Page 47 of Without a Clue

“That kid is traumatized,” Gordon says.

“Well, how could he not be? He’s probably next,” Jackie says. She sneezes into her handkerchief.

“And . . . he knows it,” Ricky says, shaking his head slowly. “Knows that looking too deep into that . . . notebook of his supervisor’s . . . may very well be the death of him.”

“Well, I’m about ready for breakfast. Anyone else?”

All heads turn to Neena, who is focused at the moment on smoothing the wrinkles from her bright purple skirt. She moves to standing, her eyes bright. Clear.

“Anybody?” she says, turning in a circle.

We’re all silent in return.

“Oh, come on,” she says. “Cheer up. Man’s on the job. This’ll all get settled soon enough. Besides, I simply can’t go another day without eating. Yesterday about killed me. I’m never going another four hours without some sort of protein.”

I cast a glance over to Nash.

My eyes say it all. You see this too, right? Catching her moving around the hall in the middle of the night and then this?

“Have you lost your mind, Neena?” Jackie says incredulously. “Yesterday you threw a glass of champagne at the bellhop. For, according to you, ‘looking seedy.’”

“I stand by that,” Neena replies. “The man was looking rather seedy.”

“He was looking at his phone while we got off the elevator.”

“Plotting murder for all we knew,” Neena retorts, then flutters her hand in the air. Her eyes cast around us. “So I didn’t like Carragan. I’ll admit it.”

I put my forehead in my palm. “Neena,” I hiss, “you can’t say things like that about the dead.”

She shrugs, as though we’re disagreeing over something as trite as how well to cook meat. “What? We all thought it. I’m just saying it.”

“Yes, but he was murdered. And we’re in the middle of an investigation!” I shake my head. “Neena. Honestly . . .”

This is all getting out of hand.

“Don’t take anything she says seriously right now; she’s gone temporarily mad,” Gordon says. “It’s the summer of ’03 all over again. The Flash Mob in the Mall incident on repeat.”

“Ah.” Jackie nods, tapping her nose, as though it suddenly makes sense.

“How long did it take her to come down from that one, Jackie?” Gordon says. “Three weeks? Four?”

“I know it wasn’t until she got that call from her editor with the latest numbers,” Jackie says. She shakes her head critically. “I for one don’t even look at my numbers. It’s demeaning work, catering your self-esteem to sales.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it demeaning, Jackie,” Gordon says, taking up Neena’s defense. “A little pathetic, really, but not demeaning.”

“You’re all wrong . . .” Ricky slips out from the curtains and flashes a morose, totally miserable expression at all of us. “It’s the pills.”

We all turn.

“What pills?” I say.

“For her nerves . . . most likely,” Ricky says. “I saw her this morning . . . popping them . . . like candy.”

“I’ll take whatever she’s having,” Crystal says, reaching for Neena’s purse as Neena snatches it out of her hand. “C’mon, Neena. I want to check out of this trip too.”

Neena pulls herself toward the door. “They’re prescriptions for this trip.” She raises her chin. “So I get a little nervous before traveling. That’s allowed. And now, apparently, my fears are fully realized and turn out to be entirely possible and we are living in a nightmare. So I’m taking them. Yes.

“The fact is, we’re stuck here now, so the way I see it, I might as well continue existing best I can. I’m going to eat breakfast—and drown my waffles in all the syrup I can get. Then I’m going to meet my readers—and gab with the charming butler at the pool.”