Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [83]
“I really am losing my mind, aren’t I?”
“It’s possible.”
She blew out her breath. “That’s unfortunate. I’m kind of famous, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She sighed. “What are we going to do?”
I stared at her. “We’re going to figure out who broke into my cute little house.”
“Any ideas how?”
“We’re going to use our brains.”
“Wow,” she said.
29
Love your enemies. In case your friends turn out to be dumb shits.
—Donald Archer, whose
friends are kind of…
We went through every piece of mail she had, evaluated every word, considered every comma. By four in the morning I felt as if my eyes had been sandblasted and my mind fried in extra-virgin olive oil.
I flopped back onto Laney’s bed and covered my face with my hand. “I hate people. I literally cannot tell you how much I hate people.”
“How quickly the bliss of sex fades.”
“Not like chocolate,” I said.
“That stuff’ll stay on your hips forever. Unless you drink enough of my Cellulite Chaser.”
“Oh, dear God,” I said, and covered my head with a pillow. “Please, please, please don’t make me think about your all-natural, made-from-clay-and-nothing-else recipes that …” I paused, removed the pillow, stared at her.
“What?” Her expression had gone serious, expectant.
“The letters …” I picked up the first one, skimmed it rapidly. “‘Natural,’” I said and retrieved the next. “‘God given.’” The next. “‘Earthy. True.’”
“He’s not religious,” she said, glancing down at the nearest missive. “He’s a naturalist.”
“And now your Green Goo recipe has disappeared.”
She was frowning.
“Who knew about it?”
“No one,” she said. “Foxy swore me to secrecy when she gave it to me years ago.”
“So only your hairdresser knows.”
“Not Nadine,” she said. “She’s producing her own products. Hopes to start a natural—” Her words stumbled to a halt.
After my meeting with Morab the sex slave, and Senator Rivera the sex addict, I had almost forgotten that I’d met Nadine. “Has she asked for your recipe?”
“Not outright.”
“But you think she’d like to?”
Laney looked unhappy. “She’s a good person. Started the condors program.”
“Which you’ve donated to,” I guessed.
She shrugged, noncommittal. “But I still get the idea she thinks I should …” Her words trailed off again. “I mean, I thought we were friends.”
The room went silent.
“Is it her?” I asked into the quiet.
She said nothing for several seconds, then glanced away. “Maybe.”
I took a deep breath, feeling down to my soul that we’d found our culprit. “This isn’t something you should feel guilty about,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“But you do.”
“It’s just that I’ve …” She paused and shrugged.
“Been so lucky.”
“Blessed, really.”
“It’s not your fault that Nadine didn’t make it big.”
She stared at nothing, seeming to search for some way to believe she was wrong. But finally she closed her eyes and gave up. “What do we do now?”
“I suppose we should ask the police to question her,” I said. “Or I could—”
She jerked toward me. “You’re going to stay out of this, Mac.”
“I know. I was just wondering who to call. I don’t know whose jurisdiction it would be. It might turn into a pissing contest.”
“Pissing contest or not, this is their job. Not yours.”
“I know.”
She stared at me a moment, then nodded. “Maybe we call Rivera and let him figure it out.”
“At four in the morning?”
“Probably not.”
“First thing when I wake up.”
“You promise?”
“Of course I promise.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What do you think? That I want to get involved with another crazed lunatic?”
She paused. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“Are you kidding? In the past few years I’ve been attacked by a tight end, a psychiatrist, an investor, my brother’s friend, an octogenarian, and a cuckolded father. You think I want more of that?”
She was still staring at me. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Listen, Brainy Laney Butterfield, my life may not be as wildly stimulating as yours but that doesn’t mean I feel a burning need to stick my nose into situations that are likely to get me …” I paused, thinking. “Holy shit,” I said, realizing the truth. “I feel a burning need to stick my nose