Page 59 of Without a Clue

“As you wish,” she says with a little carefree smile, and sips again on her pink drink.

She may go back to being an absolute wreck tomorrow morning, but better a wreck than this completely insensitive, dreamland woman.

Moving on.

“Did you notice anything unusual the night he died? Did you go out of your room in the middle of the night? Have you ever, for that matter”—I pause, casting another furtive glance her way—“left your room in the night for any reason?”

She takes a strong inhaling breath as though this was a deep question worth working through, then shakes her head. “No. Not that I can recall.”

“Which, of course, would be easy to recall. Given we are talking about the last seventy-two hours.”

“No. All I did the first night was what I always do—take my sleeping pill and fall asleep to a soundtrack of Stevie Wonder. Oh. And the night after, I stayed up wallowing in despair, of course.”

“Of course.”

“A casual self-wallow before bedtime is a must,” I say, typing down her strange account. It takes several minutes, and I tell her at least twice that no, she cannot take a break and join the ladies for water aerobics “real quick.”

Maybe she’s sleepwalking, I realize.

Maybe she’s actually talking to herself and the pills have made her sleepwalk.

I need to see the bottle and look up a list of side effects.

That would be a relieving realization. On the one hand, I’m driven to figure this out, but on the other . . . it can’t be Neena. Eccentric, grandmotherly Neena. It just can’t.

(You’re a terrible detective, Pip. You’re supposed to be unbiased.)

“And what was your relationship with Hugh?” I say.

“I think you know that, chicky.”

“Yes, but tell me anyway. How long have you known each other?”

“A little over forty years. I was twenty-five when we first met. He was quite the catch back then, if you catch my drift.”

My brows shoot up. “You dated Hugh?”

“I was engaged to Hugh, honey. But that was a lifetime ago.”

“That wasn’t a lifetime ago, Neena. This is your life. How did I not know this?”

It’s ridiculous, but I feel a sense of betrayal here.

I mean, they knew everything about me. Everything. And to not share this?

She waves a hand. “What’s there to share? I’ve been engaged to a dozen men over the years. I barely remembered it until you told me just now.” She laughs.

But it feels . . . a little forced?

“And who broke it off?” I say into her laughter.

I can’t be sure, but I could swear there’s a millimeter pause in her laughter—a break in the cadence before she forces the laughter to hit a natural end.

“He did,” she says at last.

Her tone is airy, but the way she reaches to the ground to set down her drink is unusual. Her face purposefully turning away. No witty, flighty quips that are so . . . her.

“That must’ve hurt,” I say, setting my phone down.