Dating Is Murder

“Lupe,” Emma said, pointing to me, “is that cousin Mandy?”

“No, I’m Wollie,” I said. “I met you a few days ago. Where’s your goose?”

“Goosie asleep.”

Thank God. I introduced myself to Lupe, the housekeeper. Mr. Snuggles raced down the hall to protest my entry. Lupe picked him up and shushed him with a treat pulled from an apron pocket.

“Do you want to play alla myna engine?” Emma said.

“She does not know, m’hija,” Lupe said, bending down to kiss the top of her head. “Only A

Emma, suddenly shy, stuck her hand in her mouth, all four fingers up to the first knuckle. Lupe reached down and pulled the hand back out, murmuring in Spanish. Emma turned and raced down the hallway, Mr. Snuggles close behind. Lupe followed him. I followed her.

We passed two darkened rooms and a third lit with a crackling fire and the flashing images of a wide-screen TV. Emma shouted “Hello, Grammy Qui

It was huge, bigger even than Rex and Tricia’s, a kitchen worthy of a castle. Overhead lights hit every work surface. Strains of Chopin were piped in from somewhere. Maizie stood behind a butcher block, oven-mitted hands on hips as she consulted a cookbook.

Emma ran to the butcher block and climbed onto a stool. Maizie looked up at me.

“Hi, there,” she said, with a smile. “Give me a second. This bread is baking too slowly, and I’m trying to figure out what I did wrong. It better not be my oven.” Behind her was the biggest gas range I’d ever seen outside a restaurant, black enamel with red trim. She turned to it and lifted the lid on a saucepan. Steam rose in a cloud around her.

“It smells great in here,” I said. It actually smelled like Williams-Sonoma.

“Cranberry-ginger chutney. Thanksgiving advance work.”

“And bread?”

“Yes. Corn bread and sourdough.” She wiped flour from her chin with her oven mitt. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d been physically exerting herself. “I’m trying two new stuffings this year. You have to let the bread go stale before it’s cubed.”

Cubed. I grew disoriented, hearing in my head, “Cubed: raised to the third power.” A

“I may do two birds, a smoked and a classic. I haven’t decided yet. Lupe-” Maizie spoke briefly in Spanish, which jogged my memory.

“Maizie, I found A

“Rodriguez. Of course. How’d I manage to forget that? And how’d you find him?”

“Circuitously, and he wasn’t much help, but he remembered A

“A

Maizie plucked her daughter from the bar stool, interrupting the inventory. “That’s right, a Fossil. Wollie, it’s so kind of you to do this. I can’t understand why the agency isn’t-. Okay, don’t get me started on them. Emma, let’s show our guest the photo album.”

Emma took my hand. It surprised me, the tiny fingers, unexpectedly cold, finding their way into my palm. With her mother following, she led me back down the hallway, to the room we’d passed. On a far wall was a built-in TV screen, but the rest of the room was devoted to books on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Hardcover. Lower shelves held children’s books, oversized and ski

“Grammy Qui

A woman at the far end of the room turned, then rose from a sofa, a soft afghan falling to the floor as she did. The TV screen went dark. Emma let go of my hand to run over and wrap herself around her grandmother’s thigh. Thus hampered, the woman advanced with a smile and a limp. “Hello. I’m Grammy Qui

Maizie introduced me and continued to call the woman Grammy Qui

Maizie flipped through the pages of a large leather album. Emma pointed at pictures, shouting out names, until Maizie found what she was looking for. She turned the book around to face me.

The photos showed an expedition to the Santa Monica Pier, a Ferris wheel visible in the background. There was Emma, Emma and Grammy Qui

I pointed to the one next to it. “This one’s better. It’s more like her.” Grammy Qui

A

“That’s A

“Bu

“A

Grammy Qui

The girl wiggled out of her mother’s reach with a laugh. Then she grew serious. “But A

12

It was dark when Detective Cziemanski found me at Grounds, a coffee shop in West Hollywood. Meeting on my side of the hill was his idea; Grounds was mine. A

“Nice shirt,” I said.

He nodded. “Glad you like it. Nice decor.”

I looked around at the putty-colored walls, floors, and ceiling, devoid of decoration, and wondered if he was being sarcastic. “Glad you like it,” I said. “Here’s the photo. Will it help, Detective Zhe-Che-”

“If you can’t say Cziemanski-Shum, not Chum-you’ll have to call me Pete. Photos always help.” He studied the picture. I wanted him to comment on A

“What kind of sketch?”

He pulled on an ear. A greeting card began to take shape, a little boy pulling on his ear at school, then going home to a long-eared family, all pulling on their ears. “Sometimes the coroner will come up with a drawing,” he said, “reconstructing a face from bones. Or we get a witness, we put them together with a sketch artist.”