Hotline to Murder

that.” Shahla wrinkled her nose. “So far, Croyden has been a big fat zero.”
    ***
    Tony followed Shahla home and parked in the street as she pulled into the garage, which opened as if by magic as she approached, but actually in response to a remote control in her car. Tony saw that half of the two-car garage was full of stuff. He was right in thinking that they only had one car. They met on the front steps as Shahla produced a key to the house and unlocked the front door.
    “Mom,” Shahla yelled. “I’m home.”
    Shahla led the way into the comfortably furnished living room. They didn’t seem to be hurting for money.
    After a minute, Mom appeared through a doorway and said, “You don’t have to shout, Shahla. I heard you drive in.”
    Shahla’s mother had an accent and was a slightly darker and shorter-haired version of Shahla. In the dim light of the living room, she could have passed for her sister. She was slim and elegantly dressed, but definitely not like a teenager.
    “Mom, this is Tony,” Shahla said. “The one I told you about.”
    Shahla had called her mother from the Hotline and told her they were coming.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lawton,” Tony said. He didn’t know whether it would be proper to shake hands with her or not.
    She immediately extended her hand, however, and said, “Please call me Rasa. All my patients do. I appreciate you working with my daughter.”
    “You’re a nurse, aren’t you?” Tony asked.
    “Yes, I work at Bonita Beach Memorial Hospital.”
    “Mom, Tony’s going to drive to Las Vegas as part of Joy’s murder investigation, and I need to go with him.”
    Shahla was diving in without testing the water. Tony expected Rasa to hit the ceiling, but she showed an amazing calm.
    “Please sit down,” Rasa said to Tony. “Would you like coffee?”
    Tony hesitated and Shahla said, “It’s American coffee. The kind you drink.”
    “Sure. Thanks.”
    Tony sat down on a soft couch that had two sections, at a 90-degree angle from each other. Shahla kicked off her shoes and sat down on the other section. She curled one leg up underneath her.
    “Your mother speaks English very well,” Tony said.
    “She does all right. She has trouble with her articles.”
    “Articles?”
    “A, an, and the.”
    “Where was she born?”
    “In Teheran.”
    “Iran,” Tony said. “I have a cousin who is married to an Iranian.”
    “She prefers to be called Persian.”
    “How about your Dad?”
    “He was born in Chicago.”
    The soft couch made Tony realize that he was tired. He found himself relaxing. Shahla had quit talking. He glanced over and saw that her eyes were closed. At least she didn’t feel she had to entertain him.
    They both came to attention when Rasa returned with a tray containing two cups of coffee and a glass of water for Shahla. Tony declined an offer of sugar and cream and took a sip. This would wake him up.
    After they were served, Rasa sat in an armchair and said, “Tony, tell me about trip to Las Vegas.”
    Shahla started to speak, but Rasa interrupted her saying, “I want to hear it from Tony. You will get your chance after.”
    “One of our former callers is a poet,” Tony said. “A few days ago Shahla and I found a poem that had been slipped under the door of the Hotline. Did she show it to you?”
    “No,” Rasa said and looked at Shahla, who looked only the tiniest bit contrite. “She does not show me anything.”
    “Since it’s evidence, I felt the fewer the number of people who saw it, the better,” Shahla said.
    Rasa shrugged and said to Tony, “Go on with your story.”
    “It’s a well-written poem, and Shahla felt that the only person she knows who might have written it was this former caller, Paul, who lives in Las Vegas. We sent him an e-mail, and he said he would like to meet us.”
    “Me,” Shahla said. “He said he would like to meet me.”
    “Okay, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for Shahla to go.”
    “Is this not job for police?” Rasa asked.
    “We don’t really have any evidence that he wrote the poem,” Tony said. “It’s probably what my grandmother would have called a wild goose chase.”
    “I see,” Rasa said. “Okay, Shahla, tell your side of story.”
    “Tony’s a good guy,” Shahla said, “but he’s not a poet. He doesn’t know how to talk to poets. He won’t be able to get anything out of Paul. That is, if Paul will even talk to him. Because he has one other problem.