Page 74 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

And also someone crying.

It’s coming from farther into the house.

Shitshitshitshit.

I inch through the archway, hoping I won’t have to do anything heroic, because I really had not thought past this moment, and also I am not a heroic type of person.

But I’m sure as hell not getting this far and then leaving here without the confession I came for.

I duck next to the couch and reach for Jacques, who’s the closest to me. He gleefully dodges my outstretched hand and trots off across the living room and through the doorway to the kitchen.

Where Tond is.

Get back here, Jacques!I scream in my head.There’s a killer in there! With a gun!

The killer’s voice wobbles out of the kitchen as he sings... the “Ave Maria”? From somewhere in there, Jacques begins to howl along.

How is this my life.

“Tond! Let the dog go!” I call out from behind the couch cushion that I am currently holding in front of me as a shield. “Put down the gun and let the dog go, and I’ll give you back your money!”

Hey, wow, not bad, actually. I sound pretty legit.

There’s a pause while he sniffles. “Who’s there?”

I clear my throat and try again.

“Tond! Who did you shoot? Is someone hurt?”

“Everybody Hurts!” he announces, before launching into a new song.

Really thought a murderer would be a little less, I don’t know, ADHD about it? “Tond! Who did you just kill?”

“I think—I think I killed the calendar,” he wails.

My heartbeat is pounding frantically in my throat and my face and my eyes as I creep closer to the kitchen—until finally I see the carnage.

Tond is sitting on the floor near the kitchen table—surrounded by jars of pickles and other unidentifiable vegetables in jars. Across from him is the red splatter, and at the base of the wall below it lies a shattered jar that once held... beets?

Okay then, Tond murdered some beets.

A second shattered jar—what looks like pickled okra—apparently hit the wall a few feet away, against a calendar. Turns out the difference between gunshots and pickle jars shattering is not as big as I would have guessed.

Tond looks up and spots me.

“You?” he asks, wiping his nose pathetically.

I step into the kitchen and wave.

He frowns. “The secret girlfriend?”

Oh right.

“Hello again,” I say, caution sensors blaring in my head. “So you didn’t shoot... a person?”

He points sheepishly at the calendar on the wall, which I can now see is a kind of pinup calendar but of Cran and his three dogs. The August photo has him lying on the grass, the three dogs sitting behind him in a line. One dog—Jacques, obviously—has his paw resting on Cran’s shoulder. There’s something inappropriately sexy about the whole thing.

“I threw the last jar of pickled beets, Cran’s special recipe.” He starts to cry again. “He’ll never make any more.”