I heated him the last of Claire’s leftover casserole, thinking stale frittata was not a good thing, and brought a drink—he was in a pinot grigio mood rather than beer. I joined him in the wine and sat close to him on the couch.
While he ate, he talked about his day. “When I was on patrol, maybe ten people stopped to ask if patrol in the neighborhood would be increased. I told them it wasn’t necessary. And a lady on Sixth stopped to tell me how much safer she felt because I patrol the neighborhood. Makes me feel good, but I hate this hysteria.”
Nestled back into the couch, I asked “What if it’s not hysteria?”
“Kelly, there is no serial killer. I agree with Buck. If it wasn’t Claire, it was someone else who knew the old lady. They haven’t found those nephews yet. Most murder victims are killed by people they know. But it was not a serial killer.”
Mike relaxed more than the night before, and I thought maybe everything was okay. Or would be once I got over my sulk. My mistake was I didn’t give up. “Joe says it’s not a gang thing. They don’t pick on harmless old ladies. But that’s Conroy’s pet theory. I know that’s wrong.”
Mike sighed. “Kelly, there you go again. You shouldn’t have talked to Joe about it. He’s on Conroy’s list.”
“I know he is,” I said, bitterness in my voice. “He’s already been to their apartment, questioned Theresa. He’ll go back.”
After Mike left, with a quick kiss on the forehead, I sat on the couch for a long time, wondering if I could see a future with him. The physical attraction, the way he treated the girls, his steadfast honesty all called out to me. But, I was gun-shy, not sure I wanted a close relationship, let alone another husband. I trusted Tim, thought we would grow old together, and I was hurt when he left me alone with the girls.
And there were the girls. My mom would be horrified if I thought about living with a man I wasn’t married to, and in fifteen or twenty years I’d feel the same about my girls. But I was darned if I was going to marry anyone ever again without living with him first. And how could I explain that to the girls—or Mom, if she carried through on moving down here.
But the biggest problem between us might be police work. I could stay out of it if things didn’t happen in my face—but I can’t keep quiet about hunches. Mike once called me impulsive, and maybe I am, but I wasn’t going to change, and he wasn’t going to quit being a policeman, so there we were. Stuck.
I was still sitting there, spinning woolly thoughts, when the phone rang. Because it was too late for a call, the ring scared me. There’s something about a phone call after the respectable hour that conjures up visions of disaster. Caller I.D. reassured me it was Mike, calling from home.
“Kelly?” his voice was soft, affectionate. “You still awake? I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“No, Mike. I’m just sitting here…thinking.”
“Oh.” He was silent for a long minute. “I should have asked you this tonight, but I got distracted. I’m off night after tomorrow. Could you…could we go out to dinner? Maybe get Claire to watch the girls? You know, a real date.”
I took a deep breath and then hoped he didn’t hear me. “Sure, Mike. I’d like that. I’ll ask her in the morning.”
Next morning, Claire came in at seven to fix breakfast. No mention of her mood last night, but she asked, “Can we talk after breakfast?” and I told her of course. As soon as they were up and dressed, the girls began clamoring for more of her eggs—she put shredded cheese in them—so I couldn’t have a serious talk with her. I managed to say, “Let me get the girls to summer camp, and I’ll come back. We can talk.”
She nodded.
So I did just that. And when I came back, she was gone. No note, nothing, she was just gone. I went out to the guest house out of curiosity, but her things—and the cat—were still there. She’d be returning.
Still puzzled, I went off to work, showed three houses; found a possible house for the college boys who couldn’t be bothered with yard work, and a house I wanted to renovate. I didn’t have enough work for Anthony lately. I’d take him to do a structural evaluation tomorrow.
This particular house was a Victorian cottage, set way back on a lot. It was clapboard painted white, with a porch across the front showing now-decaying gingerbread trim. It was two bedrooms and one bath—a cozy house for one person, possibly for two, and not at all suitable for a family. I would have to sell it to just the right person. The living room and dining room stretched across the front, with bedrooms behind them, and the kitchen at the far end of the house, behind the dining room.
No one lived there for five years or so, and the house exhibited those peculiar signs of neglect that show up in empty houses—warped floorboards, a couple of cracked windows, a sluggish commode, and the beginnings of a mildew problem in the ceiling of the living room. Remodeled, with a small but smashing kitchen, it would be great for someone single with a rising career who wanted to live close to the hospital district and downtown. Or—the thought came like thunder—for Mom.
The yard was a mess, but I could see that it once was an English-style garden of wildflowers that would survive the Texas heat. I’d have to hire a gardener. I’d get estimates from Anthony and a yard man and then see if it was worthwhile. Mom used to garden, and maybe she’d take it up again if I presented her with a good garden to maintain rather than a start-from-scratch project. Oops, I was casting her in the mold of Florence Dodson again.
Life looked pretty good to me. I was cheerful because of my honest-to-gosh date with Mike the next night and finding that house pushed me over the top. When the girls and I drove into our driveway, Claire’s car was there and the edge kind of fell off my happiness. The fleeting thought came that having Claire in the house, with all her problems, might indeed get to be a burden. What I thought was a short-term visit seemed to be lengthening into a permanent stay.
She wasn’t in the house, but when I opened the refrigerator I found a ready roasted chicken from the grocery deli counter, a container of potato salad and another of marinated summer vegetables. On the counter was a loaf of garlic bread and a note, “Supper is in the fridge. I’ll be in about six, Thanks, C.” I wondered if I’d ever hear what she’d wanted to talk about that morning.
“Where’s Miss Claire?” Em asked.
“I think she’s outside in the guest house. She’ll be in for dinner.”
“Can I go see Emily?”
I debated. Claire might need her privacy. On the other hand, she might be cheered by Em’s presence. “Knock and ask her if it’s any trouble for you come see the cat.”
Em nodded. “Want to go, Maggie?”
“Nope. I have to walk Gus.” A toss of her head made it clear where her priorities were.
Em stayed in the guest house until suppertime, and then she and Claire came in together, holding hands. Claire looked like herself again, no trace of the solemn woman of last night. “We’ve had a lively visit,” she said, “and Emily adores Em. I made a toy for Em to play with her, out of some yarn scraps from my knitting bag, and it kept them both busy.”
“Did you know how smart Gus is, Miss Claire? He comes when I call him. Watch.” And Maggie called Gus, who came bounding toward her. “Sit, Gus,” and the dog sat, wagging his tail as if to ask where his treat was.
Claire knew what was going on—she’d raised two daughters—and she was lavish with her praise. “Did you teach him that in two days?”
Maggie beamed and nodded. I didn’t add that Gus’ natural enthusiasm taught him to come to anyone who indicated any interest in him.
Dinner was much more cheerful than the night before, and once again Claire saved the girls from washing dishes by doing them herself. As she washed and I dried, she said, “Can we talk later?”
“Sure, I want to hear about what’s happened.”
When the girls went to bathe, I found out a lot had happened. Jim pressed charges of assault with a deadly weapon, but no court date was set. He was home from the hospital, making a big deal of a minor injury—that was Claire’s version of the story. I’m sure his would be different. He got a protection order that forbad Claire to come within forty feet of their residence or twenty feet of anywhere he might be in public— “so I can’t eat in the same restaurant or anything,” she said. “You know, harass him by following him. Why would I care to?” She tried to laugh, but it didn’t come off well. “The thing is a lot of my personal belongings are in that house, and a few things from my family. I couldn’t get all of them before he got out of the hospital.”
“Can Megan go get them for you?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure she could find them all, but that’s a thought. I hid some pretty well. Guess I knew the marriage was in trouble and wouldn’t last, only I thought he’d be the one out of the house, coming back to scour closets and all for something he wanted—or something he knew I wanted.”
Once again, my picture of how they lived shifted—this time, into low gear. What a distrustful atmosphere must have dominated that marriage.
“The lawyer?” I asked.
“Karen Landman was nice and quite helpful. She took the time to listen to my story, and she’s referred me to a defense lawyer. I see him tomorrow. But Karen will be my divorce lawyer and that includes protecting my rights in the marriage agreement.”
A prenup? The question must have been on my face, for she said, “No, there was no prenup. But I didn’t bring much to the marriage except a daughter and a few pieces of worthless furniture, which Jim has long since replaced, a couple of antiques from my mom, and a bit of good jewelry, also from my mom. I want my mom’s things back. And I want the house. This is a community property state—that’s what I meant by marriage agreement.”
I had lots of questions at that point, such as could she afford the house if she got it, did she expect alimony, because I thought it unlikely—but I didn’t ask any of them.
“I know how wrong it was to shoot Jim. I should have just filed for divorce, and I probably would have gotten a good settlement, pleading verbal abuse, mental cruelty, and all that. Gotten the house and everything. He’d be in the wrong—which he really is—and I wouldn’t be. But I just lost it the other night. I can’t explain it any other way. I lost it. And I made a huge mistake. Now I’ll just wait and let him file for divorce. I think it always makes a man look bad when he’s the one who files.”
I didn’t see any point in dwelling on that, so I asked. “What about your girls?”
“Megan is coming to see me this weekend. I don’t know about Liz. I think she’s coming to see her dad and will stay at the house, but I don’t know if I’ll see her or not.”
I could not imagine, not even in the far reaches of my mind, being estranged from one of my daughters, but Claire seemed sort of matter-of-fact about it.
The girls came to say goodnight about then, and our conversation ended. Each of them gave Claire a peck on the cheek, and she hugged them, and said, “I am so glad for a chance to spend time with you girls.” They beamed and came to me for hugs and kisses and a promise that I’d tuck them in, which caused Claire to say goodnight.
My house settled down to quiet for the evening.
****
I forgot to ask Claire to watch the girls! I considered barging out to the guesthouse about ten-thirty when I realized this, but a peek out the window told me that all was dark and she was asleep. I’d ask her the next morning, which I did and she agreed. I promised to be home by eleven, and she said, “No hurry. Enjoy the evening.”
I was busy with routine office stuff most of the next day, but I called Ralph Hoskins in the morning and asked if we could meet at the Old Neighborhood Grill for lunch and to discuss the neighborhood effort to solve Mrs. Dodson’s murder.
“Lunch?” he echoed. Then after a slight hesitation, “yes, I believe I could do that. I’ll meet you there. Did you say eleven-thirty?”
“Yes, before it gets too crowded. And it’s my treat.”
“No need for that,” he laughed, “but we can quarrel when we get there.”
As it turned out we went Dutch, because the Grill is a place where you order at the counter and then find a seat. Feeling righteous, I had veggies—mashed potatoes (okay, they’re still veggies), black-eyed peas, and Italian green beans, straight out of the can. Ralph Hoskins had a chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and the same green beans, and ate every bite. I suppose he tired of his own cooking all the time, or maybe he was grateful not to eat alone.
We talked in general terms, while we waited for our food. I told him about my new house and my girls, and he said he hoped to meet them one day. He was so pleasant I thought maybe I should invite him to Sunday supper one night, but then I remember how Mike felt about what he called a “vigilante.” In turn, Mr. Hoskins—please call me Ralph—told me he’d always worked at home as a computer consultant. He and his mother lived alone for years, and he was lonely since she died four or five years ago. “I appreciate this lunch,” he said. “I don’t have many friends.”
