“Oh!”
“And people did hear the shot. At least, a few of them did. There wasn’t much foot traffic at the time, though, and when you’re indoors and just hear one muffled sound, it’s hard to know exactly what it is or where it came from.”
“No one saw someone running away?”
“No. And if the culprit walked calmly away, no one would connect them with the loud sound.”
“No surveillance cameras in the area, I suppose?”
He smiled again. “No, there weren’t.”
“Well, I do hope you catch him.” That sounded lame when I said it aloud.
He wasn’t smiling at all when he said, “So do we.”
Chapter 4
By the time I left the police station I was incredibly hungry. It was now almost three-thirty, and there was a sandwich place I’d heard about just down the street. I figured it was as good a time as any to try it out.
It was a colorful, well-lit, and clean little restaurant. It had once been an old-school diner, and the owners had kept the original long counter with stools you could perch on while you ate there. There were booths, too, of course, but I opted for the seat at the far end of the counter. One of my least favorite things is sitting alone in a restaurant. Everyone else always seems to be eating with other people, and the empty seat across the table at my booth makes me feel conspicuous. Then there’s always the question of where to look. My gaze tends to lock in on other diners, even if I’m not conscious of it, and when they swivel around and catch me absent-mindedly staring at them, I am, as Dickens would say, covered in confusion. My solution for this is to pull out a book and read while I eat. Yes, I know, how very spinsterish. If I were one of those personable, outgoing, winsome people, I would be able to strike up conversations with servers and other diners and have a clutch of new friends by the time I paid the check. But I’m not.
I ordered the Classic Club sandwich and opened Romola. It’s not a favorite of mine—in fact, I can only take small doses of it, which is why I keep it with me to read when I’m stuck someplace like a waiting room or restaurant. But I challenged myself to read everything written by George Eliot this year, and I will not be beaten by a dull book.
I only dimly noticed when someone sat down at the counter a couple seats away from me. It wasn’t until the words, “Hello, Miss Peters” registered that I looked up.
It was the detective.
“Oh, hello, Detective Mason.”
He waved his hand. “I’m off duty now. Just call me Todd.”
“Oh! Ok. And I’m Katrina.” And then came one of those awkward pauses that I never know what to do with. Should I go back to reading? Or would that seem rude? If I close the book instead, might he think I’m expecting him to talk to me throughout the meal? I’d hate to seem presumptuous. I hovered there with the book still open but not looking at it.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading,” he said.
“You’re not, really. I just keep this with me for when I have to wait.”
“That’s interesting,” he said. “Most people just look at their phones.”
“I know. I’m odd.” I said it with a smile so he wouldn’t think I was begging to be contradicted.
“No, I don’t think so. Unusual, maybe, but definitely not odd.” The charming smile came into play again.
It flashed across my mind that he might be flirting with me. Probably not, because I’m not the kind of woman that gets flirted with except by desperate men that would flirt with anyone, and he was definitely not that kind of man. I made the quick decision to be on the safe side. If you throw church into a flirty conversation, you can count on the banter dying out within the next minute.
“Well, if you ask my preschool Sunday School class if I’m odd, they will assure you that I am. Ever since I told them that I like broccoli, they think I’m weird. But since I give them chocolate on their birthdays instead of broccoli, they love me anyway.”
He actually chuckled. “I’ll bet they’re lots of fun to teach.”
The waitress put my food down in front of me and then turned to Todd and took his order. I took advantage of the moment to bow my head and say a silent grace. If he was in any doubt about my religiosity, that would remove it.
When I raised my head again and started eating he asked, “So, do you enjoy being a professor?”
“Most of the time, yes. It has its tedious moments, but I think you get that with any profession.”
“Very true. I’ve always wondered—is being a college professor accurately portrayed in TV and movies? I mean, I was a college student, so I know what classrooms are like, but I don’t know what goes on behind the scenes.”
“I think it’s mostly accurate. Not that there are very many shows with a professor as the protagonist. I don’t think it’s considered very exciting work. I mean, if there is a professor in a show, he either spends his free time helping the FBI or chasing Nazis through the Middle East. The actual teaching part doesn’t really come into the story. Let alone grading papers.”
“That’s probably the tedious part of your profession. Those parts always get left out of movies. Like lawyers—I have a friend who’s a lawyer and he says ninety percent of his time is spent reviewing documents, reading every single word of contracts. You never see that on television. He thought it would be more like Matlock.”
I laughed. “I know. I have friends who are foster parents, and when I see a show where a bunch of newly-adopted older kids fit into their new surroundings with just one little frustrated outburst, I have to roll my eyes.”
“I can imagine. It’s probably like watching cop shows when you are a detective. Sometimes you can’t even enjoy the story because it’s all so inaccurate.”
“Like what? I know you told me about silencers not really making the guns silent.”
The waitress put his BLT down in front of him and he thanked her and then said to me, “Excuse me.” And bowed his head.
It was only for a moment, giving me just enough time to veil my surprise by taking a big bite of my sandwich. As if handsome single detectives that seemed to want to chat with me and might possibly be Christians were a common thing in my life.
“There are lots of things they get wrong,” he said after his silent prayer. “For example, they have uniformed policemen standing around the crime scene, drawing conclusions about the psychology of the murderer while twenty SCIs in hazmat suits scuttle around them. Or they have someone use their breath to blow open an evidence bag before putting in some fibers they found—totally contaminating it, of course. Or their computer checks take mere minutes to get all the background of a suspect, when in reality it would take days or weeks. For example, we still don’t have the phone records for Mr. Delaney, and probably won’t for a few more days. And never, ever, do they show the hours of paperwork you have to do. I could go on and on.”
“That must be very frustrating.”
“Yes, well, I don’t actually have that much time for watching TV. Especially when I’m in the middle of a case like this one.”
“Will you be able to get some sleep now? You said you’re off duty.”
“I’ll go home and sleep after I eat. There’s not much I can do until tomorrow morning anyway. We need to find Mr. Delaney’s will, if he made one, and get more information about his family and a few things like that. We have guys going through his house now, looking for information.”
I smiled. “That part does sound like a detective show.”
“True. And sometimes it really is as exciting as those shows make it seem. Not that often, but sometimes.”
I was pretty much done with my meal and was wondering if I ought to stay until he finished eating and risk him thinking I was spending more time with him because I was after him, or if I ought to leave now and risk him thinking I was dying to get away from him because I didn’t enjoy his company. Neither would be true, of course, but once having embarked on that line of thought, I couldn’t figure out what I
would have done if I didn’t care what he thought. Overthinking a situation has always been a hobby of mine.
“Do you mind if I ask you where you go to church?” he said suddenly.
I may have blinked in surprise. “Faith Community Church here in Wilkester. And you?”
“A few different places. Usually Highview Baptist in Tacoma.”
“I see.” That didn’t bode well. Not being committed to one church can point to a lack of spiritual health. Well, maybe it had to do with his schedule or something.
My phone rang. “Excuse me,” I said to Todd as I tapped the answer button.
“Aunt Katrina? It’s Deirdre.” That’s Kim and Ed’s teenaged daughter. “Mom asked me to call you and ask if you are free to come over and help—Ben ran away again, farther this time, and they’re out looking for him. Mia is scared and Josh is at practice and I don’t know if I can make dinner by myself in case they’re gone a long time.”
“Of course I’ll come,” I said. “I’ll be there soon. Hang in there.”
I hung up and turned to Todd. “I’ve got to go. There’s a bit of a crisis with one of the foster kids.”
“A serious crisis?”
“Too early to tell, but probably not. I’m going to help with the other kids.” I put my book into my purse and stood up. “It was nice chatting with you,” I said. “I enjoyed that.”
“Same here,” he said. “Hope everything goes well.”
I walked the length of the counter to pay my bill at the far end. As I pushed open the restaurant door to leave, I glanced back. Todd was watching me, and he waved and smiled again. Does it sound hackneyed to say that I felt a warm glow? Probably so, but it’s still the best phrase to describe my feelings as I drove to the Coles’.
As I parked my car in front of the house, Mia came running out to meet me. There is nothing as delightful as a small child running to you with arms open and calling your name.
“Aunt Katrina! You came!”
I hugged her and took her hand, and she chattered all the way into the house.
“Guess how much two plus two is?”
“Ummmm,” I pretended to be thinking hard.
“It’s four! I learned it at school today and I haven’t forgotten yet. And you know how many hearts octopuses have? Guess!”
“One?”
“No! It’s three!”
“Really? I don’t think I ever knew that. You’re such a smart girl!”
She giggled. “Am I smarter than you?”
“I’ll tell you this: you knew that an octopus has three hearts and you’re only five. And I’m forty-one and I didn’t know that until today!”
Mia jumped up the steps of the front porch happily. Deirdre met me at the door. She was tall for her fifteen years, and she was twisting her long blond hair, as she did whenever she was worried.
“Any word?” I asked her.
“Not yet. Mom called a little while ago and said that someone thought they had seen him near Douglass Park. They’re going to head that way and see if he’s there. If not, they’ll probably have to call the police.”
“Oh dear. Let’s hope they find him soon. Now, where are the boys?”
“Sam is outside brushing Molly, and Josh isn’t back from practice yet. His friend is going to drop him off.”
I led the way to the back yard, where thirteen-year-old Sam was brushing the St. Bernard. Molly got to her feet when she saw me and shoved her slobbery nose into my side. Her slowly wagging tail brushed back and forth against Mia’s face, which made her giggle again.
“How’s it going, Sam?”
“Fine.” Sam is a boy of few words.
“So, what are we making for dinner?” I asked Deirdre.
“Mom left the ingredients for chicken divan out. I might need a little help to make it.”
The phone rang inside the house. Mia rushed inside to answer it. We could hear her from where we were.
“HellothisistheColes’residencehowcanIhelpyou?” she said in one breath. I hoped whoever was on the other end could tell that it was English; there was a sporting chance it could be mistaken for Latvian.
“Hi, Mommy! … Ok.” She raised her voice. “Deirdre! Mom wants to talk to you!”
Deidre went to the phone. “Hey, Mom…Yes, she just got here… Yep, they’re fine…Oh, good…. Ok….Ok, I’ll tell her. Bye.” She came outside again. “Mom says they found him at the park, but he’s still upset and won’t come with them. They’ll have to stay there with him until he’s ready to go.”
I nodded. They could hardly drag a kicking and screaming seven-year-old through the park and force him into a car without someone calling Child Services on them.
“Right,” I said. “Mia, why don’t you stay out here with Sam and play on the trampoline? Sam, can you keep an eye on her while you finish brushing Molly? Deirdre, you and I can start fixing dinner.”
I got Deirdre to start chopping the broccoli while I cooked the chicken and made the sauce.
“Do you know what upset Ben?” I asked.
“His birthmother didn’t show up for her time with him yesterday.”
It was too old a story to need any comment. I felt a surge of frustration against the system that kept him legally tied to a woman who could not care for him enough to see him just once a month. In time he would probably be released from that forced connection and be able to be securely placed in a loving family. Until then, he would feel her rejection of him over and over, every time she missed a meeting or failed to fulfil a requirement the judge had set for her to regain custody of her son.
“How’s your art class going?” I asked. “It’s through that Christian arts program, right? On Saturdays?”
“It’s good. I like the teacher—he’s a really awesome artist.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “Aunt Katrina, would you go on a blind date?”
“I have done it—once or twice.”
She grinned.
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “I don’t go out with just anyone.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “He’d have to be a believer.”
“Not just that. We’d have to have mutual friends that knew both of us pretty well for me to consider it. And I don’t want to marry someone who’s been married before, and most men my age have been.”
Deirdre’s enthusiasm deflated. “Oh. Why not?”
“I don’t want to be someone’s second choice.”
“But what if his wife died? What if he didn’t choose you first because he didn’t know you then?”
“He’d still have memories of his first wife. He’d always be comparing me with her. I don’t like the idea of that kind of competition.”
“It’s not a competition, like where you’d get a prize for being a better wife.”
“No, of course it’s not that kind of competition. I don’t know how to explain it.” I gave my full concentration to the sauce I was stirring on the stove. “If you’ve finished chopping, we can put that broccoli in the steamer for just a few minutes.”
“I know what it is,” Deirdre said as she transferred the little green florets to the steamer basket. “You want to marry someone who will say ‘There will never be anyone for me but you,’ like Anne and Gilbert Blythe. You want a Jane Austen novel kind of marriage.”
“Well, maybe,” I said. “Yes, I suppose it’s something like that. I’d just rather not be married at all than be in a situation where I’d always wonder if he was thinking about his former wife, and if he would be wishing he could have her back instead of having me.”
Deirdre rolled her eyes. “No one who was married to you would wish they were married to someone else. You would be a great wife! Especially to my art teacher.”
“Well, thank you. You’re very sweet. Is he the one you wanted to set me up with?”
She nodded. “His wife died a couple years ago. Are you sure you won’t consider it? What if God wants you to marry someone whose wife died?”
“He won’t
,” I said glibly. “I think this chicken is done. Would you mind chopping it while I grate the cheese?” And then before she could revert back to the topic of potential marriage partners, I asked her about her homework.
“Yes, I have plenty,” she said. “There’s a test tomorrow in history. Kelsey is coming over tonight to study with me.”
“Kelsey? Is that the one who was here a few weeks ago who wanted to give you a makeover instead of working on that English project?”
“Yeah. She’s not really a fan of studying hard. I’m trying to help her because her grades are really low.”
“Maybe letting her fail would be a good wakeup call.”
“I don’t think so. She knows she’ll get accepted and get a full scholarship to Wilkester College no matter what her grades are, so she doesn’t care about trying very hard.”
“Why is she so sure she’ll get in?”
“She’s a Wilkes. It goes with being part of the family.”
“Is she! I didn’t know that. Here, get the broccoli out of the steamer and we’ll layer it all together.”
When the casserole was assembled and in the oven, we started working on the salad.
“Hey, does your friend Kelsey have an older brother named Matt?”
“No, but she has a cousin named Matt. He goes to the college now.”
“Yes, I think he must be the one who’s in one of my classes. So you mean he’s gotten a guaranteed place in the college and a scholarship on top of it?”
“And a guaranteed job at the end of it.”
“At that real estate company? What is it—Wilkes Group Real Estate or something like that?”
“That’s right. Some of the perks they get for being a Wilkes are because of the family businesses, and some of them are in the town bylaws from a long time ago. Or the college rules. The person who started the college was a Wilkes, and so were all the original trustees.”
“That hardly seems fair in the twenty-first century. You’d think there would be some kind of law against preferential treatment.”
Brought to Book Page 4