They never talked much in those months, and even now he and his daughter were not big talkers. Krista’s mother had been the bubbly one, the fun, demonstrative member of the family. Keith and Krista shared Danish DNA that made for stoic demeanors and occasional gloom.
Still, the two weren’t uncomfortable together. Even after Karen’s departure.
Shit! He hated himself for using euphemisms like that. Departure, hell! He’d been right the first time—Karen had been murdered by that damn cancer. All the murderers he’d put away in his time, and that greatest serial killer of them all had stolen Karen away from him and never paid for it.
When the onions got nice and soft, he added red wine and beef bouillon, then stirred in a tablespoon of tomato purée. He returned the tournedos to the skillet, covered it, and let it simmer.
Perhaps a certain unspoken ease between father and daughter had developed, though, enough to allow him to share his suicidal thoughts with her. He’d kind of blurted it on one of their Sunday evenings, telling her how he’d sat for almost an hour with the barrel of his Smith & Wesson M&P 9 in his mouth and, obviously, his finger on the trigger.
They talked about it perhaps two minutes before she said, firmly, putting up with no argument, “You’re moving in with me.”
And he had.
Back into the house where he’d first lived with Karen, where the ghosts were friendly, unlike the disease-ridden ones back at the Marion Street ranch-style. This almost a mansion was where he and Karen had raised Krista, an 1890s house replete with hardwood floors, lovely woodwork, decorative wood-burning stoves, leaded-and-stained-glass windows, pocket doors, and walk-up attic. Lovely. The scent of the place remained somehow that of his early marriage.
He and daughter Krista had done well here. Grown closer. Given each other plenty of room, offering support when needed. Last year they had gone through another trauma, a post-Karen one, when they both faced danger in the form of a madman. But the madman was dead and they were alive. And well.
A good thing that had come of that nightmare was meeting Rebecca when he’d been chasing down a lead in Chicago. And now he was seeing her.
Rebecca with her sleek good looks, beautifully carved features, and enormous dark blue eyes. Rebecca with her sophistication and brains and poise, plus an inexplicable fondness for him.
And all the while some part of him whispered, “You’re seeing another woman,” as if he were still married to Karen. And of course, yes, yes, yes, he would always still be married to Karen, but he felt—he knew, because Karen had told him, “You’ll need someone, don’t ignore that, dear”—that his wife would understand.
Only that nasty accusatory voice in his head, that guilt posing as conscience, told him he was cheating on Krista’s mother. That this was a betrayal. And that same voice warned him, no, promised him that Krista would hate him for it. And would never accept Rebecca or any other woman in his life, not after her mother.
He browned some potatoes. He got some green peas in butter sauce going on another burner.
What foolish crap, he thought, smirking at himself, shaking his head. Come on! Krista was better than that. Smarter than that. But he really should have called her about Rebecca and dinner . . .
A knock at the back door in the kitchen drew him away from the stove, where everything was doing nicely now and would from here on out require only routine supervision.
Framed in the doorway, Rebecca looked like she just walked off a newsroom set—and in a way she had—in her red dress trimmed in black and her perfect makeup. Apparently she didn’t mind messing her lipstick up some, because she threw her arms around him and kissed him. Kissed him a good one.
He licked the stuff off his lips and smiled and said, “Well, now the neighbors know about us.”
“They can call the tip line.”
She stepped into the kitchen and, as he closed the door behind her, she took it all in—the surprising size of it, the wall of cabinets at left, the appliances at right, the big wooden farmhouse table where a family could serve itself and all the hired hands.
“This is twice as big,” she said, “as my first apartment.”
“Mine, too,” he admitted.
She was taking in the aromas as well. “Smells delicious! And he cooks! What more could a working woman want?”
He half smiled. “I remember when that was all a girl could want.”
She waggled a red-nailed finger at him. “Keep that to yourself or the PC police will get you.” She twirled toward the big old stove and all the things he had going there. “Do you need help? Doesn’t look like it.”
“I don’t. Everything’s simmering.”
She put her arms around his waist. “Isn’t it, though?”
He tried not to appear awkward as he said, “She’ll be here just after five. My daughter. Krista.”
“Yes. Your daughter. Krista. I know. Nothing to worry about. She knows.”
“Uh, what does she know?”
Her almost-blonde brown hair bounced off her shrug. “That I’ll be here. That you’re cooking for us.”
He didn’t know what to say. But his worry must have shown.
Because she smiled wide and said, “Now don’t you fret. She’s going to take it just fine.”
Take what fine?
What were they, anyway, he and Rebecca? He’d seen her in Chicago twice, and then she got the job in the Quad Cities and took an apartment in Davenport. And he’d gone to see her three times. Stayed overnight and everything. His daughter had asked no questions. Maybe Krista thought he got a motel room or something or slept on the couch. On the other hand, Krista Larson was not an idiot.
“Can you trust your stove,” Rebecca asked, “to simmer on its own long enough for a tour? This is an amazing house.”
“Sure,” he said.
She took his hand and said, “Lead the way.”
So they were holding hands. God, it was difficult to be with a woman again. Also, great.
He gave her the tour. She raved about the mission-style furnishings that had been Karen’s pride, all that stained oak and the metal fittings and those leather coverings.
“All the Stickley pieces,” she said, shaking her head in wonder, “must be worth a king’s ransom.”
“They are. Anyway, a queen’s. Karen always said . . . sorry.”
He’d started to say that Karen always said the contents of the old house were worth more than the house itself.
They were in a hallway on the second floor. Still holding hands. She let go, then faced him and she settled both her palms on his shoulders and lowered her chin and raised her eyes. “Look. You get to mention your wife anytime you like, except, well, you know. In that one place—the one with pillows and blankets and sheets? Darling, I get it. You were married a long time.”
Thirty years.
“I understand that,” she said. “I was married, too, just not so successfully. Still, I got used to it. Your frame of reference is those years of marriage. I don’t want to take them away from you. Maybe we’ll log some years of our own. It’s early yet. Right now we’re just a couple of middle-aged people who like to get frisky with each other once in a while.”
“I wish I were your kind of middle-aged.”
Something wicked came into her smile. “I like that you’re older.”
“Why?”
“It makes me younger. Is that where you sleep?”
She was pointing in at the guest room and its Arts and Crafts double bed designed back when people were smaller.
“No,” he said, and walked her to the master bedroom.
He stayed in the doorway as she went in and looked around. Feminine touches told a story, though a bookcase of his Civil War collection indicated his presence.
“This was your room,” she said. “Yours and hers.”
“It was.”
“And you use it now.”
“I do.” As if he’d spoken a marriage vow.
She turned and gave him a direct look. L
ike she was telling the camera about a tornado. “Could you make love to me in that bed?”
He shrugged. “Okay, but we better hurry. Krista will be here any minute.”
She practically collapsed with laughter. She came over and folded herself in his arms and he held her gently and said, “Also, I don’t know how long my meal will keep. Maybe later?”
She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears of laughter—mostly laughter.
“Maybe later,” she echoed. “Right now I’m going to use the restroom. You go on downstairs and tend to the food.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He was at the stove. She returned with her makeup washed off, muttering, “I always ditch the war paint as soon as possible,” then pitched in, setting the table. She had tied her hair back in a ponytail. Oddly, it made her look both older and younger.
Keith met Krista at the kitchen door, and whispered to her, “Sorry, honey. I should have called you. You okay with this?”
Her smile seemed a little forced to him, but she said, “Sure.”
She stepped inside, then sniffed the air and said, “Kalvetournedos?”
“Yup.”
“One of my faves.”
“I know.”
She went in and greeted Rebecca. It seemed a little perfunctory to Keith, but Krista wasn’t effusive like her mother. She never overdid.
Pointing into the dining room, Krista said, “If you’ll excuse me? Need to get out of uniform.”
Rebecca smiled and said, “I hear you. But I’m stuck in these newsroom fatigues. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Carlsberg in the fridge. Dad’ll probably want that, too.”
Keith said, “She knows me.”
Krista disappeared.
At the refrigerator, getting the beers—joining in on the Carlsberg front herself—Rebecca said, “She’s fine. She’s going to be fine.”
When Krista returned, taking a tad longer than usual, she wasn’t wearing her usual knockabout-the-house T-shirt and shorts this time of year, rather a gray silk blouse, black jeans, and heels.
Keith wondered if she’d dressed up for Rebecca, but his daughter said, “Going out tonight. With Brian.”
“Ah, Brian again,” Keith said. “Nice guy.”
Krista gave him a glance with just a touch of frown in it, as if he’d given approval where none was warranted, or anyway wanted.
Rebecca brought over the platter, the veal tournedos in their steaming sauce in the middle, buttered peas and browned potatoes at either end. Keith sat at the head of the table and the two women opposite each other. The many empty chairs around the rest of it seemed to eavesdrop.
“This is really delicious,” Rebecca said, after a silence during which several bites were consumed. She looked up at Krista. “Is this typical fare around here?”
“Pop’s a good cook,” Krista said as she cut her tender meat.
“Does he do all the cooking?”
“Most of it.”
Keith smiled. “It’s only fair. My daughter’s the breadwinner. And it’s her house, after all.”
“Really?”
“Yes, we signed it over to her.” Karen and he.
More silence. They were busy eating.
Then Rebecca said, “A lot of media there today. Attracting some good attention. Every QC station—often it’s just us.”
Krista nodded, forking food.
Keith said, “You should really do a series on the Pistons reunion tour. It’s kind of a big deal around this part of the world.”
“I was saying the same thing to your daughter earlier, at City Hall. There are a lot of good angles to this story. You’re from this area, Keith. Were the Pistons a band you followed?”
“Yes.” He and Karen had. “I was even part of the group for a while.”
“Really? What did you play?”
He laughed once, a forkful frozen midair. “Not a damn thing. I ran sound, and helped load equipment.” He took care of the bite, chewing, swallowing, then went on: “When they started to get more popular, they hired a real soundman and a couple of muscle boys who could load the stuff, plus knew how to tune guitars and set up drums.”
Amused, Rebecca asked, “You got shown the door?”
“No, not at all. It was all very friendly. Very amicable. I loved the band, loved their sound. We followed them all through our last several years at Dubuque U.”
“You and Karen?”
Krista’s eyes tightened for just a moment.
“Yes,” Keith said, “we drove all over the place, weekends, following them. Fun days. Great times.”
Rebecca said to Krista, “This Brian you’re seeing tonight—is that the Brian in the Pistons?”
“Yes.”
“Saw you two talking.” Rebecca touched a napkin to her lips. “Filling in for his late father, that’s kind of wonderful. But it must be tough, too. Hard.”
“Must.”
“Does he talk to you about it?”
“Not really.”
“Listen.” Rebecca looked from Keith to Krista and back again. “The band is playing their first gig this weekend—at the Col Ballroom in Davenport? It’s an invitation-only affair, friends and a few press. To give the fellas a chance to try the new lineup out in front of an audience. Kind of a dress rehearsal.” She sat forward. “Why don’t we all go? I can get us in.”
Krista, her frown barely perceptible, said, “I’m already going.”
Keith hadn’t known anything about this, but he said, “Well, I’d love to do that. We could all go together.”
Krista said, “Brian will be going earlier. For setup and sound check.”
Leaning toward her a little, Rebecca asked, “Would you like to go with us?”
Krista sucked in air. “Well. Sure. That would be fine.” She sighed, pushed back her plate. “You know, I think I’ll grab a shower before I head out. Can you two handle the cleanup?”
Keith said, “Sure, honey.”
Krista disappeared again, and Keith and Rebecca did the dishes.
At the sink, Rebecca said, “I was thinking maybe of staying over, but . . .”
“Yeah. I’m getting a bit of a vibe off of Krista myself.”
“Oh, she’s going to be fine, but . . . maybe you should talk to her. Before we go full slumber party route. I mean, it is her house.”
“Right.”
“And I have my car here, so . . . are we okay?”
“We’re terrific.”
They were putting the dishes away when Krista returned, small black purse tucked under an arm. She smiled at them both, in turn, said, “Bye,” and went out.
They looked at each other, as Keith shut a cabinet door.
“What now?” Rebecca asked.
He was drying his hands with a dish towel. “She’ll be okay. I’ll talk to her. I don’t think there’s a problem, I just shouldn’t have . . . sprung it on her.”
“Oh, I agree. Of course she’ll get over it. What I meant was, let’s finish that tour.” She put a finger to her cheek, archly. “Now, where did we leave off . . . ?”
FOUR
The Corner Stop on Main, a dimly lit dive with scant width, plenty of depth, and a lot of character, attracted at least as many locals as tourists. The hole-in-the-wall joint with its Wednesday-through-Sunday live music (rock, folk, blues, jazz) had its small stage in the front window, just to the right of the angled corner entrance. Behind the bar—with its comfy chairs, scads of beers, and wide choice of cocktails—loomed a floor-to-ceiling wall of dollar bills autographed by patrons and musicians, extending behind the band.
Musically oriented art—paintings of guitarists mostly, as well as framed posters from bygone jazz club and hippie days—was spotted around. Included were photos and posters of the various Hot Rod & the Pistons lineups over the years.
The Pistons memorabilia—Rick Jonsen had established the bar, after all—was all autographed, their two album covers and their original vinyl contents in s
eparate frames. The dark wood floor, pressed-tin ceiling, and stone-block walls added to an eclectic ambience. A pool table in back was no charge, but you still had to drop quarters into the vintage Ms. Pac-Man table arcade game.
Wednesday nights, before the summer season really kicked in, were often slow and this one was no exception. Pretty much all locals tonight, of which off-duty police chief Krista Larson was one. The traveling bands and solo acts only played Friday and Saturday while Wednesday and Thursday nights, and Sunday afternoons, were given over to the house band, the Corner Stoplites, whose specialty was blues and soul.
“Like the Blues Brothers,” the band’s leader, organist Clarence “Booker” Jackson, liked to say, “only authentic.”
The band’s break song, “Green Onions,” by Booker T. and the M.G.’s (from which Jackson’s nickname came), announced an imminent return to non-shouted conversation between Krista and Brian, who shared one side of a bench at a small table along the wall.
The couple sat facing the Stoplites, a four-person conglomerate including two members of the reunion version of the Pistons—drummer Steve Pike and guitarist Phil Deeson. Besides Booker, a fedora-sporting female bass player from Dubuque named Lily something, who Krista didn’t know, filled out the assembly.
The band was still playing their break song when a pretty, pretty young petite platinum blonde with a bottle of Goose Island in hand paused to say, “Hi,” to Brian.
Steve Pike’s daughter, Holly, was wearing a long unbuttoned silk pink-and-blue-and-white blouse over a plain white tee and denim shorts with lavender suede ankle boots.
“Holly,” Brian said, “hi.” He had a bottle of Potosi Cave Ale in front of him. He nodded toward the stage. “How’s your old man holding up under all this media attention?”
That had been a little too detailed a casual question to avoid what happened next, which was Holly sliding in on the bench opposite and joining them. Krista barely knew the girl, and normally wouldn’t have minded the company, but she had things to talk over with Brian.
“Dad’s loving all the fuss,” the young woman said, smiling but rolling her big dark blue eyes. She had shaggy bob-cut hair, a round face, a small nose ring, and almost-black red lipstick. Krista felt suddenly one hundred years old.
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 4