The police suspect arson — and I’m the only one who knows the truth

I know who did it, see. And there’s bound to be a lot of questioning I’m hoping won’t trickle my way.

Tuesday, not-even-morning

For the first two hours, it smells like a really good chunk of steak roasting on a spit. After that, I close the window because the wind changes and I’m taking in smoke.

I pull the drapes closed as well. I don’t want to look at Yosef Schonzeit, disheveled from the sleep they must have hauled him out of, shoulders slumped as the fire brigade wind up their hoses and drive off. It’s him in the dark, with a shell left after decades of work.

I glower at the sudoku in front of me.

Sudoku and omega-3 and -6, never miss a day. Just to make sure my brain is functioning well enough not to land me in places I refuse to think about. But it’s sluggish after the night’s drama, and the day hasn’t begun yet.

What am I going to do?

Four here. Five? If sudoku kept the Queen going, it’s good enough for me. I’m still disappointed in her for not making it all the way to her 100th, but 96 is impressive enough, so here I am counting from one to nine and mentally telling Esther I’m not going to a neurologist.

I suppose Charles had to become king at some point.

Oh, and speaking of progeny, there’s the phone. It’s just after seven.

“Mommy, what’s going on? What happened? I heard Schonzeit’s burned down!”

I let Esther run on for a few minutes, because she’s not going to let me get a word in edgewise until she’s worked some of the hysteria out of her system. I wonder who she’s heard from, so early in the morning.

“I’m fine, Esther. Fine. No need to come over. I’m going to bed, there was a lot going on all night.”

I evade the rest of her inquiries by pleading exhaustion.

Playing elderly has its uses at times.