I was shocked into admitting that I was. The last thing I had expected Officer Knightley to mention was Dr. Clive Clemmings, Ph.D. I was thinking something more along the lines of, oh, I don’t know. Taking an eight-year-old off hotel property without his parents’ permission.

Stupid, I know, but Paul had really rattled me with that one.

“Why?” I asked. “Is he—Mr. Clemmings—all right?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Officer Jones said. “He’s dead.”

“Dead?” I wanted to reach out for something to hold on to. Unfortunately there wasn’t anything to grab except the Dumpster, and since it was filled with the remains of that afternoon’s lunch, I didn’t want to touch it.

I settled for sinking down onto the curb.

Clive Clemmings? My mind was racing. Clive Clemmings dead? How? Why? I hadn’t liked Clive Clemmings, of course. I’d been hoping that when Jesse’s body turned up, I could go back to his office and rub it in his face. You know, the whole part about Jesse having been murdered after all.

Only now it looked as if I wouldn’t get the chance.

“What happened?” I asked, gazing up at the cops bewilderedly.

“We’re not sure, precisely,” Officer Knightley said. “He was found this morning at his desk at the historical society, dead from an apparent heart attack. According to the receptionist’s sign-in log, you were one of the few people who saw him yesterday.”

Only then did I remember that the lady behind the reception desk had made me sign in. Damn!

“Well,” I said heartily—but not too heartily, I hoped. “He was fine when I talked to him.”

“Yes,” Officer Knightley said. “We’re aware of that. It’s not Dr. Clemmings’s death we’re here about.”

“It isn’t?” Wait a minute. What was going on?

“Miss Simon,” Officer Jones said. “When Dr. Clemmings was found this morning, it was also discovered than an item of particular value to the historical society was missing. Something you apparently looked at, with Dr. Clemmings, just yesterday.”

The letters. Maria’s letters. They were gone. They had to be. She had come and taken them, and Clive Clemmings had caught a glimpse of her somehow and had had a heart attack from the shock of seeing the woman in the portrait behind his desk walking around his office.

“A small painting.” Officer Knightley had to refer to his notepad. “A miniature of someone named Hector de Silva. The receptionist, Mrs. Lampbert, says Dr. Clemmings told her you were particularly interested in it.”

This information, so unexpected, shook me. Jesse’s portrait? Jesse’s portrait was gone from the collection? But who would have taken that? And why?

I did not have to feign my innocence for once as I stammered, “I—I looked at the painting, yes. But I didn’t take it or anything. I mean, when I left, Mr.—Dr. Clemmings was putting it away.”

Officers Knightley and Jones exchanged glances. Before they could say anything more, however, someone came around the corner of the Pool House.

It was Paul Slater.

“Is there a problem with my brother’s babysitter, officers?” he demanded in a bored voice that suggested—to me, anyway—that the Slater family’s employees were often being dragged off for questioning by members of law enforcement.

“Excuse me,” Officer Knightley said, sounding really very offended. “But as soon as we are done questioning this witness, we—”

Paul whipped off his sunglasses and barked, “Are you aware that Miss Simon is a minor? Shouldn’t you be questioning her in the presence of her parents?”

Officer Jones blinked a few times. “Pardon me, uh, sir,” he began, though it was clear he didn’t really consider Paul a sir, seeing as how he was under eighteen and all. “The young lady isn’t under arrest. We’re just asking her a few—”

“If she isn’t under arrest,” Paul said swiftly, “then she doesn’t have to speak to you at all, does she?”

Officers Knightley and Jones looked at each other again. Then Officer Knightley said, “Well, no. But there has been a death and a theft, and we have reason to believe she might have information—”

Paul looked at me. “Suze,” he said, “have these gentlemen read you your rights?”

“Um,” I said. “No.”

“Do you want to talk to them?”

“Um,” I said, glancing nervously from Officer Knightley to Officer Jones, and then back again. “Not really.”

“Then you don’t have to.”

Paul leaned down and took hold of my arm.

“Say good-bye to the nice police officers,” he said, pulling me to my feet.

I looked up at the police officers. “Uh,” I said to them. “I’m very sorry Dr. Clemmings is dead, but I swear I don’t know what happened to him, or that painting, either. Bye.”

Then I let Paul Slater pull me back out to the pool.

I am not normally so docile, but I have to tell you, I was in shock. Maybe it was post-being-questioned-by-the-police-but-not-taken-down-tothe-station-house exhilaration, but once we were out of the sight of Officers Knightley and Jones, I whirled around and grabbed Paul’s wrist.

“All right,” I said. “What was all that about?”

Paul had put his sunglasses back on, so it was hard to read the expression in his eyes, but I think he was amused.

“All what?” he asked.

“All that,” I said, nodding toward the back of the Pool House. “That whole Lone-Ranger-to-the-rescue thing. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it just yesterday that you were going to turn me over to the authorities yourself? Or rat me out to my boss, anyway?”

Paul shrugged. “Yes,” he said. “A certain someone pointed out to me, however, that you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.”

At the time, all I felt was a little miffed at being called a fly. It didn’t even occur to me to wonder who that “certain someone” might have been.

It wasn’t long before I found out, however.

chapter

eight

Okay, so I went out with him.

So what?

So what does that make me? I mean, the guy asked me if I wanted to go with him for a burger after I dumped his brother back off with his parents at five, and I said yes.