Page 72 of Without a Clue

Am I just another recipient of his far-reaching goodwill?

How is it possible that Jackie has used a ghostwriter all this time? Really? You think you know someone . . .

At three, I stick around for Nash’s session.

And believe me, he took his vow to stick close by seriously.

I tried at one point to step out the door to answer a call and he broke off his lecture to say, in essence, seize her.

(They did in fact seize me.)

So. Staying wasn’t really a choice.

“How did it go?” Nash says, shutting the workshop door behind him.

We’re the last ones to leave the session room. Fifty or so of the readers from the workshop have stayed to linger just ahead of us, each, I notice, keeping their steps slow and bodies as close to Nash as possible. Waiting for a moment to strike up a conversation.

I’ve seen it at the other workshops too.

One person tripped and fell to the carpet, faking a massive knee injury, to get Ricky’s attention from the crowd two hours ago. The medics came and everything.

“Jackie did say something, I don’t know, freaky to me this morning.”

“Oh? Which was?”

“Well, for one thing she said I’m probably not supposed to be telling you. What with you being a suspect and all. She said I’m showing favoritism.”

“But I’m not the killer.”

“A good thing for a killer to say.”

“Well,” he says, “if we’re really going to go down that road, you’re as much a suspect as any one of us. Maybe more.”

“Me?” I say in a how dare you tone. “How so?”

“You do have more to gain.”

“Like what? His nonexistent crown jewels? I’m out of a job now.”

“You still have managing The Seven. Now Six.”

“Fine. I’m out of a job except for managing this unruly group of The Seven. Now Six. Still. It’s not like he put me in his will or anything. I know. I’ve seen it. I’ve memorized it.”

Nash’s brows shoot up. Somebody casts a glance backward, and he says under his breath. “You . . . memorized it?”

“Yep. In my first month with him he showed me the two locations for his will and asked me to read it. You know how he was. I think he was always coming up with creative ways to worry about someone doing something criminal to him and getting away with it, so he always was thinking five steps ahead. I guess you can’t be thinking about devious ways to get away with murder and theft for a living without getting a little paranoid. I always took his paranoia as a funny little part of the job. Until”—I shrug—“of course, he was right.”

“What does the will say?”

“I’m actually not sure I should tell you, if you are a true suspect. It’s stupid, but . . . Jackie did have a point.”

Nash lowers his voice. Leans closer. “Pip, I’m not your killer,” he says, his words tickling my ear. “And you know it.”

I ignore the hairs that have raised on my arm for entirely different reasons than fear. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”