The Egg at Dumstreet

Dimples

Art turned to find out who had called his name.

Monica was passing the morose receptionist's counter. She wore a red winter coat, a parka that seemed thick, long, and padded enough to keep its inhabitant alive and happy through the worst of polar winter. She waved at him.

"Monica!" He was pleased to see her. "Did you also get your stuff back?"

She waved a bag with blue 112 advice at him. "Yep."

"Looks like we're both buying at the same shop." He waved back with his own.

She grinned and peeked into hers. "Right, but you know, I got nothing but crap, here."

Art laughed.

The receptionist left her perch and approached, her slow steps loud and reproachful on the stone floor.

Monica glanced at her, then back at Art. "Let's get away from here..." Her voice was hushed. "...or she'll arrest us for improper bag waving."

The snowflakes outside were dense and heavy, fleeing before the freezing wind in panicky droves. The ground was white.

"You're heading home?" Art asked.

"Yep." The word emanated from somewhere under her oversized, red hood.

"Great, me too."

A tram stop was conveniently placed right in front of the police station. As they reached its small shelter, Art studied the list of lines stopping here.

"We can take the number 2." Monica extracted her head from the safety of her parka. "It takes us right to Dumstreet."

Art nodded as he looked down the street from where their transport was bound to arrive. Right then, the street lamps were turned on, glowing timidly dim for some seconds, as if afraid of someone objecting, but they quickly gained confidence and brilliance.

A daily occurrence—but so rarely witnessed.

"Have they grilled you, too?" she asked.

"Who?" His musings on street illumination faded and were replaced by harsh reality. "The police?"

"Yep." She nodded. "Inspector Savage—I thought he'd never stop." Her hand dove into the police bag and returned clutching her phone. Its lock screen activated and showed a series of message bubbles. She flicked her thumb to make them scroll—the list was long—and looked back at him. "He asked all sorts of questions." She let the phone disappear in the folds of her coat and gazed into the snowscape, her face blank.

"I was interviewed by Betty Bossi," Art said. "They've gone through my e-mail, and I think I'm their prime suspect now."

She looked at him and tilted her head. "Why?"

Art huffed. "You won't believe it. The night before Mrs. Knooch died, I wrote an e-mail to a friend of mine. I told him that a neighbor of mine was stalking me, making sure I did my sweeping chores... Mrs. Knooch, that is. And I wrote... and this is probably when things got interesting for the police... I told him she looks like a wigged turtle."

A brief smile played on her lips. "I can see why you thought this funny at the time. But... it's not, not now."

"Yes, I know. I do feel sorry for it, now."

"Well..." She shrugged. "Do you remember how I faced Savage on Sunday, in Mrs. Meier's apartment? Objecting to his requests? Telling him about wearing black and white stripes?"

"Yeah."

"I thought that funny, too. But it wasn't. Not really. Not after her death. Sometimes I say things I shouldn't. I got angry for him bossing us around. Reminded me of my family back home... of my father." She took a breath. "Anyway... you don't have to worry."