Page 53 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

The poodles have got to go. ASAP.

Chapter 16

Six hours later, I still haven’t solved the poodle problem.

Mostly because it takes me the entire time between Sheila’s blackmail and now to figure out what to wear to meet Tasha. After trying on everything I own, I’ve settled on some jeans that make me look like I actually have a butt and a tank top from one of my favorite bands, Boss Fight. It’s casual, a little punk, but it also looks like an actual outfit.

Just for the heck of it, I spritz some saltwater tousling spray on my hair, something Hannah gave me after the company sponsored one of her posts. It’s supposed to give my limp hair a little body, but all it does is make it look slightly sticky.

Gross.

I check the time, and since I still have fifteen minutes, I hop in the shower and quickly wash out the tousling spray.

Apparently, though, I don’t shut the bathroom door all the way.

Just as I’m about to reach down to turn off the water, Jacques Cousteau lives up to his namesake and leaps into the shower withme, which makes me scream bloody murderPsycho-style and pull down the shower curtain bar on both of us, bonking myself hard just under my eye. Very cool to be almost blinded today, on top of everything else.

Jacques prances around, apparently loving all this.

“I will call Animal Control!” I yell, sliding around the slick tub and banging my knees as I try to stand. “You wouldn’t last an hour in that hellhole!”

He absolutely doesn’t care and leaps back out of the tub to pounce on the puddles that are now all over the bathroom floor. The other two dogs watch from the doorway, looking amused.

I finally untangle myself from the curtain, shut the water off, and get out, first drying myself and then tossing the towel down to mop up the water. I’m simultaneously swabbing the floor and cursing out Tond for sticking me with the dogs, when suddenly I realize Istillhaven’t heard from Claudia about all my funeral revelations. Makes sense that she’d be the grudge-holding type.

Tomorrow, I’ll grovel like I’ve never groveled before. She’ll give in and help me figure out who’s the mastermind of Operation Kill Cran and Possibly Mo.

Who’s the crime boss/Moriarty/Funeral Deep Throat.

Who’s got Tond wrapped around their little finger.

The woman’s a born meddler; she won’t be able to help herself.

When the floor’s mostly dry, I check the clock—five minutes until I’m supposed to meet Tasha. Crap.

After a few quick swipes of deodorant, I throw my clothes back on, grab my shoulder bag, and go.

I jog down the stairs and past Sheila/Roy’s apartment, almost tripping over a package on my way out of the front door. I apologize silently to whoever it’s for, kick it into the corner of the mailroom,and tear down the path toward the gate. I’m already halfway down the sidewalk when I hear the gate clang shut after me.

The whole way there, I try to walk fast enough that I won’t be too late, but not so fast that I show up sweaty. Tasha already got that version of me once today. I need to show her I’ve got range.

As I turn onto Lincoln, Dickie’s Tavern appears in front of me, humming softly from the neon glow of the Old Style sign.

I suddenly feel a little queasy, and not just at the thought of two-star pizza. Here I am teetering on the edge of all things unknown.

I mean, I might be murdered at any second.

AND I’m not sure if this is a date.

Which is worse? I don’t know. But somehow, I’m going to tackle both at the same time.This will be fine, I tell myself.I know how to multitask.

They keep the lights low in Dickie’s, which I assume is so nobody can see the layer of grease and dust on everything. The wood is dark, too, and so is the red vinyl of the booths lining the walls. The dim light unfortunately doesnothide the fact that the place smells like the ghost of a thousand sad-guy cigarettes. A quick glance around tells me that Tasha’s not here yet. Might as well do a little recon to pass the time.

To start: The Cran/Dickie’s connection just doesn’t square. Every scummy inch of the bar reinforces my original theory that it’s not the sort of place Cran would hang out. Not without disinfectant wipes and, like, kale. So why did he have the Dickie’s matchbook in his pocket at the funeral? Did he just pop in to grab some matches one day? I’m sure he wasn’t a smoker, so why would he even need them to begin with? Was he a scented candle guy?

My sense of the man just gets fuzzier and fuzzier.

I linger in the doorway for a half second, scanning the room and clocking three middle-aged sports guys at the bar and a couple at a far booth, their heads so close together I can’t tell what they look like. The bartender, an older woman with tons of tattoos, leans against the wall behind her, checking her phone.