Sticky Fingers

by Nancy Martin

  When Flynn came back, sipping coffee, I said, “What are you doing in here so early? Don’t you have minions who can do your shopping?”

  He slid the other mug to me. “I like doing it myself. Especially this week.”

  I took my first bite. The eggs were creamy and rich—just enough salt, just enough pepper. Flynn did a lot of things very well. But cooking was his art. Around a second mouthful, I said, “Something special going on this week?”

  He pulled the second stool closer and leaned on it—tall and easy with his own body. “You could say that. We’ve got a big foodie coming in for dinner tonight. He came last night, too, in fact, but this time he wants the chef’s table. That’s eighteen courses, plus wine pairings. If it goes well, he could put us on the map.”

  “Not the local restaurant critic, huh?”

  “Nope.” He grinned a little. “You’ll never guess who he is.”

  “Okay, tell me. Who’s your important guest?”

  “Dooce.”

  “Dooce? Wait—you mean, Dooce, the rock star?”

  “The very one.” Flynn borrowed my fork to sample the omelet.

  “He’s in town for a concert?” I remembered Zack Cleary saying something about working a concert. I hadn’t realized Dooce was the headliner.

  “Yep.”

  Suddenly Stony’s phone call took on a whole new meaning.

  Flynn said, “Dooce came to town early for the concert because he’s got relatives here. And he collects stuff. Those big stars are always looking for stuff on tour—antiques and crap. But while he’s on tour, he’s taking a whole entourage around with him. Including a food writer.”

  “And they’re eating here? Wow, pretty cool.”

  Flynn took a look at me and saw that I was being sincere for once. “It takes a lot to impress you, Roxy. I guess you must be a big fan.”

  Okay, yeah, I liked Dooce’s music. Classic rock with a workingman’s sensibility. He wrote songs about steelworkers and waitresses, and they were good songs, too. I could see why Stony hadn’t mentioned Dooce’s name, though. Dooce was too pop for Stony’s taste. Not hairy enough.

  “What’s he like?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. I cooked, he ate. We didn’t meet. He has an assistant, Jeremy, who does his bidding. Jeremy jumps through hoops if Dooce tells him to. Tonight, though, I’ll have to do the whole routine for the man himself.”

  Flynn had learned to cook in a French restaurant after his military service. Then he’d bumped around the world, refining his skills and his palate. Also doing incredible amounts of smack, which he claimed he’d kicked. I liked the animation in his face when he talked about cooking. And he seemed to devote every muscle when he worked at the stove, which was nice to watch. Most of all, though, I was glad he’d found a passion that didn’t require needles.

  “Eighteen courses? What will you make?”

  “A little of everything. We’re known for meat—pork belly and steaks. But I’ve got some sushi-grade calamari to play with. Jeremy says his boss is very big on sushi. Plus lamb—I’ve experimented with a way of braising a leg of lamb that’s pretty incredible. It’ll all be good.”

  “Dooce likes that fancy stuff?”

  “You think otherwise?”

  “Hey, his songs are not exactly the work of a gourmet, you know?”

  Flynn leaned against the counter and smiled down at me. “You really go for Dooce, huh?”

  “He’s a little old for me,” I said lightly.

  “Oh, yeah? You have limits?”

  “What, you’re jealous?”

  “I’ve been over you for a long time now.”

  I grinned with him. “You’ll never be over me, mister. What does Marla say about Dooce? She excited for you?”

  Flynn got busy cleaning his knife with a towel. “I haven’t told her about tonight.”

  “Huh? Why not?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. It didn’t come up. I don’t know why I’m telling you. I guess I knew you’d get it.”

  “I get a lot of things.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He looked at me again, then shook his head, blue eyes alight in a way that made something in my chest feel funny. But then he mastered his face and said, “Look, the real reason I called you this morning is Sage.”

  Seventeen years ago, when Flynn and I were a couple of wild teenagers and doing it like bunnies when we weren’t raising hell in the neighborhood, we conceived our daughter, Sage. But as soon as the bun started growing in my oven, Flynn got himself arrested and took off for the marines to avoid a jail sentence. When I knocked on his door the day he enlisted, his mother answered. He was already gone, she said. Even now, I wonder if he was running away from jail or from the responsibility of having a family at seventeen. Or maybe he ran away from me.

  I still wasn’t sure how I felt about Sage’s father butting into our lives after all these years. Was he going to stick around this time? Or hightail it out of town when it suited him?

  I never wanted to feel the same way I had the day he took off the first time. And I didn’t want my daughter feeling it either.

  So I kept my voice neutral when I said, “What about Sage?”

  Flynn drank more coffee. “She’s supposed to be doing her college applications, right?”

  “Yeah, most of ’em are due in December.”

  “Just a couple of weeks away.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I had lunch with her on Saturday. She mentioned a boyfriend.”

  “You mean Zack?”

  “Not Zack. Some other kid. New. Ryan or something.”

  “Brian. What about him?”

  “While we were at lunch, he called her, like, a dozen times. Wanted to know where she was, who she was with, when she would be finished. The guy’s either a total wiener or he’s…”

  I had always been able to read Flynn. I said, “You think he’s abusive?”

  “Controlling,” he said.

  “Sage would never fall for a guy like that.”

  Flynn toyed with his coffee mug and let me think a little longer.

  I said, “You think she’s falling for it?”

  “I think she found his attention flattering. He’s some rich kid with a big car and money to blow. He’s taking her to the Dooce concert, you know. And some big ski weekend after that.”

  “A ski weekend?” That was the first I’d heard of making the Friday-night date into a weekend event.

  “His family has a chalet at Seven Springs.”

  “She’s not going away for the weekend with anybody, let alone a kid I’ve never met.”

  “Yeah, well, the ski weekend is the least of our problems. Here’s the big deal: Brian thinks college is a waste of time.”

  I put down my fork. “He’s trying to convince her not to go to college? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Turns out, his father is some kind of self-made millionaire who barely passed eighth grade. Have you talked to her about school?”

  “All the time. Look, Brian is new on the scene, and she’s not serious about him. It was Zack sitting in the living room with her the other night. And she’s got all kinds of other boyfriends. This one’s nothing.”

  “I know I’m new at this,” Flynn said stubbornly. “I know my opinion doesn’t count for much, but—”

  “It might if you had changed a few diapers instead of running around the world learning how to make fancy eggs.”

  “Shut up for a minute. I’m just saying that she’s talking to me. Is she talking to you? Because shit’s happening, Rox. There’s a new boy whispering in her ear, and she’s listening to him.”

  The idea that Sage might skip college and marry some ice-cream scooper was the worst-case scenario in my opinion. I’d made a few mistakes when I was her age, but I’d learned from my experiences and hoped she’d noticed. I was getting along fine now, but life was a tough hand-to-mouth struggle sometimes. I hated the thought of Sage doing the same stupid things I had—thinking wi
th her hormones when there were far better options.

  But I didn’t like Flynn sticking his nose in our business either. Hinting that I wasn’t doing a good job made me fume. And maybe I hadn’t forgiven him for opting out at seventeen, either.

  I said, “I think you should buzz off. I know a lot more about teenage girls and their various problems than you could fit into your frying pan. So let me handle my daughter.”

  Flynn shrugged. “Be my guest. Handle her. I just don’t want you ignoring the situation.”

  “Is that all?” I tossed down my fork. “Because I’m finished with breakfast.”

  “And finished listening.” Flynn refused to get mad. “Okay, have it your way. Going to Shelby Martinelli’s wedding on Saturday?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Good thing.” Flynn reached for my empty plate. “Because I hear Gino’s planning on having you thrown out if you show up.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. Not if Uncle Carmine makes an appearance. Gino’s happy to piss me off, but he knows better than to cross Carmine.”

  “So you’re going to the wedding?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to tell you to wear a short skirt. Everybody wants a good show.”

  Normally, I didn’t lose my temper so fast. But a lot had been happening, and he was pushing my buttons. I grabbed his shirt again and tried to pull him close.

  Flynn blocked me, though, and turned his head to avoid another kiss.

  He said, “Stop it.”

  “Really? You don’t want me?”

  “Hell, yes.” He looked me in the eyes again. His were burning. “I’d like to unzip you right here and see if we still have the old steam. But maybe you ought to think about why you’re so anxious to fuck me now.”

  I released him as if my hands were seared. “I must be more desperate than I thought.”

  I whistled for Rooney, and he reappeared with his bone. We left. That’s me. Miss Congeniality.

  9

  I knew I’d let Flynn get a rise out of me for no good reason. We had both moved on with our lives, even though something elemental kept pulling us together again—like gravity. Being around him always got my blood pressure zinging.

  With the radio blasting another old Dooce tune, I drove up into Lawrenceville to pick up Nooch for the day. But he wasn’t on his usual corner, so I checked my watch and realized I was an hour early.

  On an impulse, I cut down through the neighborhood and ended up in the parking lot of the Carnegie library branch. I’ll admit I was uneasy about what might have happened to Clarice Crabtree. It wouldn’t hurt to do a little reading about her.

  Sister Bob’s Dodge Neon sat in the spot designated for Our Angel Volunteers alongside the dilapidated vehicles the librarians drove. I backed into a parking space so the word painted on the tailgate wouldn’t offend any library patron who might peek out through an upstairs window. I left Rooney in the truck with a window cracked. He was happy to be left alone with his bone.

  I cut around the back of the building to the employee entrance.

  Inside the dark stairwell, a plump gray-haired figure screamed when she saw me come through the door. A coffee cup flew out of her hand and smashed on the steps.

  I barely dodged flying shards of the cup. “Sister Bob, it’s just me—Roxy.”

  Sister Bob clutched her bosom and sat down heavily on the top step. “Roxana Marie, you gave me a terrible scare!”

  I leaped up the steps and sat down beside her. “You okay? I’m so sorry. Need a drink of water?”

  She laughed shortly and showed me her trembling hand. “What I need is a shot of whiskey, but that would blow my image once and for all, wouldn’t it?”

  “Got a bottle hiding in a desk drawer somewhere close?” I grinned encouragingly and nudged her with my elbow. “I’ll go get it for you.”

  Sister Bob shook her head, good humor returning. “I was only joking, dear. What would they think of me at St. Dom’s, if anyone heard I was drinking at my volunteer job?”

  “Yeah, you should be at the front desk adding up my late fines instead.”

  She smiled ruefully. “The library’s not open yet. I went downstairs to get a cup of coffee for Mary Lou. And I wanted to make sure the door was locked now that all the employees are here for the day. They’ve been having—well, not break-ins, but a young man has come in a couple of times before we open. He steals the petty cash. It’s not much, I know, but he’s frightening. He gave Cora Blawski such a terrible scare that she may never come back. She’s our periodicals expert. We can’t afford to lose her.”

  “Does he have a gun?”

  “He said so, but kept his hand in his pocket the first two times. Last week he pulled his hand out and had a tube of Banana Boat sunscreen.”

  “He held you up with suntan lotion?”

  “Well, how were we to know?” She clenched her fists. “Oh, I wish I had my old BB gun! I’d like to give him a good scare. I used to be a pretty good shot, you know.”

  I didn’t like hearing about a robber menacing the librarians, even one brandishing a ridiculous weapon. What a lowlife. But I tried to sound soothing. “The guy’s probably just a junkie desperate for money to buy his next hit. Did you call the police?”

  “Of course. And they parked in our lot a few mornings to make sure he didn’t come back. But they can’t wait around every day. So when you opened the door and—”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Your thief is probably watching for the police car.”

  “I know,” she said sadly. “He’ll be back for more money when he thinks the coast is clear.”

  “And he’ll keep coming back until he’s caught.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

  “I have an idea. I got my hands on some old bank dye packs—you know, those tubes of exploding dye? They’re the old-fashioned kind, very fragile, not the ones that need a special detonator at the door. All you do is slip one into your guy’s hand or the bag of cash, and it blows up. If the police can’t catch him in the act, at least they’ll see him in the neighborhood and pick him up.”

  Sister Bob looked anxious. “Would the exploding things hurt anybody?”

  “Hell—I mean, heck no. They just make a mess. You want me to bring you some?”

  “It might work,” Bob said slowly. Then she managed a smile. “It’s a comfort to have you here, Roxana. You’re so capable. What are you doing here this morning? Are you returning a few of the books you’ve been hoarding?”

  “Uh, not exactly. I came to look up some old newspaper clippings.”

  “We don’t have the clippings, of course, but you can look up newspaper archives on the computer.”

  I figured Sister Bob might need a distraction. “You mind showing me?”

  “Let me clear away this mess first.”

  It seemed only right to help her clean up her broken coffee cup and wipe up the spill on the steps. I went out to the truck and carefully brought in a couple of the dye packs we’d gotten out of the bank. We locked the employee door together. Then she showed me into the library’s computer room and booted up a machine. Within a few minutes, I was reading about the murder of Clarice Crabtree’s mother.

  “There’s not much information, is there?” Sister Bob sat beside me and tried scrolling down the screen for more to the story. “Just that the poor lady was shot outside a bank. The killer was never caught.”

  “It was probably some random thing,” I said, staring at the computer screen and wishing there was more information. “Like your petty-cash thief.”

  Bob tapped the screen with her forefinger. “This woman’s daughter is a friend of yours, Roxana?”

  “I knew her in high school, that’s all. We were talking about our dead mothers last night. When she said her mother had been murdered, I thought I’d try to find out more.”

  “You have a strange sort of bond with her, then. I suppose you both miss your mothers.”
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  I said, “Mine wasn’t much to miss.”

  Sister Bob nodded in sympathy. “And, of course, you had Loretta.”

  “Not exactly the same thing, though.”

  “But she loves you unconditionally. And took good care of you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I grinned and said, “Thanks for your help, Sister Bob. You going to be okay if I leave now?”

  “You’re welcome, Roxana. And of course we’ll be fine. But come back anytime.” Her eyes twinkled. “Especially if you bring some of those books you borrowed.”

  I let myself out the back door and got into the Monster Truck.

  “Aw, yuck! Rooney!”

  He had managed to smear the passenger seat with gunk from his bone. Happily, he panted at me.

  I used an old crumpled shirt of Nooch’s to wipe up the worst of the mess. But it was a lost cause. I’d have to get the truck steam-cleaned, and soon.

  As I pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced around for anybody who looked like the kind of slimeball who’d steal cash from a library. But I didn’t see anyone.

  Nooch was waiting on the corner by his house.

  When he opened the passenger door, he said, “What happened to the windows?”

  “I think Gino Martinelli soaped them while the truck was parked out in front of my house last night.”

  “Wow, he really needs to do some positive visualizing. I bet if he could think about something nice he’d forget about making such a mess.”

  “Gino’s idea of something nice is jailbait.”

  “Ew.” Nooch climbed into the truck. “What’s this all over the seat?”

  “Rooney’s bone. He must have chewed it open.”

  Nooch sat in the mess and forgot about it.

  That morning, we had some business to take care of in a tony neighborhood with the ridiculous name of Squirrel Hill. I had a few linear yards of quality porch railing that a very nice rabbi and his wife might like for the home they were renovating on a shady side street. All we had to do was show them the stuff and close the deal.

  When we got to the salvage yard to pick up the samples, though, we discovered somebody had spray-painted my gate while I was eating breakfast at Flynn’s.