by Delia Rosen
She initially declined the fee, since she was pleased to be able to use her skills to actually help someone. But I insisted.
“You saved my life,” I reminded her. “That’s worth at least a pair of c-notes.”
K-Two stayed to continue earning her money, just in case “those loony lucys,” as she called them, returned—and also to back up my story for the police.
When I had showered and made some licorice tea—I needed an aroma in my nasal passages other than rotten vegetables—I called Grant at home. It sounded, from his initial fumfitting, like I’d interrupted something that wasn’t a movie.
“I found out who killed Lippy and Tippi,” I said, “because they almost just killed me.”
He sounded skeptical. I told him what had transpired since I met with Fly Saucer the day before.
He told me he would be over to take a statement in a half-hour. I asked him to collect Detective Egan on the way so there wouldn’t be any hurt feelings.
It was nearly midnight when the two detectives arrived in separate cars, although Egan was also accompanied by a squad car. We sat in my living room as I told them what had happened, and played them the recording.
Egan was dazzled. Grant was annoyed. I was tired.
Early in the meeting, Grant called and asked a couple of cars to go to Whites Creek Annex and check out the story. When we were nearly finished, they reported that the only one there was Sally Biglake, but that the neighbors had seen the others go.
I gave Grant the names of the Wiccans I remembered so they could be found and interviewed.
“Interviewed,” I thought as he said the word. It sounded so much gentler than “questioned” or “interrogated.” It was much more than a bunch of killers and their accomplices deserved.
Detective Egan talked to K-Two alone in the kitchen while Grant finished with me in the living room.
“I’m not happy with what you did,” he said. “Withholding information and confronting a person of interest on your own.”
“Would you have gone in and pinned their ears back?” I asked. “Could you have?”
“Eventually, yes,” he said. “But the stuff about Fly . . . about the students. You could have told me.”
“Promised I wouldn’t,” I said. “Not until I wrapped this up and they weren’t in any real danger.”
“For theft and assault,” he said.
“A cover-your-rump miscalculation and a rookie error,” I said. “I’ve made mistakes in my life, too.”
“And paid for them.”
We sat there without speaking. I was waiting. It wouldn’t make any difference in our relationship, but what I wanted to hear would make all the difference in whether I talked to him again, ever.
“What you did was impressive, I do have to give you that,” he said. “I had Fly in the crosshairs from the goatee hair, but not the students and certainly not Sally and her gang.”
I smiled as I rolled the semi-validation over in my mind. “Thanks.”
“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital for a once-over?” he asked. “You took a direct hit of what the officers think was hillbilly knockout gas—what moonshiners used to use against the Feds.”
“And that is?”
“Baked, powdered manure and urine.”
As soon as he said that, I knew that I would never eat spinach again.
“‘Manurine,’” I said. “Well, at least it was organic.”
He looked at me, unsure whether or not I was joking. I wanted him to go home.
“I’m fine,” I added. “What I need to do now is sleep until about Thursday.”
“Well, I’ll leave the cops behind until we’ve talked to the Wiccans, determined who might be a threat,” Grant said. He shook his head. “That was crazy, you know that? Just—what’s your word?”
Oh, my word.
“Meshugenah,” I said patiently.
“Right. Mishooguhnuh. That’s what it was.”
It wasn’t “my” word. It didn’t belong to “you people.” But I was too tired to educate him. I just smiled politely, with my eyes closed so I didn’t have to look at him. I opened them in time to see him get up slowly, pushing off his knees like my father used to do. I saw the old man in Grant’s future just then. The thought of being with one of those rigid, self-absorbed males brought back the smell of manurine.
Detective Egan had returned by now. She came over and shook my hand.
“That was really fine work,” she beamed. “We should do lunch one day.”
“Stop by the deli,” I said. “It’ll be my treat.” She smiled and her eyes lingered as she left. I couldn’t tell if I’d just been complimented, hit on, or both. I didn’t care.
It all felt good.
Chapter 27
The next morning, there was a new me looking back at myself from the mirror. She was proud, pleased, and relieved. She was eager to start the day.
I was up at my usual time feeling surprisingly rested. Losing a burden or two or three will do that, I guess. I did my morning routine, peeked out and saw the cops outside—along with Candy Sommerton’s van, which did not surprise me—and resolved to start things fresh. Not fresh as in “give Grant another chance,” but as in “stop trying to direct my life.” I was going to take things as they came.
Candy hustled toward me, hauling her dragon-tail cameraman, as I walked to my car.
“Gwen—I know we haven’t seen eye to eye on things, but you have to believe me: I want to tell this story. Your story. Is it true, what I read in the police report?”
I stopped and smiled at the camera. “I’ll tell you what, Candy. Why don’t you try this. Try not ambushing me for once. Come to the deli later, after lunch rush, and I’ll talk to you then.”
She jerked like a doll who’d just been wound up with a key. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Exclusively?”
I made a face and held up my cell phone. There were over a dozen calls, three of them from Robert Reid at the National. One of them—the only voice mail I’d listened to—was from Reynold Sterne. He called to say that Kamala Moon had told him what she’d done and he wanted to tell me he was sorry. He said he wouldn’t take any action until he talked to me but added that, going forward, they would take a much more sensitive approach to my needs; and they would not enforce the original agreement without my cooperation. That made me happy, too.
“I don’t know who else wants to plaster me across the news,” the new me told Candy, “but how about this: I promise I’ll talk to you first.”
“For real?”
I nodded.
Candy hesitated but quickly agreed. She had to realize that calling this into the station would get her primo air time on the evening broadcast.
For the first time ever, she thanked me. We left as BFFs. That actually felt kind of good, too. It was better than wanting to tear off her head and stuff it like derma.
The cops stayed behind and I found another pair waiting for me at the deli. They were plainclothes, sitting at a table, but Thom introduced them before giving me a big, shake-you-back-and-forth hug. Luke, Raylene, A.J., and Newt lined up like autograph-seekers on the red carpet to embrace me as well. We only had a half-hour to opening, a crowd was already starting to gather, and they knew better than to ask for details while there was work to be done.
Before we left the huddle, there was one thing I needed to say to them.
“This has been a week of anniversaries,” I said. “One of them really, really good. The year that I’ve been here would have been godawful without all of you. I thank you all, I love you all, and I’m really looking forward to the next one.”
We all had a good little cry through our smiles. Then I clapped twice and we went off to do our jobs.
There was one word I didn’t tell them as I watched them go. I’m not sure they would have understood, not being any of “you people.” But, then, it only mattered to me.
It was pride.
For the first time in my life, I, Gwen Katz, was kvelling.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Jeff Rovin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-75828199-9
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: August 2013
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8200-2
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8200-1
First Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2013
Table of Contents
Also by Delia Rosen
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Copyright Page
