By Pamela Love

“You’re lucky to be alive, Ms. Takkenridge. If your Saint Bernard hadn’t howled so loud that half the block called 911, you wouldn’t be.” Dr. Olivera took the stethoscope out of his ears.

I smiled, proud of my dog that did do something in the nighttime. Good boy, Matteo.

“You’ve been at Saint Luke’s Hospital for three days, unconscious and with a skull fracture. We’ll do another CT scan later.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Meanwhile, Detective Alves wants to speak with you. She’s in the hall.”

Where have I heard that name before? I could feel my cheeks redden when I remembered. “Maybe tomorrow.” That will give me time to think of a convincing lie.

But the resident was already opening the door and beckoning to a tall woman in her thirties with dark hair and eyes. I’d read about Fernanda Alves, nicknamed the Dying Words Detective. She had an uncanny knack for figuring out whodunit based on the victim’s last words, even when they didn’t directly name the killer. But I’m not dead.

Alves flashed an ID. “Mind if I record this interview?” When I tugged the sheet up to my chin, she raised a reassuring hand. “Sound only.”

“Okay. But I can’t help much.” I chuckled. “I’m kind of forgetful.”

Her smile was comforting. “Actually, we’ve spoken before, sort of. My book club met at Kate Montgomery’s house last Sunday night. When we saw the first responders in your driveway, Kate asked me to join them. You were fading out of consciousness, but we exchanged a few words.”

I blinked. “What did I say?”

“First, what’s the last thing you do remember?” Alves patted my hand.

Closing my eyes, I tried to focus on that disastrous night’s events. “I was making a poundcake for a church fundraiser.”

“Was anyone in the house with you?”

“Just Matteo.” I sat bolt upright. Devices around me beeped faster, signaling I might take off like a rocket. “Where is he?”

She gestured settle down. “He’s fine. We did have to have him checked out, so he’s at the animal shelter.”

He’s a Saint Bernard who weighs more than I do. You figured he knocked me down, maybe accidentally.

“You can make other arrangements, if you want.”

Of course I did. A dozen people who owed me favors would be happy to take care of him until the hospital released me. I pursed my lips, remembering how much trouble my dog could be. Make that a half-dozen. Somebody, anyway.

She leaned forward. “As the EMTs loaded you onto the stretcher, I asked who hurt you. You said, ‘Greedy.’”

I flung out my arms. You’ve got to sell this story, Miriel. “Yes, now I remember! I spilled something, and Matteo tried to lick it up. I gave him a dog biscuit to distract him while I mopped. He wanted more. I called him greedy.” I shrugged. “Then I slipped and hit my head. It wasn’t Matteo’s fault, and he was a good boy to howl for help. I’ll give him two treats when we get home.” Three, to make up for this fib.

Alves tilted her head. “How did you spill so much? Your table, floor, and walls were covered with eggs, flour, milk—”

“Matteo must’ve made the mess. He would’ve been frantic.” I crossed my fingers under the sheet. Slip and falls are a cliché with elderly people, sadly. And my outside security cameras would show nobody else was in the house.

It was plausible. If she’ll just believe it…

Detective Alves shut off her phone and slid it into her pocket. “Kate was so upset when she saw the ambulance. She told me how you provide meals for people in need, like new parents and convalescing patients. During the lockdown, you fed people who would’ve gone hungry otherwise. You put brown bag lunches on the doorsteps of kids who were going without the free ones at school. That’s so much work for one person.”

I looked aside modestly. “Just trying to help.”

“After the EMTs and animal control left, the patrol officers searched for a possible break in. I looked around your kitchen. An old book was open on the table. It was in a foreign language.”

I exhaled slowly. Stay calm. “I speak several.”

“So do I. English, Portuguese…” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Fae.”

I squinted. Like mine, her ears seemed just a trifle pointed… An uncanny knack for figuring out whodunit… Uncanny, indeed.

Fernanda Alves stood. “Detectives deal with reality. We know that ingredients”—oh, the emphasis she put on the second and third syllables!—“don’t float around the kitchen and mix themselves. Even if magic were real, they would never move too fast, because someone who accidentally got in their way might get hurt, especially if one ingredient was frozen. So it would’ve been silly for me to try finding anything like what was behind the trashcan, where it ricocheted after it struck you.”

I winced in embarrassment at my foolish mistake that night. Without thinking, I’d chanted a line from Mother Goose without realizing it could affect a spell. Bake me a cake as fast as you can. My kitchen was chaotic, a storm of sugar and milk and eggs! I’d been shaking my head at how my blunder had caused such a waste of food and time when I’d been knocked out.

I clutched the sheet. The recipe book! Some fae were light-fingered.

“Of course, a detective would never ask to see your skull x-ray to find out if your fracture looked like it might’ve been caused by a solid object, about an inch square.” The corners of Alves’ mouth twitched as she drew the cookbook from her briefcase and handed it over. “She wouldn’t dare write a report that said, ‘The butter did it.’”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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