“Well, for one, I believe Gilroy when he said he didn’t kill Mona.”

Lyle didn’t say anything to that. I guess that meant he believed it, too.

“Which means either Bramwell, Frank, or James could have killed her. And James is dead, so if he is the killer, we’ve reached an impasse.” Unless she was blackmailing other clients. She did have a entire book filled with memory cards, after all, and I couldn’t help but wonder why if not for nefarious purpose. Of course, they might just have been her version of notches on a bed head.

“Bramwell didn’t do it.”

I met his gaze sharply. “You still believe him?”

He grimaced. “My brother is as smooth as they come, but yes, I believe he didn’t personally kill her.”

“Meaning you think it’s possible he hired someone?”

Lyle hesitated. “He’s capable of such an act. We all are, when it comes to protecting our own.”

Which still didn’t mean he had. I picked up my coffee and sipped it thoughtfully. “We did glean another bit of useful information out of that little interview.”

“Beside you coming up with wild pregnancy theories, you mean?”

I gave him a flat look. He returned it evenly. Not willing to even consider the possibility she’d been pregnant—which was interesting given there was as much chance of it being his as anyone else’s.

“Bramwell and Gilroy both state they paid Mona the money, so the next question is, what the hell happened to it?”

“She would have banked it.”

“Sirens don’t bank. It’s like driving—an inconvenience they’d rather pay someone else to handle.”

He frowned. “I don’t think she’d trust anyone enough to bank that amount of money.”

Which made Mona different to just about every other siren I’d known. If they didn’t lock their doors against thieves, why would they worry about someone stealing their cash? After all, their song had more uses than calling in prospective clients. It could also be used to lure thieves back to the scene of the crime.

“What about Darryl? He was her driver, so if he didn’t do her banking, he might know who did.”

“Good luck finding the little creep.” Lyle pushed away from the chair. “He’s made himself rather scarce of late.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why have you been trying to find him?”

“Wanted to talk to him about Mona, that’s all.” He waved a hand, as if the question wasn’t important. Which made me suspect the opposite. “I’d better go.”

“You’re not driving, are you?”

“Stop fussing, Harriet. I’m okay.”

No, he wasn’t. But I couldn’t say for certain that he was drunk, either. “Look, perhaps it might be safer to grab a taxi-”

Something flared in his eyes, something dark and unpleasant. “I said, I’m okay.”

And with that, he stomped out, leaving me wondering if the somewhat eccentric, sometimes aloof, but generally easy-going uncle I’d known for all these years actually existed.

I sighed, finished the last of my coffee, then headed up to the loft to do some long overdue paperwork. Ceri came back from her appointment with the weepy wife just before midnight and took over watch of the stubbornly silent phones while I headed to bed.

The next morning I decided to try and catch Darryl. Lyle had said he couldn’t be found, but given the outfit the dwarf had been wearing the day I’d met him, it was a fair bet that jogging around the streets of Sandridge was a regular part of his training routine. It was worth a shot, anyway.

After a shower in which I discovered a rainbow of bruises and more sore spots, I dressed in a fresh set jeans and baggy sweater, and headed downstairs.

Kristo was standing in the middle of my hallway, contemplating my front door.

“How did you get in?” I asked. The chair I’d jammed against the door last night to keep it closed was still in place.

“Back door,” he said absently, and scratched a pointed ear. “Fixed the squeak in the bathroom door, by the way.”

I hadn’t noticed any squeak, but I guess that was beside the point. “What about the front door lock? The one you’re being employed to replace?”

The gnome shrugged. “I’m considering it now. You’ve got to have the right tools for these operations, you know, or things could go horribly wrong.”

“Just consider fixing it before Christmas, would you?”

“Well, yes, I think that should be an achievable goal.”

I rolled my eyes and walked away. Knowing Kristo, he’d probably be standing in the same position three hours from now. I walked into the kitchen to discover the back door was wide open and Delilah nose deep in the pantry.

“Hey, Harri,” she said, “Where do you hide the sugar?”

“Second shelf, left hand side. Listen, could you do me a favor? Kristo’s here to fix the front door—would you provoke him into action? I need the lock fixed today.”

Delilah grinned. “A bit of gnome rousting is always a nice way to start the day. Just watch and learn, my love.” She deposited the bag of sugar on the nearest chair and pushed up the sleeved of her hot pink dressing gown as she marched to the hallway door.

“Hey, Kristo!” she yelled.

I winced. The gnome jumped a good six inches and pirouetted in the air to face us.

“Start moving that bony ass, or I’ll have to stay here and nag you.”

What little hair Kristo had on his head stood on end at the prospect. He nodded, then motored past us and out the back door. I wondered if he was making a run for it while he could, but he reappeared moments later, lock in hand.

Delilah smiled and patted my arm lightly. “See, you just need to use a firm tone. Get’s results, every time.”

“Totally,” I agreed solemnly. “Can you lock up after he leaves?”

She nodded, opened the sugar, then poured it into a bowl. At least she wasn’t taking the whole packet. I left her to it, grabbed my keys and purse, then headed out into the morning traffic.

The wind that was little more than a whisper in the confines of the suburbs was sharper and colder down near the beach. I parked near the pier, then pulled out my phone and googled Mighty Mouse Body Guard Services. As I suspected, his office was only a couple of blocks away. I grabbed a jacket off the rear seat and shoved it on as I made my way there. Joggers went past at regular intervals, most red faced despite the chill in the air. It made me wonder when Sandridge had become so fitness orientated.

His office was a single story, glass front building squeezed in between a coffee shop and a hairdressers, and it looked a whole lot tattier than either of them. It was also closed, so I crossed my arms and leaned against the window to wait.

Twenty minutes later—just as I was considering grabbing a warming cup of coffee from the shop next door—he came running into view. He spotted me a second later and slowed.

“What the hell do you want now?”

“I need to ask some more questions about Mona.”

Darryl dragged keys out of the small pack on his back and opened the shop’s door. “Five minutes. And I hope you don’t mind me getting on the treadmill. I don’t want to cool down too suddenly.”

The front room of his office contained little more than a desk, several filing cabinets, a couple of worn leather chairs and the aforementioned treadmill. Unlike like the rest of the equipment in the room, it was shiny new. As he started the machine up, I said, “Did Mona ever talk to you about her clients?”

He snorted softly. “Never names, if that’s what you’re after.”

“But surely she mentioned a name when she was talking about getting married?”

“Nope. She was always very careful.” He shook his head, his expression sad. “But not careful enough, obviously.”

No. Especially not if she was blackmailing the likes of James Logan. “Did she say anything that might pin down who she meant to marry?”

“Well, she said that he had to go through divorce proceedings, so they had to be discrete until it was over.”

If she’d been talking about Lyle, she would have been waiting a very long time. He would never proceed on divorce, simply because it would have cost him too much. “What about pregnancy?”

He glanced up sharply, blue eyes narrowing. “What about it?”

“Well, for starters, was she pregnant?”

His gaze slid from mine. “What gives you the idea that she was?”

I shrugged. “It’s a theory, nothing more.”

He upped the speed on the treadmill. “Why are you still chasing this? Why not let the police handle it?”

“I can’t.”

He studied me quizzically. “Why not?”

I hesitated. “The man Mona intended to marry is my uncle. He asked me to try to find out what happened.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’m half siren, and he thought people around here might be more willing to talk to me than the police.”

“Ah,” he said, half smiling. “That explains it. You sing?”

I shook my head. “Not a note. I’m afraid I took after the Elven part of my heritage.”

“Probably just as well for the world, given your ability to get people to yak. You’d be bloody dangerous as a full siren.” He sniffed slightly, and shook his arms. “This uncle wouldn’t happen to be a former high flying lawyer who could still bust a murderer to hell and back if he wanted to, would he?”

So Mona never talked about her clients, huh? “He might be.”

Darryl’s expression went hard. “I want this bastard caught.” The words were flatly said, but the emotion lacking in his voice was there for the world to see in his eyes. “I want him hung out to dry.”

“Then you and the lawyer have similar ambitions.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “I’ve been checking up on you.”