“So, what happened?” I greet Paris eagerly when I get home from work the next day. The reporters have given up on us, so I don’t have to dodge them any more. A pity, really. I had come up with some pretty creative ways to evade them, and I rather enjoyed myself doing so. “Did Inspector Robinson royally ream Max out for withholding information?” I guiltily admit to myself that I am looking forward to hearing the gory details about the dressing down of Max.
“She was pretty pissed,” Paris admits. “She got that look in her eye, you know the one that says, ‘I’m disgusted with you.’ I think she cultivated it on purpose to make people talk.” I know the look he is referring to, and it certainly works on me. “Her voice got really low.” Here, he imitates Inspector Robinson. “Ms. Bowers. This is a murder investigation. That means we investigate. In order to do so, we need information. I should think you of all people would want us to be successful.” He reverts to his normal voice. “If she looked at me the way she looked at Max, I would have spilled the beans for sure.”
“Did you get to sit in on the interrogation?” I doubt the inspector would allow that, but I can always hope.
“No. After Max blurted out the thing about someone coming out of Moira’s room, the inspector took her away. I had to wait nearly an hour for her. I took Max to a diner after so we could talk about it.”
They both ordered coffee as it was between mealtimes. The whole time Paris was talking to Max, he had the feeling that something else was going on. There was a subtext that he wasn’t getting, but he didn’t like it whatever it was. Max would say something, then pause and look at Paris significantly, but he didn’t know why. It pisses me off that Max is playing such games with Paris because I hate seeing him upset. After an inordinate amount of lead-in time, Max finally got to the meat of the interrogation. She told the inspector everything she had told Paris, and Inspector Robinson got excited and rushed away, most likely to have another chat with Ms. Fullerton. As Paris is talking, he’s walks into the kitchen to make himself a hero sandwich. I must look woebegone enough because he offers to make one for me as well. I accept with alacrity. In college, Paris was famous for his hoagie sandwiches.
I watch, mouth watering, as Paris slathers zesty honey mustard onto a hoagie bun. He starts piling fixings and trimmings as if there is no end to his hunger. He tells me that the inspector let slip that Moira was gagged after she was killed. Paris doesn’t know the significance of this, but I make a guess. I think it means that she was a willing participant in the bondage game because she would have been screaming her head off if someone had tied her up against her will. By this time, Paris is done building up the hoagie. He cuts it in two, plates it and hands it to me. I happily start munching as he prepares another one. As Paris makes a sandwich for himself, he points out that if Moira was drugged, she wouldn’t have made noise. I protest that drugging her didn’t make as much sense as her playing games with someone she trusted, someone who quickly shot, then gagged her.
“Why would someone gag her after?” Paris protests, cutting his own sandwich in half. He pours us each a coke. We set our sandwiches on plates and take our food to the living room which is where we do most of our eating. I don’t know why we even bother having a table in the kitchen as we rarely eat there. We are silent for a few minutes as we make serious dents in our food.