression. And judging by his muttered expletive, you don’t have to be an AA’er to know what it means.

CHAPTER SIX
    â€œIt’s … um … very avant-garde,” observes the big-haired lady to my right, diamond earrings flashing like hazard lights as she leans in for a closer look at the diorama on display in front of us. It’s my personal favorite from Ivy’s current collection—a daddy long legs spider and monarch caterpillar exchanging vows under a bridal canopy fashioned from twigs and dried flowers—titled “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Though I get the feeling the artistry is lost on Big Hair.
    It’s Tuesday evening of the following week, the opening of Ivy’s show at the Headwinds Gallery. A nice turnout, I’m pleased to note. Invited guests and walk-ins alike mill around the loft-like space where each of Ivy’s pieces is showcased by a blown-up photo mounted on the wall above. Ivy, resplendent in an ankle-length batik halter dress made of lightweight cotton that flutters around her when she walks, her hair spilling over her shoulders in a torrent of dark curls, looks every inch the woman of the hour. At the moment she’s being squired around by the gallery owner, Rick Swannack, a short, energetic man with clipped salt-and-pepper hair, wearing what appears to be a velvet smoking jacket. He’s introducing her to the VIPs in attendance, which I pray will lead to bigger and better things. Not that Ivy cares about fame or fortune; she’s content as long as she’s earning enough to pay the bills. I watch her break away from Rick and the well-dressed older man with whom she’d been chatting to greet my brother. He’s just walked in with his friend and fellow computer nerd, Ray Zimmer (hacker name: “Zorro.”) It may have cost her a sale, but she’ll always go with her heart before her head, and I love her for that.
    My brother’s face lights up. He adores Ivy—she’s like the nicer sister he wishes I was. I’m pleased to note he’s wearing a sports coat for the occasion, never mind the shirt it’s paired with hasn’t been ironed and has a button missing. “Did you know a high-density image has four thousand eight hundred pixels per inch?” she says to me when I catch up to them. She gestures toward the photo on the exposed-brick wall above a diorama of line-dancing caterpillars. “Your brother—” she gives Arthur an affectionate nudge with her elbow—“is a walking factoid factory.”
    â€œActually, your usage of ‘factoid’ is incorrect,” Arthur instructs her.