Truth, Lies, and Second Dates

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  Which sounded downright dire, depending on where you were on the “Is Ava the killer?” debate.

  “It might work,” he said. “There weren’t many family members at the scene this morning. Only Mrs. Monahan and Dennis, I believe. If they even remember me—”

  “They’ll remember you,” Ava said quickly. “Believe it.”

  “—it would have only been a glimpse.” He cleared his throat. Was that a compliment? Did she think I was memorable in a positive context? Or because I’m a freak, even by coroner standards? And why do I care?

  “See? Easy. Your niece is awesome, by the way,” she added out of nowhere.

  Careful. He tightened up, then forced himself to relax. He was still furious with himself that he had (possibly) exposed his family to a (possible) murderess. “Thank you. We think so as well.”

  “It’s none of my business, but—”

  “Automobile accident when Hannah was two.” Smashed at a red light by a distracted driver with a BAC of .117. The driver never so much as tapped his brakes. A careless wave, a quick trip to Target to buy Hannah some baby food, and then … gone.

  Ava nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, my folks, too. Happens all the time—everyone knows someone who was hurt or killed in their car. But sure: let’s put the focus on keeping marijuana illegal.”

  He couldn’t follow the non sequitur and didn’t try. “We did not … Hannah’s father made himself unavailable roughly twenty minutes after conception. Even now, no one knows where he is. And Abe’s wife had died of cancer just after Hannah was born. We were…” Distraught. Dismayed. Clueless and afraid and overwhelmed. “It was Abe’s idea to raise her together.”

  Abraham Simon, who spoke nine languages and told everyone he had been an accountant before retirement, a lie going by the calluses on his palms alone. Abraham Simon, who had been kindness personified to his sister and her family and never qualified that affection but showed over time that it was unconditional.

  Tom had not planned on making a best friend out of the tragedy, never mind one in his fifties. And darn it to heck, he still didn’t know how to introduce the man to people.

  But as the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, he deduced further discussion wouldn’t put his family in any more danger than they already were from his dog-park blunder. “Hannah’s IQ is immeasurable,” he bragged announced.

  “Well, yeah. Listen, when she’s ruling the world, try to put in a good word for me, will ya?”

  “No promises.” He brightened, thinking about Hannah’s milestones. First word: “Unacceptable.” First full sentence: “Broccoli is unacceptable.” And she refused to crawl. Went from sitting to walking, which had been amazing to see. One day she had simply gotten up and done it. His sister had been simultaneously proud and amused to see her daughter and her brother had so many traits in common.

  He thought about mentioning Hannah’s upcoming trip to the MAGE conference in Boston—Hannah was the youngest invitee in years—but had been careless with too many personal details already. “Hannah and Abe thought you were very nice,” he summed up, which was true. Though he’d made sure to take Abe aside to warn him Ava could well be considered a person of interest in the near future. Well, sure, Abe had said, amused. It’s always the quiet ones. Except when it isn’t.

  “Well, I thought they were nice, too. As well as your giant dog with a wrecking ball for a tail. And now that I’ve said my piece … and you’ve said yours”—Ava looked up at the waitress, who had appeared to whisk away their dishes—“I’d like to close this meeting-meal by ordering bread pudding.”

  He shrugged. “If you wish to consume wet bread, I have no objections.”

  She rolled her eyes, which was as irritating as it was charming. “Oh, you’re one of those guys. And it’s adorable that you thought I was asking permission to eat dessert.”

  “Did you know bread pudding was invented as a way to use up inedible stale bread and was often combined with suet?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Yes, Tom, I knew that. Well. Most of that.” She wrinkled her nose. “Suet?”

  “Bread pudding, stuffing, french toast, casse-croûte, panzanella, ribollita … you are essentially consuming garbage. You are paying restaurant prices to consume garbage.”

  “And an extra order to go!” she called after the waitress while glaring in his direction. “In case I want to consume stale bread at midnight. Because there is nothing more delicious at midnight than stale bread. So there.”

  There was nothing for it; he laughed and hoped, again, that she wasn’t a killer.

  Twenty-Two

  THE LIST

  Smuggle Doc Baker into memorial for dead friend

  Sleuth while not looking like we’re sleuthing at memorial for dead friend

  Find out if hotel restaurant serves bread pudding

  Calamine lotion?

  Oh, this is so fucked up.

  Yep. Mere days ago, she’d been breaking up with Blake and clip-clopping through her perfectly placid life, and now she was at another memorial on a fake date with a medical examiner who couldn’t lie but told the best gross stories, and their mission was to find out if a killer vandal was in attendance. And to not get drunk. Probably. Well, Tom wouldn’t get drunk. Ava preferred to keep her options open.

  Fortunately, she had moisturized heavily before leaving to meet him. She’d needed it, too; her arms and legs were itching like crazy and she felt like an animated piece of bark. Her SPF 35 BB lotion was her armor against harmful rays and passive-aggressive mourners. In Minnesota, they were equally dangerous.

  She hopped out of her rental car, the same silver Mitsubishi Mirage that bore a strong resemblance to an electric shaver, waved to Tom (who was climbing out of a practical, navy blue minivan), then took his elbow as they crossed the parking lot to the Crisp and Gross Funeral Home.

  “Relatively speaking, are you all right?” Tom murmured, and she realized she was dragging her feet and probably showing too much of the whites of her eyes, like a spooked donkey who just got a whiff of fire.

  “Yeah,” she managed. “Just thinking how silly it is to see a Tudor-style building in a Saint Paul suburb.”

  “Sure you were,” he said, and patted the hand clutching his elbow, and they headed in. He tripped on the curb, then steadied himself with the air of a man who did it every day. Probably because he was a man who did it every day.

  Okay, this isn’t so bad. Same people and same setup, but it’s not so … nope, spoke too soon, here comes the déjà vu.

  Yep. Same mourners, same subdued air, same setup, same everything.

  A few people turned when they entered, and she found herself the recipient of unsettling stares. She looked down to make sure she hadn’t accidentally tucked her skirt into the back of her panties again. Whew! All clear.

  “Okay, focus up … first I want to introduce you to Pat, the head geezer of the Monahan clan who might also be Satan because he can talk anyone into anything.”

  “Don’t tease,” Tom replied in a low voice. “I would love to meet Satan. So many questions.”

  Wow. Okay, focus. “My parents had three cars when there were only two drivers, and he talked them into a fourth.” So silly, as eleven-year-old Ava had pointed out. Yeah, he kinda wore us down, her father had replied with an abashed grin. When they died, she inherited all four cars and promptly sold three of them to pay for rehab. Hazelden was wonderful, but expensive, and with her parents’ death, she was off their insurance plan.

  “Hello, Ava. You’re looking … prepared.”

  Ava blinked. “Thank you?” The speaker was Mrs. Monahan, with Xenia right behind her, glaring at Ava with red-rimmed eyes. “I wish we didn’t have to keep meeting under the same circumstances.”

  “Yes, yes.” She was doing that thing with her hands again, like she didn’t know what to do with them. They looked like bony sparrows looking for a place to land. “How convenient that you happened to have more funeral-appropriate clothing in your bag.”


  Huh? She looked down at herself: black, A-line, knee-length, short-sleeved dress, black stockings, black flats, a pair of gold studs in her ears—about as much jewelry as she ever wore. “I didn’t, actually. I had the outfit I wore to the first memorial…” Like anyone who flew for a living, she always had her toiletries and at least two changes of clothes in a bag near her at all times, one a perfectly serviceable dark suit, but she didn’t make a habit of planning for memorials. Her life wasn’t that bad. Well. Until recently. “And last night, I online-ordered a few things from J.Jill.” She wasn’t the only pilot to love their clothes: they were comfortable and stylish, and you could wad one of their dresses or skirts in a ball, throw it into a suitcase, and when you got to the hotel, hang it up in the bathroom with a hot shower running. Took about two minutes to steam out the wrinkles. Done. Easy. A little cha-ching, but worth it.

  “Oh, you just happened to be able to order a completely new wardrobe at a moment’s notice and have it here within hours?”

  “Nooooo,” Ava replied, puzzlement deepening to unease. She knew Xenia and Mrs. Monahan were mourning and on the lookout for a scapegoat—she’d been the same way when her folks died—but why the hostility over her wardrobe and finances? “I ordered a black dress for overnight shipping to my hotel and got pantyhose at the drug store. I already had the flats. And the bra. And the underwear. And before you ask, I didn’t just happen to be walking around with wads of cash. I used a credit card. Which is not an unusual thing. At all.”

  “Really.”

  “Yep.” Why were they acting like this was a magic trick?

  Tom abruptly stuck out a hand, which neatly distracted Dennis’s mom from her oral audit of Ava’s spending habits. “Hello. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She looked from Tom to Ava and back. “And you are…?”

  Tom opened his mouth, and then locked up. Just stood there. You could almost see 01010101 does not compute 01010101 behind his eyes.

  Holy shit, he wasn’t kidding about being a bad liar. Actual deer in actual headlights don’t freeze up like this.

  “He’s my podiatrist!” Oh my God. And it was the best I could come up with. Why didn’t we work this out beforehand? We both suck.

  “Your … what?”

  “Yes. Podiatrist. I doctor feet.” He cleared his throat, which didn’t sound like he was caught off-guard at all. “Extensively. They are my passion. The metatarsals, you know. And the phalanges distalis. The calcaneus and the talus and the subtalar joint. I simply cannot get enough of them.”

  In ninety-six hours of bad ideas, we have a new winner. “He’s completely devoted to my feet so he’s here for … for…”

  “Longitudinal arch support,” Tom suggested.

  “Yep, that’s it.” Tom winced and she realized she’d clamped onto his arm a bit too hard. She made a conscious effort to loosen her claws. “Where’s Pat? I wanted to give him my condolences.”

  “The first memorial was too much for him. He’s been hospitalized, and the doctors didn’t think him coming was a good idea.”

  “Oh. I’m very sorry.” If it was any other family, she’d have added something lame like, “But he’ll bounce back!” Except it was almost obscene that Dennis and Danielle’s grandfather was still alive while Danielle wasn’t. And speaking of Dennis, where was he? Was it rude to ask? Did she care?

  “That’s why Dennis isn’t here, either.” Xenia sniffed. “He couldn’t take another day of you.”

  “He said that?” she asked, appalled.

  “He didn’t have to!”

  “So he didn’t say that. I feel like you might be projecting just…” Ava held up her thumb and forefinger. “… a smidge.” She couldn’t blame Dennis for skipping memorial 2.0, but doubted it had anything to do with her.

  “Ava?” A new voice, and out of a face she didn’t immediately recognize. Jack? Jerry? One of the cousins, for sure. “I can’t believe you came.”

  “Of course I came.” Jim? Jeff?

  “No.” The man, another brunette, this one in his midthirties, had the Monahan eyes and the sleek look of a lawyer who never bought his own lunch. “I meant, I can’t believe you had the goddamned nerve to show up.”

  “The … goddamned nerve?”

  “Jon, we agreed,” Xenia began, still sniffling and glaring.

  “Jon! Yes!” Shit. That was out loud. “I knew it was something like that.” And so was that. “Agreed to what, exactly?” She looked around at the faces, most of which wore an expression of stunned dislike.

  She said you looked prepared. She said it was “convenient” that you happened to have funeral-appropriate clothing in your bag.

  “Oh, Christ.” She looked around at the grim faces. Had she stumbled into Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”? She definitely felt surrounded, though a few couldn’t meet her gaze and scowled at the carpet. “You guys don’t think I had anything to do with any of this … right?”

  Dead (so to speak) silence.

  “Oh, come on!” She was so upset she could actually feel her eyes bulge. “I was just a kid when Danielle was killed! And I certainly didn’t come back and redecorate with her ashes! Besides, I was talking to Mrs. Monahan the whole time! We debated the merits of various hotdishes! Tuna won, but only the kind where you crumble up potato chips for the topping!” Oh my God, I just said all that at a funeral.

  “You could have had a partner. Then and now.”

  “My podiatrist didn’t kill her, either! He was even younger back then.”

  “That is a certainty,” Tom replied, because (Ava almost had to laugh) it wasn’t a lie.

  “You guys. Think this through.” She made a conscious effort to lower her voice and project calm. “Again, I was just a kid myself when Danielle was murdered.”

  “You could have had help,” Jon repeated stubbornly.

  “You did find the body,” someone said from the back.

  “You did get the hell out of town as soon as you could,” Jon pointed out. “And I’ll bet you’re getting ready to leave again.”

  “Because I don’t live here anymore! And it’s literally my job to get the hell out of town. Daily.”

  “See?” Xenia said, triumph ringing through her tone.

  “Why would I have killed her? I loved her like a sister. I know people say that all the time, but I really did—” She heard her voice crack and steadied it. “I really did. Love her like that, I mean.”

  “Oh, please. You just glommed onto her because your parents couldn’t be bothered with you.”

  “Well, yeah.” She looked around at the circle of judgment. “What? You thought I’d deny it? I barely knew them, and they were, y’know … my parents. I loved hanging out with Danielle. She remembered my birthday, at least. Sometimes…”

  Sometimes I wished I was her. Sometimes I deeply envied her. Sometimes I took a class just because she did. Sometimes I dressed like her and we got our hair done at the same place and she never laughed and she never judged so you can all fuck right off.

  She couldn’t argue with these people. So she just scratched her arms

  (oh, sure, furtively scratching and being unable to keep still and avoiding eye contact isn’t shady AT ALL)

  while her mind emptied itself of any useful rebuttal. Say something, Tom! Tell a horrible story or come up with a spirited defense. Just say anything!

  “Post hoc ergo propter hoc.”

  Ava swallowed a groan. It’s my own fault. I did say “anything.”

  “It’s a logical fallacy,” Tom explained, looking earnest and yummy. “After this, therefore because of this. There were many reasons for Ava to leave town. It’s hardly definitive.”

  Well, not the impassioned defense of her honor she was hoping to hear, but “hardly definitive” still beat “we think you’re a well-moisturized killer with good taste in clothes.”

  “If you think I killed her, why haven’t you said anything to the police? Then or now? I’ve had more
conversations with my union rep in the last three days than any of the local cops.” And surely Tom would have said something if she was a—a suspect? Person of interest? Would-be psycho of interest?

  Dennis’s mother ignored the question. “As soon as I saw you,” she said in a thready voice, “it was the nightmare all over again. You don’t come back for ten years—”

  “I’m in Minneapolis all the time!” she protested. “I hate it! The goddamn runway always forces me to crosswind taxi!”

  “—and within hours someone snatches Dani’s ashes and desecrates the place and nothing—not the police, not prayers—nothing, nothing will bring her back. But you, you’re back. You brought all that with you. You brought it back on all of us. Again.”

  “Wait, so am I bad luck or a harbinger of doom or a vandal or a killer?”

  “You’re the angel of motherfuckin’ death!” Xenia shrilled.

  At last, Ava thought, still having trouble believing this was happening. A title for my autobiography.

  “We should go,” Tom murmured into her ear, and truer words were never etcetera.

  Ava tried to gather her tattered dignity around her, drew herself up, and took a firmer grip

  “Ouch.”

  on Tom’s arm. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’d like to go back to my hotel room and burst into tears and then maybe eat more bread pudding. Come on, Tom.”

  “Excellent. That will give me a chance to check your feet for plantar fasciitis.”

  “Great, Tom.” Still scratching, she led him out.

  Twenty-Three

  THE LIST

  Kill everybody who thinks I’m a killer

  Prove I’m not a killer

  Rinse

  Repeat

  “I don’t believe it,” she snarled, stomping toward her car. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Nonsense. We pulled it off perfectly. All those people actually think I have a doctorate in podiatric medicine!” Adding an extra surreal touch to the evening, Tom sounded downright giddy. “I know this isn’t an appropriate reaction given what just happened, but I’ve never successfully portrayed a podiatrist before.”