Richard ducked his chin. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said quietly. “I guess I overstepped. I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He reached for the door handle and got out of the car, moving slowly. Gin wanted to call after him, but she couldn’t find the words to tell him how important it was to her that he allow her the independence she craved while still appreciating all the love and support her parents tried to give her.
Instead, she watched him trudge up to the house. At the door, he glanced back and gave her a small wave, his mouth twisted in a smile that disappeared even before he turned away.
* * *
Stephen Harper called her while she was standing in front of the imported beers in the liquor store, trying to figure out which to buy.
“I thought you’d want to know,” he said. “Ellerth Morton recommended someone to examine the uniform samples. We sent them over to the university—they’ve got someone in the history department who said she’d take a look. All we were able to do was confirm that the fibers and dyes seem to be authentic.”
Ellerth Morton was the consulting anthropologist the department had used in the past. Gin respected his work and trusted that his recommendation would be sound.
“That’s great, Stephen,” she said. “Listen, did you send the soil mass from underneath?”
“The . . . mass?”
“I know there wasn’t any obvious evidence, but remember how impacted it was?”
“Yeah . . . it was like a giant mud pie. We sent a section of it with the other soil samples, but we’ve got the rest of it just sitting in a tray. But now that you mention it, why weren’t there any fragments of the uniform underneath? We found pieces of it all over the top of the remains.”
“As the body fluids leaked out, they would have soaked the fibers, making them attractive to organisms to feed on. The area around a decaying body is especially organically rich, and it’s not uncommon for it to be a virtual feeding ground.”
“Yeah, there were definitely a lot of bug parts and other stuff in that section.”
“They’ll be able to tell a lot from the sample. But I’d send the rest down to the university and let her go through it. She’ll know what to look for if there’s any part of his uniform left intact in the soil.”
“Okay, you got it. Listen, Chozick asked me to see if you could talk to her once she’s had a chance to review everything. Her name’s Pia Farrar. I sent her your information, but I’ll text you her contact info too.”
“Of course, Stephen. I’ll be glad to talk to her.” After the conversation with her father, Gin was grateful to have a professional challenge to focus on. “Listen . . . do you know anything about beer?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess, if you count knowing that Budweiser’s on sale at Star Market.”
Gin laughed. “Okay, thanks anyway. I’ll just pick the prettiest label.”
“Geez, Gin, every once in a while you say something that threatens to knock you off the pedestal I’ve put you on.”
“The sooner, the better,” Gin said, with feeling. She doubted that Stephen Harper—or any of her other male colleagues, for that matter—had to endure their own families’ attempts to meddle in their professional lives. “It gets awfully lonely up there.”
* * *
She was loading the six-pack of a local IPA into her car when her phone chimed a text.
So sorry to have to ask but is there any chance you can take Olive tonight after practice, forgot Austen has cub scouts
A few seconds later, another text came in.
No worries if not she can stay home alone
Gin knew that Brandon had been reluctant to leave Olive home by herself. Though she’d been independent and confident before her mother’s death, she’d experienced nightmares and anxiety, particularly in the early weeks following the funeral. Brandon had confided that she was doing better now, but Gin hated to see her fragile recovery threatened by moving too fast.
She texted back.
I’d love to take her. I’ll see if Cherie wants to come over too.
That would be great IOU big time
Gin stared at her phone thoughtfully. She would take the girls so that Brandon could spend time with his son and Tuck could focus on the case. Maybe her father would see her contributions as women’s work, the way her mother had watched not only her own children but those of her husband’s best friend, a widower, so that he could work without distraction.
But Gin didn’t see it that way. The favors she was doing now would be repaid in kind when and if she had children of her own. At least, that was true of Brandon. Her motives were murkier when it came to Tuck. She liked his young daughter, and she was happy to see the girls’ blossoming friendship, but it was also true that she hoped he would be able to help wrap up the case, for Jake’s sake.
Before she could examine her motives too closely, she texted Tuck that she would keep the girls after practice.
She’d have to cancel with Rosa. Disappointed, she sent a text expressing her regrets and explaining the situation. It had been a long day, one marred by the conversation with her father and her unease at the way she had left things with Jake.
Almost instantly a text chimed back.
Bring the girls! It will be fun. Mom loves kids, and we have plenty of food.
Gin texted a quick thank you and started the car, pleased that she wouldn’t have to cancel the evening after all. Jake was in the city—she might as well enjoy her evening too.
It wasn’t going to be a typical Girls’ Night Out—not with one elderly parent and two thirteen-year-olds in the group, not to mention a reunion with someone she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. But, Gin reflected as she drove home, it was sure to be memorable—and it beat sitting home and worrying about things that she couldn’t control.
14
During practice, Gin watched Olive running around the court, her long legs pumping, her ponytail flying. In a painful contrast, Cherie spent much of the practice shuffling out of the way, reaching for balls that she never quite seemed to catch and several times running into other girls. Gin had heard some of the other girls teasing her about being “a retard” and was grateful that Olive wasn’t among them; but Olive steadfastly ignored both Cherie and Gin as though avoiding the possibility that Gin might try to pair them during drills.
Announcing to Olive that both girls would be going with her to a dinner party would be a challenge, but Gin was hoping that Olive would get through it with her usual cheer and good nature. As the practice wound down, she took Olive aside and explained briefly.
“I know this probably wouldn’t be your first choice,” she said, “but your Dad has his hands full and . . . well, I was hoping it might be an opportunity for you to get to know Cherie a little better.”
“I don’t want to know her better,” Olive hissed back. “Why can’t you understand that?”
Gin suppressed a sigh of frustration. She remembered being that age—appeals to Olive’s better nature were unlikely to do anything but further frustrate her. “I do understand. And I know I can’t tell you what to think or feel. All I expect is that you’ll be polite to both Cherie and my friend and her family tonight.” When Olive rolled her eyes, Gin bit back the urge to snap at her. “Can I count on you to do that?”
Olive refused to look at her, her mouth compressed in a stubborn frown. Finally she glanced up, eyes flashing with anger, and muttered, “You’re not my mom!” before dashing away.
Gin shut her eyes and counted to ten, wondering if she was helping Olive or making things worse. Either way, they were committed at least for this one evening. She forced a smile on her face and found Cherie, explaining that she’d been invited to a special dinner with new friends. As they walked to the car, Olive held back, calling out good-byes to her friends, while Cherie chattered with Gin in excitement.
“I love tamales! They’re my favorite.” She handed Gin her bag, and as Gin set it into the back of the Range Rover, Olive c
aught up, silently glowering.
“Do you like tamales too?” Cherie said.
For a moment, Gin held her breath, hoping that Olive wouldn’t take out her frustration on Cherie. At last, she muttered, “Sure, I guess,” and got into the car. As both girls buckled up in the back seat, Gin silently prayed for a further thawing in their relationship.
She found a parking space halfway down the block of Rosa’s street. She remembered visiting the neighborhood with her mother as a child before the worst of the economic downturn had taken hold of Trumbull. There had been an Italian bakery nearby, where her mother sometimes bought pink and green sugar cookies. Not far away had been a tobacconist where her father bought pipe tobacco before giving up smoking for good. And nearly every other block featured a corner tavern, a place where the steelworkers stopped for a drink on their way home from the factories below.
As the factories closed and fortunes plunged, many of the former single-family homes had been converted to apartments, and later to rooming houses, places of last resort for people who were barely getting by. The neighborhood descended into an attitude of despair, and crime worsened as more and more jobs disappeared.
At its worst, entire blocks had been vacant, shop windows smashed and boarded up, and abandoned property piled on porches. Before Gin left for college, she’d vowed never to return to Trumbull voluntarily, and on her few visits home in the intervening years, she’d renewed her promise to herself.
Now, however, there were signs of renewal sprouting even on the worst streets, like crocuses poking their tender shoots through the snow in an early thaw. As they walked down the street to Rosa’s, they passed a little bungalow, painted yellow and decorated with greens tied with a cheery red plaid ribbon, defiantly celebrating the season. A gas station across the street that once sold liquor now advertised organic milk and honey. And a man in a parka pulled two toddlers along the snowy sidewalk on a saucer-shaped sled, the children shrieking with laughter.
Rosa lived in a battered-looking gray house on a corner. It desperately needed a coat of paint and a new roof, but someone—Rosa?—had shoveled the porch and walkway and sprinkled salt on the steps. A little red wagon, filled with toys, was stowed in the corner of the porch.
Before Gin could ring the doorbell, the door burst open and Rosa greeted them with a warm smile. She had a squirming little boy in her arms and a smudge of sauce on her cheek, and her hair was escaping its ponytail, but she looked vivacious and pretty. When she’d come to Gin’s aid the other night, she’d been covered up in a scarf and hat and coat; now Gin saw that she’d stayed trim and taken good care of herself. Her hair was glossy and a rich shade of brown, and her skin was unlined and lightly accented with makeup.
“Welcome, welcome!” she said. “This is Antonio. He’s been talking about you for the last hour, but all of a sudden the cat’s got his tongue.”
“I like Legos,” he said shyly, peeking out from under his impossibly long lashes. “Want to see?”
Olive, who’d silently focused on her phone on the whole drive over, slipped it into her pocket. “Sure,” she said. “I like them a lot.”
“Me too!” Cherie exclaimed.
Olive glanced at Gin with a guilty look on her face. “Maybe we could all three play Legos,” she said quietly, and Gin realized that was her apology.
Antonio wriggled out of his mother’s arms and ran up the stairs, and the girls trailed behind, Cherie chattering enthusiastically. Gin followed Rosa into the kitchen, where a tiny woman with a lined brown face and a long white braid was deftly folding a mound of masa dough and savory meat into a cornhusk.
“Mom, this is my friend Gin,” she said. “Mom’s famous for her tamales. People all around the neighborhood ask her to make them.”
“I don’t remember so good, but this I remember,” the old woman said, adding the finished tamale to a tray and reaching in a bowl of water for another husk.
“Mom’s already made enough for dinner and the freezer,” Rosa said, wiping her hands on her apron. “These are for the family next door—they just brought a new baby home from the hospital.”
Gin closed her eyes and inhaled the intoxicating aromas while Rosa opened two beers. She handed one to Gin, and they clinked their bottles together.
“To friendship,” Rosa said.
* * *
A couple of hours later, stuffed with tamales and homemade orange pound cake, and pleasantly relaxed from the beer, Gin and Rosa finished the dishes and then moved to the living room to enjoy a cup of coffee. Mrs. Escamilla had gone to bed upstairs, tired from a full day of cooking. The girls were in the kitchen helping Antonio with a craft project that Rosa had planned for them, and to Gin’s relief, everyone seemed to be getting along well. There were frequent bursts of laughter as they glued tiny beads to patterned frames to make Christmas ornaments.
“You’ve got your hands full,” Gin observed, noticing a basket of clean clothes waiting to be folded and a stack of papers that Rosa had brought home from her job as an elementary school teacher. “When do you ever get to relax?”
Rosa laughed. “Trust me, every day is a vacation since I got rid of my ex-husband.” She clapped her hand over her mouth in mock dismay. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m so careful to stay positive around Antonio, and I hardly ever have a chance to let loose and say what I really think.”
“Does he have a good relationship with his father?” Gin asked diplomatically.
“For the most part, yes. He doesn’t need to know that Sam’s usually late with his support payment, if he sends it at all, or that if I didn’t remind him, he would forget to come to Antonio’s choir concerts.” She reflected for a moment. “Sam’s lazy and irresponsible, but at least he’s a lot better than my father. My mom had to raise me and my brother with no help at all after he went to prison. Most of the time, she worked two jobs. So now that she has dementia, I’m going to keep her at home for as long as I can. She deserves the best.”
Gin was searching for words to express her admiration when there was a knock at the door.
“That’s probably Cherie’s dad,” Gin said. “He’s picking her up here on his way home from work—I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, the more, the merrier,” Rosa said cheerfully.
She opened the door, and there was Tuck standing with his hat in his hands, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. “Ma’am,” he said politely.
Gin noticed a change come over Rosa—a stiffening, a sense of apprehension—and she wondered if she should have mentioned in advance that he was a police officer. The relationship between the residents of this neighborhood and the police had been a rocky one and had worsened in recent years as policing practices came under scrutiny all over the country.
Nevertheless, Rosa was perfectly polite, if slightly formal. “Please come in,” she said. “We’ve enjoyed having Cherie visit. Would you have some cake?”
“Dad!” Cherie screeched, running into the room, holding her ornament carefully with both hands. She threw her arms around her father and hugged him hard. “I had the best day! Look what I made!”
The light in Tuck’s tired eyes broke the tension. “Hiya, Princess,” he said.
Cherie rolled her eyes. “Dad, I’m not a princess. He only calls me that ’cause we read books about princesses sometimes,” she explained to Rosa. “It’s dumb.” Then she dashed back into the kitchen.
Tuck stayed for cake and coffee, but after praising Rosa’s cooking and thanking her repeatedly for inviting Cherie, he stood and called for his daughter. “Time to go. School tomorrow.”
“Five more minutes!” Cherie pleaded. “Please, please, please!”
“No, you said that five minutes ago. It’s time to go home now. Let’s get your things.” He followed Cherie into the kitchen so that she could get the rest of the ornaments she’d made.
“I’d better get going too,” Gin said, standing and stretching. “I had such a wonderful time. Let’s get together again soon.”
<
br /> “I’d like that,” Rosa said. She pressed a sack of tamales into Gin’s hands, then whispered confidentially, “He’s a nice man, and handsome—anything going on between you two?”
Gin laughed, caught by surprise and embarrassment. She hadn’t mentioned Jake this evening, and she tried to tell herself that it was only because the children and Rosa’s mother were present and so conversation hadn’t gotten around to personal matters.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “I’m . . . well, it’s complicated. When we get together again, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“You have a deal,” Rosa smiled. “One of these days, I hope to start dating again, but between Antonio and Mom, I haven’t made the time. So I guess my life is complicated too.”
The girls trooped into the room after Tuck, and they all said their good-byes, Antonio begging them to come back again soon.
Outside, the snow had begun again.
“You girls go get in my car,” Tuck said. “I’ll get your things out of Gin’s car.”
As they walked down the street, Tuck put his hand under her elbow to help her keep her balance on the slick sidewalks. Gin wondered if she should say something about Cherie, perhaps apologize for the behavior of some of the girls on the team. But then she decided that Tuck was probably well aware of his daughter’s social challenges.
“Rosa seems nice,” Tuck said. “It took her a minute to warm up to me, though.”
“I imagine it can be difficult to be a police officer these days,” Gin said diplomatically. “The press isn’t particularly fair, in my opinion.”
“It’s all just part of the—hey, I thought you were going to get a rental. Where did you get this heap of junk?”
Gin laughed. “Better not let my dad hear you say that. He loves this old thing. They keep it around for trips to the mountains.”
“Doesn’t look especially safe to me,” Tuck said. “You need new tires, at the very least—these are half bald. I’m surprised Crosby lets you drive around in this thing.”
All the Secret Places Page 14