by Kate Flora
To test how long he might be, I said, "I'll wait right here."
"Better come inside where it's warm."
So, a long almost, not a short one. I followed him to the waiting room. The little girl's parents were still in their chairs. She had her head on his shoulder, he had his head on hers, and they were both asleep. I stayed back while Andre put his hand on the man's shoulder and shook him gently.
He came awake and stared at a strange man holding his child. "What the fuck?" he said.
An eloquent response. One I might have used myself, if my mother hadn't worked so hard to make me ladylike.
"Is this your child?" Andre asked, using his best 'I'm a cop so don't fuck with me you asshole' voice.
"Yeah. So?"
"So while you were in here taking a nap, she just ran out into the parking lot and came within inches of getting struck by an ambulance. My wife nearly got killed saving her."
I watched belligerence morph into "Oh my God!" The man shook the woman awake, then rose and held out his arms for the child. He folded her against his chest, murmuring "Sidney, sweetie. Thank God!" and began to cry.
At that moment, a nurse with a clipboard called the woman's name and she rose unsteadily, both hands pressed against her stomach, and followed the nurse and clipboard through a door. The man watched her go, then stammered out an explanation to Andre that involved two back-to-back twelve-hour shifts, a sick wife, a mother with Alzheimer's who kept wandering and other complications. All the while rubbing his child's back and nuzzling her soft curls with his chin.
Yes, they'd been careless. And yes, a child had been at risk and I would have preferred he skipped the foul language. But they weren't the careless parents I'd imagined. So easy to be judgmental and so hard, sometimes, to be parents.
Then Andre was ready to go. At least he was heading for the door. I trailed after him gratefully until I saw that he was actually heading toward a uniformed state trooper who was just coming in. I'd begun an inward string of curses when I saw that the trooper was carrying a pizza box and a paper bag. He gave them to Andre with a crisp, "Here you go, sir. I hope that's everything."
"Thanks for doing this," Andre said.
The trooper headed back to the cruiser parked at the curb and vanished into the night. Andre turned to me. "Veggie pizza, salad, and chocolate cake okay?"
"You are my hero," I said. "Let's go home. I've got a call to make and then you can fill me in."
As the car warmed and we headed off into the black night, the air around us filled with the smells of hot cheese and onions. I was almost too hungry to wait. I filled the time with a call to Jonetta. She was disappointed, not too surprised, and already formulating her battle plan. Reeve had called back two more times. I ignored him. The next eight hours were mine. Mine and Andre's. I was going to have a picnic and chocolate cake, and keep the rest of the world and its problems out somewhere on the periphery. It would all come swooping back soon enough.
"Sounds like your people are as cooperative as my people," he said, when I finished with Jonetta. "You want to hear about Randy?"
I could tell from his tone that Randy had given them nothing, and neither of us was in the mood for another helping of nothing. "Not right now."
"My thoughts exactly. Except you might want to know that you broke his nose."
I should have had regrets at hurting another person, but Randy had done his share of hurting first. I'm working on becoming a tough old bird like Mrs. Ames.
He drove at cop speed, and we were home in record time. We hurried up the stairs, shucked our coats, and spread out our feast on the coffee table. Andre put on a romantic music mix he'd made for Valentine's Day. I opened a bottle of red wine. I took a couple of Advil and told my various aches and pains to go play somewhere else. I had a handsome man across the table and big plans for later that did not involve anyone else's problems. We settled down on cushions on the floor and had ourselves a picnic. Being in the here and now here and now.
Tomorrow, as Scarlett has taught us to say, was another day.
Chapter 19
It took willpower not to check my phone again or ask about Ginger's ex boyfriend. Andre was struggling, too, but somehow we avoided talking about our work. We enjoyed our food, though I was so tired I only had a few sips of the wine. We ate impossibly large hunks of chocolate cake. We snuggled and we kissed and we had ourselves a fine old time. We let tomorrow come.
All too soon, it was morning. A morning that began, as so many of them do, with the phone ringing before six. In March, before six, it is almost as black as at three a.m. It was his cell phone, so I pulled the covers over my head and contemplated another hour of sleep. I wasn't going to be a road warrior today. I only had to go to the office. I could take my time.
Ha!
He wasn't too many minutes into his call when the phone rang. Not my cell. I'd turned that to vibrate and left it to silently collect the calls from Reeve. When I stopped counting, Reeve had called seven times. This was the landline.
It was bound to be for Andre, but since he was occupied, I flipped off the covers and grabbed it. "Thea? It's Roland. Where on earth did you get that picture?"
Oh crap. And a cheerful good morning to you, too.
"Roland?" I scrabbled around for clear wits, hoping it might help if I turned on the light. I fumbled for the switch.
"That picture of Ginger," he said impatiently. "Where did you get it?"
"I told you in the email. It was on the bathroom wall at the school I was at yesterday. The Stafford Academy in Connecticut. It's an old photo—maybe fifteen years or so, taken by one of their famous alums. They had a whole display of his work. And I don't know that it's Ginger."
"It's her. It's got to be her," he said. "What does Andre think?"
"I haven't asked him. We were kind of busy last night after I found Ginger's ex-boyfriend Randy hiding in my basement."
"Say what?"
"Where are you?" I said.
"At the airport. Waiting for my flight."
"Back to Maine?" Probably a stupid question. Where else would he be going? Unless he'd found a lead to another part of Ginger's past.
"Yeah. It's been delayed two hours. Well, show it to him, Thea. Right now. See what he thinks. Maybe she's in an alumni directory. In a yearbook. Maybe someone remembers her. Maybe the photographer remembers her."
There was a commotion of airport noise in the background. "Is Andre there?" he said.
I thought he was jumping the gun, getting too excited about something that was probably just a resemblance. I looked over at Andre, still pacing with the phone pressed to his ear. "He's here. On the phone about something."
I waved the phone at him and he held up two fingers. "Two minutes," I told Roland.
I flopped back against the pillows and pulled up the comforter. I wanted Roland to go away and the day to hold off a little longer. My body was one big bruise. My shoulder was stiff and aching from Randy's fist and my hip and thigh felt black and blue from rescuing that toddler. Suzanne was right. I needed to reform. But I didn't see how I could predict, and thus avoid, thugs in my basement or tiny children bent on escape unless I started consulting psychics. Would Suzanne want me to let the child get run over? I didn't think so.
I shifted and groaned. Maybe the man of my dreams would bring me some Advil when he got off the phone.
"Are you okay?" Roland said.
"Not really."
"What happened?" He sighed, like he shared Suzanne's opinion of my propensity for getting into bad situations. That sigh did nothing to improve my mood.
I gave him the short version. Despite the pleasant time I'd spent with Andre, I was in a foul mood this morning. My phone was like a tiny Pandora's Box. I knew that the moment I opened it a heap of problems would tumble out. Things would only get worse when I got to the office. I thought of Andre's suggestion last night. We should take a vacation. Get away from the cold and ice and snow. Go someplace where furnaces didn't break and
we didn't know anyone and wouldn't get drawn in if there was a mugging or a murder.
That brought a mental note to check on Mrs. Ames's condition when I would rather be pawing through storage boxes looking for my bikini. Maybe the rest of our clients would follow Stafford's lead, become impossible, and I could fire them all and become blissfully unemployed. Except then Bobby and Lisa and Magda and Suzanne and Brianna would also be out of work. And we all needed the income. Crap. Note to self: avoid businesses where other people depend on you.
Across the room, Andre kept pacing, phone pressed to his ear. In nothing but blue boxers, he looked like a million dollars. He's one of those men who have naturally great bodies. He also looked like a man getting bad news.
"Andre's still on the phone," I said. "You want to wait for him?" A little mental loop played the too frequent question: would you still like to hold or shall I put you through to his voicemail?
"I want to know what he thinks about that picture." Like I was a bit simple and likely to have forgotten.
I had no idea what Andre would think of the picture. Maybe he hadn't looked at it yet. We'd been busy last night. "Did you learn anything useful in Florida?"
"Pretty much the same as here. No close friends. No paper trail. She appeared from nowhere and disappeared almost without a trace. People liked her. She was pleasant. Good at her job. The reason she gave her boss for leaving was that she'd met a guy and he was moving to Maine. It seemed plausible to him, if a bit sudden."
What would it be like to live an entire life so carefully? To never allow yourself to make connections or have close friends? "You learn anything about the guy?"
"I'm not sure there was one," he said. "No one ever met him. No one ever saw him."
"So maybe it was just an excuse to leave. But people around here hadn't met Randy, either. And he's way too real."
Andre lowered his phone and I held out the one I'd been talking on. "It's Roland."
I gave up on peace and quiet and the possibility of being waited on and headed into the bathroom to get my own painkillers. My body was not with the program. It screamed and creaked all the way across the room. I gobbled some pills, probably destroying my stomach. What helps one thing hurts another. That could be another of my mottoes.
Anticipating the soothing wonders of a hot shower, I limped back into the bedroom to get clean underwear. Mother says one must wear it, and given my track record for ending up in emergency rooms, unlike much of what she had to offer, it was good advice. Before I could secure the necessaries, Andre was pointing at my phone and making "show me" gestures.
Shower postponed, I scrolled through my photos to the ones of the happy, athletic girl in the picture on the bathroom wall. I clicked on the first one and passed my phone to Andre.
He studied the picture, covered the receiver, and said, "Why didn't you show me this last night?"
Dark thoughts involving divorce or domestic violence bubbled to the surface as I turned to my dresser and pulled out a handful of black lacy items. When I turned back, he was still waiting for an answer. A tenacious follow.
"It was such a long shot," I said. "And I did send them. To you and to Roland. When you didn't say anything, I figured you thought the pictures didn't matter. Besides, I didn't want to spoil the little time we had together."
His cop's face said that wasn't satisfactory.
"They're fifteen years old, Andre. I did find out who took them. I called the photographer and left a message. His recording said he was out of the country."
"I'll need his number. This could be important," he said.
Although nothing had been mentioned about Randy and last night, I was getting the impression, from the importance he was putting on these photos, that he didn't think Randy was the killer. I wasn't so sure. While the sense I'd gotten from Ginger was that Randy wasn't dangerous, last night he'd exhibited a serious propensity for violence. I also thought I'd brought Andre and Roland a heck of lot of information, when I wasn't even a detective, and he should stop looking at me like I was a rather dim civilian.
I stumped out to the living room to get my notebook, wrote down the photographer's name and contact information, and gave it to Andre. Then I gathered up my dainties and headed for the shower. Once again postponing the unpleasant task of retrieving my messages. Between voicemail, texts, and e-mail, an increasingly large piece of my day is taken up with electronic communication. The upside? It's fast. The downside? People don't read attentively anymore. Send a message asking three questions and get an instant answer to one of them. Suzanne says just send three separate e-mails. It's a habit I'm slow to learn.
The hot water felt good. I thought about bagging the whole day and spending it here in the shower, where the world was sealed off by a wall of steady, comforting sound and my bruises were soothed. If anyone asked—Andre, that is—I would say I was meditating. He'd be gone soon anyway; duty was obviously calling, and despite my usual regret at his departure, today I'd almost be glad to see him go. It was fine when we were each busy with our own work, but this time I kept getting dragged into his. I wanted a few Ginger-free hours.
I didn't get to enjoy my grouch, or my shower, for long because I wasn't very good at being selfish. Ginger would never have another delicious warm shower. Never find someone to love and trust. Never smile her cute smile. People mattered. Ginger mattered. Finding her killer mattered.
I was about to turn off the water and go face the day when the shower curtain was drawn back and Andre stepped in. "I'm sorry," he said, "for being an ass."
I smiled. "Such a nice ass."
"Better than yours," he said, "which is seven shades of blue and purple."
"Attractive only to another baboon."
"I love you no matter what color you are."
"Don't get all mushy on me, detective." But mushy implies soft and he was anything but.
"I'd like nothing better than to show you how attractive I find you," he said, "but—"
"Duty calls," I said.
"Too right. But keep thinking about that bikini. No matter how much work we've got, when this one is put to bed, we're going away. Even if it's just a long weekend."
"You've got a date," I said.
We stepped out and grabbed our towels. This bathroom was too small. I wondered for a brief second what the bathrooms were like in the house I never got to see. Big, probably. Bright and airy and modern. Maybe even with a bathtub big enough for two.
"Sorry about that photo. For not looking at it. I thought it was—"
"Unrelated?"
"Yeah. And it may still be. But it looks so much like her, and at this point, anything is worth following up."
"What about Randy?"
"I don't think he's the killer. Funny thing about him is that he's no more Randy Small than she was Ginger Stevens. His name is Robert Dorman and he's got a record for theft in Florida."
Had Ginger known or had he lied to her? And what discoveries had she made that led to their breakup? He'd been stealing from her—she'd told me that. Had she discovered he'd been stealing from other people? She couldn't tell us and he wouldn't. What items was he looking for in our house last night that were worth attacking people over? And why didn't this suggest he might have killed her?
As I stepped into my underwear, the phone rang. Andre was shaving, so I went to answer it.
"Thea. Thank goodness. I thought I'd never reach you." A pause. "It's Joel Phelps. At Stafford. We've got a situation."
Chapter 20
"Hold on," I said. I was not having this conversation in my underwear. It was cold in the bedroom despite the revived furnace.
"Don't hang up on me," he was saying as I put the phone on the bed. I grabbed a charcoal cashmere tunic and pulled on a pair of black jeans. The mirror said good, if slightly sinister. The look needed a statement necklace or a scarf.
I fumbled through my drawer as I picked up the phone. "Okay?"
"It's Jonetta Williamson," he said. "She says if we expe
l Johnny Gordon and give Alyce Crimmons a suspension, she'll make sure it gets into every newspaper in the country."
"Sounds about right," I said.
"Thea!" he exploded. "She could destroy us."
"No, Joel. If you give the admittedly guiltier party, a white, well-connected girl, a lesser penalty while expelling a minority boy, you're destroying yourself. Never mind going against the vote of the board and ignoring something everyone agreed on as the best solution. What are you thinking? Do you want to make Stafford Academy look like a retro bastion of white elitist stupidity?"
"Excuse me?" he said.
"Let me reword that: Are you trying to destroy the school's excellent reputation by doing something outrageously stupid and unfair to appease one set of powerful parents?"
"I was hoping you could talk to her."
"Talk to whom?"
"Jonetta."
"And say what? That I agree with her? That you're ignoring all of my advice? That I think you're being arrogant and pigheaded and making a huge mistake that will result in long-term damage for the school?"
I realized that I hadn't called Charlotte Ainsley. "Have you shared your new plan with Mrs. Ainsley? Does she agree?"
"I didn't think I—"
"You can stop at 'I didn't think,' Joel. Now calm down, think this through carefully, and if you are sure you want to proceed with the scenario Reeve outlined to me last night, then you have to share that with her and be certain that she and the trustees are on board."
I gave that a chance to penetrate, and added, "and, as I'm sure Reeve has told you, you may not represent that this change of strategy has EDGE's approval. In fact, you must tell Mrs. Ainsley and the Board that we objected to the change and have made it clear that we will terminate our connection with Stafford Academy if you go forward with your new proposal."
"You're kidding," he said.
