Free The Big Rewind by Libby Cudmore Page B

tape is linked to her murder.”
    â€œWhat, you mean like a full confession?” he asked. “How convenient would that be, Joe Friday?”
    â€œI don’t think it’s that,” I said. “It’s just this feeling I’ve got. Call it a hunch if you want to get technical.”
    â€œThe best detectives listen to their guts,” he said. “What do you have so far?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. “Just a set of initials—GPL, a mystery in itself. Her sister gave me a box of tapes and there were three others from the same person, but no picture, no one with those initials on her Facebook or Twitter, nothing to say who he—or she—is. The secrecy alone is enough to make me suspect.”
    â€œSo you think maybe she had something going on the side,” he said, finishing my thought. “That doesn’t make Bronco look too good.”
    â€œI know, and that’s why I want to figure this all out,” I said. “Bronco’s my friend too; I saw him the morning she was killed. I don’t want to believe that he could do this, but if he did, I want to be able to hand over the most damning piece of evidence.” I took a bite and chewed for a minute before continuing. “My friend Marty suggested I call Josie; heard she had a tape player. Maybe once I know what’s on it, I’ll get a better sense of its connection. Unless there isn’t one, of course. Then it’s back to one—or worse, zero.”
    Sid leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I’m impressed,” he said. “I probably wouldn’t have put those pieces together.”
    â€œWhat else could I do?” I asked. “She was my friend, and with Bronco on the ropes for her murder, I don’t see any other choice.”
    He wiped barbecue sauce off the corner of his mouth and stood up. “And that, Miss Bennett, is why you’re Sherlock. I’ll be your Watson, if you’ll have me.”
    I loved when he called me Miss Bennett. Coming from anyone without a southern accent, it might have sounded corny,but the lilt in his voice sent shivers down my spine. I held out my hand and he escorted me to standing. “I welcome your assistance, Mr. McNeill.”
    â€œGuess this means our weekly viewings have turned into training,” he said. “Maybe we should be taking notes.”
    â€œSid, it’s bad enough no one invites me to record parties anymore, not after I derided Mumford and Sons as being ‘like Flogging Molly if all the punk rhythms and talent was removed,’” I said. “Can you please let me just watch TV for the sake of watching TV?”
    â€œFair enough,” he said. He picked up the tape again and held it between two fingers. “I can’t even remember the last time someone made me a mix CD, let alone a tape. But when you hear that first song and your heart soars and you know . . .” He sighed. “It’s the best feeling in the whole fucking world.”

Chapter 14
THE IMPRESSION THAT I GET
    I t was two days later when Josie called me back. “Sorry, I was doing a wedding out on Shelter Island,” she said. “Huge affair, but they let me use their kitchen. It was bigger than my apartment, I swear. But I’m free this evening and I have a ton of leftovers.”
    â€œCan I bring anything?” I asked.
    â€œJust a bottle of wine,” she said. “White, dry, don’t pay more than fifteen bucks. Call when you get here and I’ll buzz you up.”
    I put Sid’s copy of Go West on the turntable and spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to put together an outfit that conveyed casual carelessness with deliberate intent. I settled on a silkscreened squirrel shirt I got at the last Irony Auction, a gray dad cardigan, and leggings with ankle boots. The only thing separating my ensemble from straight-up pajamas was the red pashmina I’d picked up on St.