Killer Chameleon by Chassie West

night—such a gentleman—several of my students did not come alone. I won’t use their last names, but for instance, Willa’s sister, Mary, came with her because Willa doesn’t drive any longer. Ina and Phyllis invited friends. I did tell them they were welcome to do that. What I’m saying is that there were a number of faces I didn’t recognize. I’m past the age where I remember names of people I’m meeting for the first time, so I couldn’t add those to the list. But some of the students were still here when the officer came up, and they supplied those names they knew. I gave the detective a list of the ones who had left and a description of whoever came with them.”
    â€œAnd all the unfamiliar faces were accounted for? As far as who they came with, I mean.”
    â€œWell, no, I wouldn’t say that.” Gazing into the middle distance, she tapped the rim of her cup in thought. “There was the man in the Santa hat. He was a stranger to me, but he had a conversation with Neva, so I assume she knows him. And a teenager, a lovely girl. Georgia Keith. You can understand why I’d remember her name, so close to that of one of my idols. The granddaughter of someone on the fifth floor, according to Phyllis. They were untangling tinsel together. Phyllis is good with young people. Oh, yes, and the woman with the lovely accent. Jamaican, I think. I’m not sure how she was connected to anyone. Perhaps a friend of the Winstons.”
    That would be easy enough for me to follow up. Libby Winston and I had become cozy over loads of laundry, and I knew all my fifth-floor neighbors well, so I could track down whoever Georgia Keith belonged to.
    An hour and a half later, the only person I’d managed to identify was the man in the Santa hat.
    â€œAl?” Neva’s broad face beamed. “He’s Cholly’s brother-in-law, the only one in his family I can tolerate. Lord, they’re snooty. Al’s a minister, teaches at Howard’s School of Religion.”
    I’d checked on him out of curiosity more than anything else.
    None of the neighbors on my floor who were at home laid claim to the teenager. I’d have to catch the others once they came in from work. Which meant calling them, I reminded myself. By this evening, I’d be in Southwest D.C. at the condo, not here.
    I returned to Janeece’s, set about finishing the rest of the packing, and was trying to find the end of the tape on the roll when the phone rang. My morning had been interrupted by two wrong numbers and one heavy breather, so I admit I answered with an attitude. “Yes?”
    â€œGood afternoon, Leigh. I must say you do sound out of sorts.”
    Oops. “Grandmother! Hello!” I curled up on the futon, wondering how long it would take me to get used to having grandparents. I cleared my throat, realizing it felt a bit prickly. “I’m sorry. I was losing a fight with a roll of packing tape. How are you?”
    â€œQuite well, thank you.” Elizabeth Ritch was, if nothing else, proper, as my Nunna would say. “I won’t keep you, dear. Is there any possibility you could come to see me sometime today? It’s quite important and really shouldn’t be put off any longer.”
    â€œIs something wrong?” Two trips to Ourland/Umber Shores in two days? We’re talking eighty-something miles round trip and fifty minutes each way in non–rush hour traffic. I really didn’t feel up to it, in fact was feeling worse by the minute. I was definitely coming down with something.
    â€œNo, nothing’s wrong,” my grandmother was saying. “In fact, it might be something to your advantage. Wayne and I had planned to inform you before your wedding, but as it’s been postponed twice already, he and I felt it might be best if we take care of this matter now. Of course, if you’re too busy . . .”
    It’s time I