Murder Is Uncooperative

by Merrilee Robson

  I touched his hand gently. “Dave, you know we're not going to get together again. There's been too much water under the bridge.”

  Dave laughed. “Not husband to you, Bec. To Cara. I'm going to ask her to marry me.”

  I was saved any embarrassment because the next thing he said was, “I think I'm going to throw up.”

  After Dave raced to the bathroom, and I cleaned up the spots where he'd missed the toilet, I said, “I don't think you're in any shape to go home alone.”

  I glanced at the short love seat and then at my lanky ex. “You take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch.”

  I had the whole night to discover that the love seat was not that comfortable to try to sleep on. I was awake often enough to be aware that Dave hadn't made any more trips to the bathroom. I didn't think he'd had to make use of the bucket I'd left by the side of my bed either.

  So I was up early and walked to Ben's room to check on him. He was still fast asleep, but Maui was awake. The little cat seemed to be feeling better and was moving around a bit more. I leaned down to get him out of his kennel and give him a cuddle.

  Then it was back to the regular routine of feeding the cat and getting Ben ready for preschool. I had a brief moment of wanting to keep him close beside me but I decided it was better for him to have things back to normal.

  I'd just returned from dropping Ben off when I heard a knock at the door. I was expecting most of the co-op would have heard what happened by now and be anxious to hear the details.

  But it was D'Onofrio.

  “I just wanted to let you know what's going on,” he said. “There's some question about whether Mrs. Cole is fit to stand trial. She'll be getting a psychiatric evaluation. Of course, if there is a trial, you'll be called to testify.

  “And I just wanted to give you these brochures. From victims' services. You know, in case you need counselling or anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as I took the brochures. “But I think I'll be fine. I'm tougher than I look.”

  “Yes, I think you are,” he said, and his tone softened. “Are you sure you're all right, Rebecca . . . er, Ms. Butler.”

  “You can call me Rebecca,” I said. “Um, I'm afraid I don't know your first name.”

  “Rafe,” he said. “Raffaello, really.”

  I noticed he was blushing.

  “Well, you know, there will be the trial and everything,” he said, “and it wouldn't be appropriate, but do you think, I mean, after this is all over, do you think . . . I mean, would you be interested in . . .”

  I'd never heard D'Onofrio stammer like that. I could see the color spreading from his cheekbones across his face. There was something very attractive about the flush under his olive skin. Was D'Onofrio going to ask me out? On a date?

  He didn't seem able to get it out. Well, I was a modern woman. I could ask him.

  “So, after the trial is over,” I said, “would you like to . . .”

  My bedroom door opened, and Dave stumbled out, wearing nothing but his boxers and a T-shirt. “Oh, hi, Bec. Thanks for last night. I'm just going to get some coffee. What do you have for breakfast?” He stumbled down the hall.

  I looked back at D'Onofrio. But he was already turning away. “So, anyway, I'll be in touch about the trial.”

  “Wait,” I said to his retreating back. “That wasn't what you think.”

  But the elevator doors had closed. I headed towards the kitchen. If there hadn't already been too many murders around here, Dave would have been a dead man.

  But, as D'Onofrio had said, we'd be in touch.

  Acknowledgements

  Crime writers Gail Bowen and Garry Ryan provided advice, mentorship and encouragement during the very early stages of the writing of this book. Vi Ialungo, Pat McClain, Lorraine Robson and Stuart Thomas read and gave feedback on the completed draft. Adrienne Tanner and the Vancouver Police Department answered my questions about newsroom operations and policing respectively.

  Thank you all so very much.