Death Warmed Over

by Kate Flora

  I did not want him to go and couldn't ask him to stay. I wished Andre had come instead and yet was grateful to Roland for being himself. A true friend. A totally decent man.

  "At least, thanks to you, we have something to work with," he said.

  "I hope so."

  "I know so. You've pretty much given us everything we've got that's useful. Now I'm going to wait while you get something clean out of the suitcase you always keep in there, and then I'm going to walk you back to the building."

  "I'm not a baby, Roland."

  "Nope. You're a babe, Thea. And I'm walking you back."

  I fumbled in my suitcase to find something I could slip on over my damaged arm. Then I slid my good arm through his and let him escort me back to the building. I stood on doorstep, watching him walk away, then turn and wave. I hoped he couldn't see my tears. When his car was out of sight, I turned, too, and went inside.

  Chapter 30

  The rest of the day was a blur. The interview with Detective Furst, which wasn't as awful as I'd feared. Assigning Marianne to watch over Trish and getting her and the erring Cas to take on whatever they could do to help. I sat with the Communications people and drafted a press release and a message to the parents. Because of his popularity and the shocking nature of the events, we drafted a different letter to former students, briefly explaining what had happened. The phones were ringing off the hook with press, parents and people who wanted answers, but it was the best we could do. An extremely stern memo went out to faculty and staff, reiterating their responsibility to defer all comment to the Communications staff. We called another all-school meeting to explain the morning's events to the students, a faculty meeting to do the same.

  The upside of being so insanely busy was that I didn't have time to think much about what had happened in Trish's office, never mind wondering what the things in that envelope might help Roland and Andre learn about Ginger. In the dark times, it's important to look for some silver linings, and being busy was definitely that. I wasn't even checking my phone, which vibrated like a forgotten pleasure device in my pocket.

  By midafternoon, Bobby had arrived. I was so grateful to have help I almost threw myself into his arms and wept. Bobby would have been okay with that, but I thought it might spook him—Bobby is a tender soul—and I needed him businesslike and steady. He was already under enough pressure from his husband, Quinn, who thought he worked too hard and wasn't appreciated. Quinn refused to accept that Bobby liked to work and was valued as highly as gold at EDGE Consulting.

  As I was bringing him up to speed, Trish's assistant, Andrew, appeared. "Excuse me, Ms. Kozak," he said, "but your husband is on the phone." He wore the slightly deflated look of someone who has been yelled at. Cautiously, as though he thought he was bringing me bad news and I might yell at him, too, he said, "He says he'll keep calling until you speak with him."

  He pointed at the blinking light on the phone on our borrowed desk. "So would you. Please? It's line 2."

  I reached for the phone and Bobby tactfully followed him out into the hall.

  "God, Thea, are you okay?" Andre said, and before I could answer, "I'm sorry I've been such a horse's ass." And still not giving me a chance to speak, he said, again, "Are you okay? Roland told me about... about this morning."

  "This has not been my best week," I said, trying not to dissolve into tears. I was still in 'hold it together for the clients' mode. And with what tattered remnants of emotion I had left, kind of annoyed with my husband, despite my under-the-desk epiphany.

  "You could have called me back last night," I said. He didn't respond. "You could have come instead of Roland. Then you would have been here."

  More silence. Then he said, "I know. You're right. We're just not very good at fighting. I hate it. Being a sulky bastard just makes me feel even more like a horse's ass. Roland told me about the locket, and the connection you made. And now he's got a family name for Ginger. For Penelope. We're trying to track them down."

  "Unless they moved away. Or changed their names, too."

  "A big unless. But it's something."

  There were noises in the background. Voices and phones. Wherever he was, there were people around. "Roland's looking for high school friends. People who might know Ginger's story."

  "What about the photos? Does that license plate help at all?"

  "We're working on it."

  What else could he say? Of course they were working on it. And maybe some astute detective would be able to do something with that partial plate. They did it all the time on TV. I didn't know how often it worked in real life.

  I didn't want to talk about Ginger. Or Roland. But it was what was happening in his life. I'd moved on to another death. Or added another death. Had I told Andre and Roland everything? I thought I had, but things had been so scattered and some of my memories were so slight. If I ever sailed out of this tempest and into some peaceful waters, I'd take some time to go over everything I thought I knew and share it with Andre. Unless, as I fervently hoped, they'd solved the case by then.

  "Roland says you're coming home."

  "As soon as I get things squared away here. But there's still a lot of squaring to do."

  "Call me when you're on your way."

  "Will you be home?"

  A stupid question. He'd be home if he could, but if something came up, a break, a lead, he would follow it. It was his job.

  "I'll try." He hesitated. "I'll be home."

  Whatever that meant. Still feeling a little defensive, or resentful, because it can be hard for me to let things go, I said, "I'm sorry I didn't just give you Ginger's package. But I thought it was a sweater from my mother. And you might not have made that connection between Babette and Babi."

  I stopped myself from adding, 'even though you're a great detective,' because we were trying patch things up.

  "I know." He stopped himself from saying that this would all have been easier if I were there instead of here and we could just talk face to face. Because we respected each other's work. "Vacation," he said. "As soon as we put these things to bed."

  "Beach?"

  "Beach. Sun. No winter coats, boots or gloves."

  "Okay. Soon. And by the way, you scared Trish's assistant half to death."

  "Cops are supposed to be scary. It's how we get things done. Speaking of which, the detectives down there treating you okay?"

  "Surprisingly."

  A glimmer of suspicion arose, and I had to ask, "You didn't talk to them, did you?"

  He laughed. My husband laughing is a lovely sound. "Didn't have to, did I? Roland was there."

  Gangly, story-telling Roland Proffit, my guardian angel.

  "I hope I'll see you later," I said.

  "I hope I'll see you later."

  I put down the phone. We'd met when my little sister Carrie was killed. This awkward balancing between awful and normal had always been part of our lives. I pushed domestic issues and other deaths from my mind and went back to bringing order out of Blackwell's chaos.

  * * *

  Hours later, I was ready to hand things off to Bobby and head for home. Trish had shown amazing resilience for someone who'd nearly been killed, and we had decided that she would share the story of what happened with the whole school. She had used it as a call to come together to care for each other in their shock and dismay. It had been very effective. My drive wasn't long, but it wouldn't be an easy one. I felt like a vampire had sucked me dry. Trish and Bobby both thought I was unfit to drive, but I wanted to be home, sleeping in my own bed, hopefully with my husband.

  Bobby tried reasoning with me but quickly gave up. "No one has ever been able to stop you when you've made up your mind about something," he said. "Just promise that you'll stop for coffee. Eat something nice and healthy, like a jelly donut, and text me when you're safely home."

  I promised. One of the best things about working at EDGE—we had the greatest people and everyone looked after everyone else. Bobby was staying here overni
ght, which Quinn would resent, but I could see that Bobby was really settling into his role here and that his calm good nature was having a positive effect on those around him. Some people have a gift for calming the waters.

  "You'll be okay?" I said.

  "We'll be fine here. Go home. Drive carefully. And let Uncle Bobby know you're safely there."

  "Uncle Bobby?"

  "Yeah. Sounds a bit venerable, doesn't it?"

  "Much as I love you, I can't put you and venerable in the same sentence."

  He placed his forearm against his forehead in an PBS Mystery gesture of mock despair. "Will I never get the respect I deserve?"

  "Gray hair is usually the answer." Bobby was fair-haired and boyish. Also over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and strong as an ox. "Or you could shave your head." Which would be sad because Bobby was so right the way he was.

  "Quinn wouldn't like it."

  True. Not that Quinn liked much. But Bobby loved Quinn, and it was good that he had someone who cared for him. Otherwise, his sweet nature could have made him vulnerable. He was tough enough with clients, though. Trained in toughness by me and diplomacy by Suzanne, he was the perfect fit for Blackwell's situation.

  Was this what it was like to watch your child leave home, I wondered. To hand off the reins of adulthood and responsibility to someone you've trained and nurtured. "I'm so glad I can leave Blackwell in your capable hands," I said.

  Bobby's smile was huge, and his face wore understanding about the conversation we didn't need to have. "Thanks. Now you drive carefully. And tomorrow, when you've rested, talk to Suzanne about getting us another employee to train. We're stretched pretty thin here."

  So right. And so much one of the team. "Will do."

  My briefcase and purse seemed almost too heavy to carry as I walked to the car. I cranked up some driving music and hit the road. Following Bobby's instructions, I made one stop for coffee and yes, a jelly donut that was a challenge not to spill on my clothes, and got home in record time to a dark apartment and no Andre.

  I was too tired to be depressed about that. He'd get here when he got here. On the other hand, I had encountered so much death and violence this week that I was not lying down or closing my eyes unless Andre was with me. He expected to be home in the next hour.

  I texted Bobby that I was home safe, then changed out of my consultant duds and pulled on my softest old sweats. My arm was one big ache. Combined with my earlier injuries, I was pretty much a bundle of misery. Hurting, exhausted, and despite having gotten little sleep last night, not yet ready for sleep. I needed some dull, routine tasks to send me toward sleep. Work. There was always work. I checked my phone for messages, made a list of things to deal with tomorrow, and caught up on my mail. More things to go on the to-do list, including what promised to be a long call with Stafford first thing in the morning.

  My work done, I sat and thought about Ginger. Was Andre getting anywhere? I hoped so. What someone had done to her was so horrific the perpetrator had to be punished. Horrific and specific. Killing someone with heat was so unusual the method had to be significant.

  I thought about what I knew. That Ginger's real name was Penelope. That she had gone to Stafford Academy where she'd been an athlete. That she'd had some connection with a child named Babette. Something had happened in her life that had made her change her name and hide her identity and forced her live a guarded life forever. From the time I'd spent with her, I'd seen that something about children made her wistful or sad. She had been afraid of being trapped in a car.

  Whatever it was, with her full name to aid his search, Andre must have found it by now. Still, I was curious. And possibly a little competitive. Andre might have chastised me for carrying away that envelope, but Ginger had sent it to me because she thought I was some kind of detective. Or because she thought it would help keep her safe. So while I waited for my husband's return, I would pretend I was a detective, and see if I could unearth her story.

  I started another round of searches. I tried Babette and car accident. Babette and fire. Babette and drowning. Nothing. I added Penelope to the mix. Still nothing. What did those heaters mean, if not fire? What if they meant heat?

  Heat and cars and Babette?

  The phone rang. Andre. "I'm five minutes out," he said. "I'm thinking about bourbon. And you."

  Despite my best intentions, the first words out of my mouth were, "Did you find him? Has he been arrested? I tried to find him, but I couldn't figure it out."

  "Find who? Has who been arrested?"

  "Ginger's killer. Or killers. From the names? The pictures? That license plate?"

  "We're working on it," he said, then, "Hey, I thought you'd be asleep by now, or treating yourself to a big medicinal whiskey. Don't tell me you've been playing detective again?"

  I didn't think I'd been playing at anything. I didn't think 'play' applied to anything I'd done lately. Play was something I was going to add to my schedule when I had time. Play was what we'd do on our beach vacation. "I'll tell you when you get here."

  I'd been feeling pretty good, imagining that the case must be over and Ginger's killers under arrest. Now it looked like that hadn't happened yet. A medicinal whiskey was looking pretty good, too. Even better when I had Andre to share it with. I got out two of the gorgeous Irish crystal glasses we'd gotten as wedding presents, took down the new bottle of Knob Creek, my current favorite, and got out a tray of ice cubes. Yum. I could almost feel the heat.

  Now all I needed was him.

  Chapter 31

  I looked at the notes spread out on the table, the written record of the conversation I'd been having with myself. The blind alleys and false starts. Car accidents and fires. Andre was almost home. I could abandon all this and let him fill me in. Let him be the detective while I went back to being a consultant. No. Back to being a wife. I could stop holding up the huge wall I'd built between myself and the horrors of the past week. Finally start really feeling safe.

  While I'd worked on my internet search, I'd let obsession take over. Now I felt relief flow through me as I imagined letting go of this and pushing Ginger out of my thoughts.

  I hadn't felt like eating since breakfast. The only thing in my stomach to cushion the effects of strong drink was a jelly donut. Not good. I dug in the cupboard for some fancy mixed nuts and poured them into a dish. Found two pieces of cheese that hadn't been eaten by mold, some olives, and a loaf of good bread in the freezer that I stuck in the oven to heat. We even had some hummus and baby carrots—the vegetable course. A veritable feast. And we had leftover chocolate cake.

  I'd just finished spreading things out on the coffee table when I heard feet on the stairs. I checked the driveway for his car—there had been enough surprises from bad guys this week—and opened the door.

  I could barely see him behind the bouquet he was holding. Incredibly fragrant lilies. My favorite. In the depths of March. He held them out stiffly, like a little boy doing a chore his parents were making him do. "Roland said I had to bring these."

  But above the stiff arm, his eyes were shining. In the other hand, he held a box of fancy chocolates. A big box of chocolates. "And I knew I had to bring these. Did you know medical science has determined that chocolate is the best remedy for puncture wounds?"

  I took the flowers and laid them carefully on the counter. Did the same with the chocolates, and then walked forward into his arms. "I miss you too much when I'm away."

  "Not as much as I miss you. And long distance fighting is impossible."

  "Maybe we could have some close-up reconciliation?" I was thinking chocolate cake and make-up sex. After we had our feast.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me, ma'am, but are you aware that I'm a police officer?"

  I tried to make my eyes wide and innocent. "Are police officers not allowed to participate in domestic reconciliation?"

  "Only with their wives."

  I wrapped myself around him and wouldn't let go. He gestured with his chin toward th
e waiting glasses, because his hands were busy. "Do I detect the signs of an adult beverage?"

  "In my experience, detective, it takes both chocolate and an adult beverage to properly treat a wound."

  I shelved my questions about their progress in finding Ginger's killer. Instead, I asked, "Did you get dinner?"

  He shook his head. Like me, he eats when he can when he's working, but often misses meals.

  He unwrapped my clinging arms and poured us each a drink that would have put lesser mortals under the table. I put the flowers in water, took out the hot bread and sliced it, and we took our drinks to the coffee table, where I'd spread out our feast. An unspoken pact that for a few minutes, we would suspend work and just be together. Eat bread and cheese and olives and nuts, breathe in the perfume of flowers, and let our eyes drink in each other's bodies and the promise of things to come. A peaceful interlude before we ventured onto difficult topics like gun-wielding professors and dead realtors. The frustrations of his case and the dangers of my work.

  The interlude didn't last long. Being a detective, as soon as he'd grazed the feast and left devastation behind, his gaze shifted to the dining room table, where I had spread out the results of my search. "What's all this?"

  Before I could answer, he'd picked up my notes and was scanning them.

  I didn't want to go there. Just a few sips of my drink had made me feel tipsy, and we'd exchanged a bourbon-flavored kiss that had me tingling to my toes. I was thinking make-up sex and deep, safe sleep. Regarding work I had only one word: tomorrow.

  My husband, though, had clicked into detective mode and now he was like a bloodhound on scent. "What is all this?" he repeated.

  "I was trying to figure it out. Ginger's—that is Penelope's or Penny's—connection to the little girl, Babette. What Ginger said when she was dying. Roland told you, didn't he? That it wasn't Bobby but Babi? Babette? The little girl in the locket."

  He nodded. "He did. And?"

  "You remember how I told you—told you or told Roland—that Ginger had this weird thing about cars? How she always wanted the windows down? Kept that tool in the car in case she went into the water or needed to escape? So I tried water and drowning and accidents. Got nothing, so I tried Penelope or Penny and Babette and fires. More nothing."