And somehow the accommodation had worked for both of them. Most of the time, it hadn’t even been that hard.
But sometimes . . .
In the passenger seat, holding the eggplant parmesan in her lap, Ginny consciously and dramatically exhaled and this time, finally, her mother shot a look her way. “You know,” she said, “this isn’t exactly what I had planned for tonight either, in case you’re wondering. Sometimes stuff comes up and you just have to do something.”
“Really? Does that sometimes happen? I thought everything worked out for the best all the time.” Ginny didn’t really like the snotty tone she heard coming out of her own mouth, but there it was, so she tried to notch her reaction down a bit. “I’m sorry, but meanwhile I’m here, aren’t I? Dutifully going along.”
“Yes, you are, and thank you very much. But just so you know, I could do without so many theatrics.”
“How am I being theatrical?”
“I think you can figure that out. A couple more sighs as deep as that last one and you might pass out. Are you sure this is about your term paper?”
“What else would it be about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A seventeen-year-old girl might have a couple of other things on her plate.”
“It’s not that.” They rode in silence for another block, and then Ginny said, “Well, maybe that’s what it is after all.”
“What?”
“That there isn’t much on my plate. ‘Much’ as in anything. Not to whine, but sometimes you wonder when something’s going to change and get better instead of change and get worse. You know what I mean?”
Beth worked a muscle in her jaw. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve got some general idea.”
“I know,” Ginny said, now truly repentant. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“No, it’s all right. I know what you’re saying. It’s a valid point.”
“I hate it when I get this way. Why does this happen? Where does it come from?”
“You want some of your own time. I understand that. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to include you tonight. Except I selfishly wanted to be with my daughter.”
“But it’s really me who’s being selfish.”
“Maybe both of us, a little.” She patted her daughter on the leg. “We don’t have to stay long. I just want to make sure she’s going to be all right until she can get some more counseling. We’ll see how it plays.”
“We can stay as long as we need to, Mom. I don’t mean to be difficult. It might actually do me some good, get my mind off myself for a while.”
“I wouldn’t say you have that problem, hon.”
“More than I should.”
“Well . . .” Again, Beth reached over and patted Ginny’s thigh. “I wouldn’t beat myself up over it. You’re here with me now, for example, on an errand of mercy.”
“Sure. Kicking and screaming.”
“Not really so much that after all.”
“I don’t know what gets into me. I should have more empathy.”
“We should all have more empathy, Gin, but meanwhile, I’d say you’re on the right track.”
* * *
The first order of business after the introductions was getting the eggplant into the oven. That done, Beth put together a tray of brie and crackers and herded the two younger women back into the living room while she went back to rummage in the kitchen. Her idea was to set a nice table in there so that the meal might have a resonance as an event of sorts—something you sat down for and could take a while enjoying.
Somewhat to Beth’s surprise, Laurie had some Pottery Barn plates, a full set of flatware, flowery yellow and green placemats, cloth napkins. In a couple of minutes, she was done with the table, but stayed in the kitchen to put away the grocery bag full of stuff that she’d picked up on the way home: eggs, ramen, pasta, spaghetti sauce, a bottle of red and a bottle of white, cheese, bread, milk, juice, yogurt, and java chip ice cream.
The girls seemed to be having a real conversation in the other room. They’d put on what Beth recognized as Taylor Swift’s Red, and the music played quietly in the background, intimate and enveloping.
Reluctant to interrupt the mood in the living room, she opened the red wine, poured herself a glass, sat down at the kitchen table, and waited for a lull in the chatter.
* * *
“This is the best-tasting thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” Laurie said. “You made this yourself?”
Ginny nodded. “It’s my specialty.”
“She’s actually got at least ten specialties,” Beth said. “Not that this isn’t one of the most special specialties, but you should try her lamb meatballs with mint jelly gravy. Talk about to die for.”
“That sounds really good.”
“It’s amazing,” Beth said. “Potentially life altering.”
Laurie swallowed. “Do you guys eat together every night?” she asked.
“Whenever we can,” Beth said. “Although sometimes I’m late getting in from work. But then usually Ginny waits up and she has a snack while I heat up whatever she made.”
“That must be nice,” Laurie said. She looked from mother to daughter. “Do you think I could have some wine?”
“May I see your ID?” Beth deadpanned.
Momentarily nonplussed by the question, Laurie finally chuckled.
“I guess we can let it go.” Beth reached for the bottle and poured.
Laurie took a tentative sip. “You really eat like this every day?”
“Whenever we can,” Ginny said.
Laurie sighed. “Well, no offense, and you both look great, but I know if I ate like this every day, I’d weigh a ton. Although if I had something like this to look forward to . . .” She cut a tiny bite of the eggplant with the side of her fork and brought it to her mouth.
“You could,” Ginny said.
“No,” Laurie said. “You’d have to plan it, and I never think about fixing anything good.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re by yourself. Nobody likes to eat alone. Not even me, and I’m always thinking about food.”
“Well, I can’t,” Laurie said. “I really have to watch out.”
“Or you’d get fat?” Ginny asked. “Do you think you’re fat now?”
Laurie shook her head. “Not really. A little, I guess. But it’s always close. You know. If I slip up.”
“Well.” Ginny showed a bright grin. “You know the awesome thing about this eggplant parmesan? Besides how great it tastes?”
“What?”
“You can eat as much as you want and never gain weight. Mom and I have experimented extensively and it’s absolutely true.”
“She’s right,” Beth said. “It is.”
Visibly perking up, Laurie said, “In that case, I think I could probably eat another bite. Would that be all right?”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Beth said, cutting another slice and putting it on Laurie’s plate. “Some sourdough? Salad? Similarly delicious, I promise.”
Laurie nodded, sheepish at her enthusiasm. “Might as well. My brother should see me now,” she said. “He thought I was never going to eat again.”
“You should tell him about tonight,” Beth said. “Does he come to see you often?”
“Every couple of days,” Laurie said. “He worries.”
“Maybe you could invite him by,” Ginny said, “and I could make another one of my specialties.”
“No. I couldn’t ask you . . .”
“Are you kidding? How fun would that be? Lamb meatballs, Greek chicken, paella, my famous duck breast with blueberry . . .”
“Duck? I don’t think . . .”
“Duck is the best meat on the planet, Laurie. Trust me. Well, maybe squab, super rare.”
“Come on!” Laurie now laughed freely. “Do you really cook all that?”
“And so much more. I love it. So we start with the easy stuff, like this eggplant . . .”
“This was easy?”
“Pie
ce of cake. Fifteen minutes’ prep, half hour cook. Done. And the meatballs are easier. I could show you the inside moves. You’d love it.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never . . .”
“You can. We could do it together. It would be a blast.”
Laurie pondered for a moment. “Maybe Alan would relax a little. He thinks I’m . . . I mean, I know he’s worried.” She turned to Beth. “Would you be free to come and help, too?” Then to Ginny. “Would that be all right?”
Beth shook her head no. “I don’t know if that would be . . .”
“Mom!” Ginny said. “Of course you’re coming. You started all this.” Then, to Laurie. “Fine with us,” she said. “Let’s book it.”
* * *
Eric Ash didn’t understand his mother at all. Or his brother Tyler, for that matter. All of their weeping and gnashing of teeth over his asshole father’s death.
Hey! Wake up! He wanted to yell at both of them. If anybody in this world fully deserved to be murdered, Peter Ash—betrayer of biblical proportions—was that person.
But now here they all were, the second night in a row, sitting around the kitchen table at Mom’s place, rehashing all the whys and wherefores, the whens and ifs and hows. Talking talking talking, and then getting on to details about the funeral next Monday, when the reality was that they didn’t have to talk about fucking Peter Ash and his motivations and his troubles anymore.
He was gone.
And if Eric had had any real guts instead of just an inchoate anger, his father would have been gone long ago, certainly within a couple of weeks of when Eric had bought his unregistered, completely untraceable gun from those gangbangers in Oakland with every intention of using it.
But no sooner had he taken it home and hidden it than he’d been paralyzed with paranoia about what would happen if the cops got any hint of what he’d done, as—he thought—they surely would. Especially after his and his father’s fight in September, wasn’t he too obvious a suspect? Maybe the most obvious one? He could imagine the interrogation, and the idea of it scared him to death.
It’s no secret you hated your dad, right?
Yep.
You’ve told your mother and your brother that you intended to kill him.
Yep.
That he deserved to die.
Absolutely.
And so you bought a gun. Illegally.
I did? Prove it.
And maybe they could.
So, gutless and frustrated, he’d waited. And waited.
But now it had turned out for the best. His dad was just as dead as he would have been if Eric had acted in September. And no one—no cops anyway—had even mentioned the fight.
If suspicion fell upon him, it would be a drag. The idea of getting charged, of going to jail, terrified him. But he was pretty sure they could never prove that he’d bought the gun. And that was the only thing he might have to worry about.
“What are you thinking, Eric?” His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You’re hardly saying a word.”
“What’s to say?” With a flat stare at his mother, he said, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Jill brought her hands up to her face. “You don’t really believe that.”
He slammed a flat palm on the table, and his mother started in her seat.
“I don’t believe that?” he screamed. “Are you shitting me? I totally believe that, Mom. How can I believe anything else? The man was a colossal fraud who ruined all of our lives.”
“He wasn’t . . .”
“Yeah, he was! You know what I can’t believe? I can’t believe that we’re sitting here talking logistics about how we’re going to handle things at the goddamn funeral. Would it be too awkward to have people over for cake and cookies? Who should be on the guest list? Yeah, I guess I’m not paying attention, when the real question is why we’re even talking about going to the funeral at all. Fuck the funeral is what I say. And fuck him.”
“Don’t be such an asshole, Eric,” Tyler said. “Mom’s trying to keep this together, in case you haven’t noticed. You want to punish her more?”
Eric shot an angry glare at his brother, gathered himself, then turned to his mother, his voice softening. “What I’m saying is that you ought to stop punishing yourself, Mom. You didn’t do any of this. He did it.”
“I know that,” she said. “We all know that. But I was his wife. I must have had something to do with it, whatever it was. He had a breakdown and I never saw it coming, so how much attention was I paying to him? I should have seen something.”
“Wrong,” Eric said. “Not your fault at all. Not our fault, either. Dad did all this by himself. It doesn’t matter why.”
“It does to me,” Jill said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin.
“All right, Mom,” he said, forcing a gentler tone. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’d just like you to be part of this, with me and Tyler. So it doesn’t seem as though the whole family has collapsed.”
Eric wanted to tell her that it already had, but the sight of her tears reined in his hostility and impatience. “And how would I do that?” he asked.
“Maybe try to stop hating him. Maybe forgive him.”
“I can’t do that, Mom. Either one. I can’t believe that you think you can.”
She reached over and put her hand over his. “He’s dead, Eric. Somebody killed him. Whatever he’s done, he’s paid for it now.”
His mother—she’d let him call her Jill-Bug, she’d just gotten her face “fixed”—was hopeless. Eric exhaled. “All right, Mom,” he said. “I’ll go to the funeral.”
Then added, to himself, but only to watch him get covered over with dirt.
18
IT TURNED OUT THAT IKE’S daughter didn’t have a simple fever; Heather had spinal meningitis. She’d been admitted to the emergency room last night and then immediately got transferred to the ICU, and that was where she remained this morning, on fluids and meds. Ike told Beth that the prognosis was uncertain—the strain of the disease was bacterial, not viral, and so it responded to antibiotics—but it was still a very dangerous situation, and he wouldn’t be coming into work at least until they released his daughter from intensive care.
So on this Friday morning, four days after Peter Ash’s death, Beth sat at her desk in the Homicide detail, catching up on administrative paperwork. Through some disruption in the fabric of the universe, she and Ike didn’t have any other active homicide cases that required her attention right at this second except Peter Ash’s. And waiting for Ike, she hadn’t yet worked out a plan on that investigation for today, although first on the list was to apply for a warrant to search Peter Ash’s apartment. She realized now that she probably should have done that two days ago. But she hadn’t wanted to hassle with the warrant judge, which probably—because there were few if any probable cause issues related to searching the domicile of a deceased person—would not be as bad as she’d imagined. And then Ike’s daughter had gotten sick, and she’d been stuck in the field interrogating people. Excuses, excuses.
In any event, Judge Sommers signed off on the warrant in ten minutes.
And now Beth was filling out some other forms—the city owed her for eighty-six hours of overtime and, all things being equal, she’d rather have it than not.
On the other hand, the city was claiming she owed a far less, but still galling amount—$312.40—for traffic tickets she and Ike had accrued during the normal course of business conducting homicide investigations. This expense was an ongoing cause of frustration in the Homicide detail.
It seemed that the normal city traffic cops couldn’t grasp the concept that homicide investigations assumed a life and rhythm of their own, and sometimes inspectors had to park or double-park their (clearly marked) city-issued vehicles (with their police IDs visible on the dashboard) on streets or sidewalks or in otherwise illegal parking areas while they interrogated or pursued suspects in murder cases. Almost invariably, or at lea
st with regularity, they would return to their car and find a parking citation under the wiper blades. Astoundingly, these were not just summarily dismissed, but got entered into the system and then billed to the offending inspectors, who then had to fill out a special form to negate the fine or else pay it.
Beth looked at the small stack of forms and decided that she had more important work to do. It meant some walking inside the building without the aid of her cane, and she knew that that would be both tiring and painful, but she’d made that bed by faking her recovery so convincingly. She pushed herself to her feet behind her desk, then checked her balance and discomfort level moving from foot to foot.
Doable.
A minute later she breezed by the lieutenant’s office on her way out of Homicide and stopped at his door.
“Ike’s out with a sick kid,” she said. “I’ll be around the Hall on Peter Ash.”
“Any leads?”
“Half a dozen. We’re hoping to winnow the number down some. Ike should be back in by Monday, but I might get lucky today. I’ve got a few stops.”
He hesitated for a second. Then, “You’re moving pretty well.”
“Thanks.” She considered adding a bit of embellishment but decided to keep it simple. “Getting better every day.”
She wasn’t exactly sure about where she might find the information she was seeking, but figured she could do worse than begin with the Crime Scene Unit.
Her good karma was holding, and Len Faro was out in the bullpen with a few of his staff gathered around one of the desks, with everybody seemingly talking all at once. As she got closer, it became obvious that they were engrossed in the coming weekend’s football schedule; whether a simple pool or a fantasy league was impossible to tell.
But Faro saw her as she approached and straightened up, waving her to follow him as he made his way back to his office. “It’s a particularly immature group,” he said by way of explanation as soon as she’d gotten settled. “But there’s a lot of brains out there and they work better if they get some playtime. So what can I do for you? Although I should say that if it’s on Peter Ash, the pickin’s are slim.”
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