Murder on the Eightfold Path by Diana Killian

that was unlikely—they would undoubtedly search the bedroom and the closet.
    “I think you’re giving him too much credit,” said the same voice irritably.
    And then, very distinctly, a female voice said, “His answering machine is missing.”
    “The cops will have grabbed it.” The man’s voice was moving away from the bedroom doorway. A temporary reprieve, A.J. knew.
    “A.J.” hissed a frantic whisper.
    A.J. poked a cautious head out of the closet and saw Elysia at the far wall with the window open. She beckoned frantically and A.J., ignoring the pain in her back, tiptoed as quickly and as silently as she could manage across the room.
    Elysia shoved the window screen out of its track and into the shrubbery beneath. “Can you climb?” she mouthed.
    A.J. had no idea if she could climb or not, but she was not about to be caught in that room. It had already occurred to her that if the intruders were not the apartment management or Massri’s family, one or both of them might have had something to do with his death.
    From down the hall the woman said, “Stop complaining. The faster we do this, the faster we get it over with.”
    “You should have been a philosopher.”
    The philosopher said something very rude. A kitchen drawer banged hard.
    Elysia made a cup with her hands, and A.J., biting her lip against the flare of pain shooting down her hip and leg, stepped into the makeshift step and boosted herself up. Even though she was braced for it, the pain caught her by surprise. She closed her mind to it, and hauled herself out through the wide sliding window and lowered herself to the hedge below. It made for a prickly but reasonably sturdy landing, and she half-rolled, half-wriggled off, landing gracelessly on the walkway in a shower of leaves.
    Elysia came scrabbling out the window a moment later, flopped onto the hedge, and dropped to the walk.
    “Scarper!” she gasped.
    One of her best ideas in a long time, that was A.J.’s opinion as she scuttled after her mother.
    They hurried down the path to the parking lot. With all the gratitude of a shipwrecked sailor spotting land, A.J. recognized the blue and white Land Rover right where they had left it.
    Elysia used her key fob to unlock the doors while they were still a yard away. They sprinted the last few feet and slammed inside the vehicle.
    Hand to her throbbing back, A.J. gasped, “That was too close!”
    Elysia smirked—in between pants—and turned the key in the ignition.
    “Never again, Mother. I must be insane to have gone along with this. I must be taking way too many pain meds. I must be—”
    “Don’t be so poor spirited, pumpkin.”
    “If that had been the apartment manager, we’d be on our way to jail right now. In fact that’s probably optimistic. Never mind getting caught, we could have been in real danger. For all we know one of those people was Medea.”
    Elysia wrinkled her nose. “I don’t believe so.”
    “I didn’t catch any names. Did you?”
    Elysia shook her head. There was a dead leaf in her dark hair, which somehow made her certainty all the more annoying.
    A.J. demanded, “Well then? Why couldn’t that woman have been Medea?”
    Elysia’s wide green eyes met hers. “Because I know who Medea is.”

Eight

    “Yes?”
    They were hurtling down Interstate 80 back toward Stillbrook, Elysia driving pedal-to-the-metal as though the combined law enforcement agencies of New Jersey were in hot pursuit.
    She answered absently, “Yes what?”
    “Who is she?” A.J. demanded.
    “Medea Sutherland.”
    A.J. lowered her car seat trying to find some relief for her throbbing back. “Why is that name familiar?”
    “You remember Maddie. She’s an old mate of mine.” Elysia sighed reminiscently. “I remember once when she made a guest appearance on 221B Baker Street to help us solve the murder at the Peking Opera—”
    “Oh my God,” A.J. exclaimed. “ Maddie Sutherland . I remember now. She’s the one who used to make those