by June Shaw
Kat’s expression seemed a combination of pain and gratitude. At least on this, I felt she was with me. I couldn’t let Roger go yet. “Son, you’re still a young man. Nancy wanted you to keep on living, and Kat needs you to do that.”
Kat sat motionless.
Roger threw his napkin down on his plate. “I’m done here.” He waved to call our passing waitress and said, “We need the ticket. Now.”
“I’ll get it,” I said, but he insisted on paying.
Kat and I rose to leave, and the waitress who’d recognized me earlier touched my shoulder. “You were here with Mr. Gil for his birthday, weren’t you?”
I smiled. “Yes, I was.”
“He’s such a nice person to work for. The employees got together to get him a gift. Then yesterday, as a gift to us, he let us close early.” She shook her head and started away.
“Wait,” I called. “He isn’t here tonight, is he? In an office or something?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Disappointment struck me, and I bit it back. I said, “Oh, and I’ve seen this attractive woman around here. Young thing with black hair, big bazookas.” I reached far out in front of my breasts and cupped my hands.
The waitress laughed. “She isn’t here either.”
“I just wondered.” I hurried toward the exit.
With some delight, Kat came to my side. “It would have been nice to see Mr. Gil again.”
“Maybe so.” I rushed out the door. Spotlights lit the bridge. I waited there and bent my neck as if I were especially interested in anything swimming in the black water underneath.
Kat nudged my side. “So tell me about you and Mr. Gil.”
“I stopped for a meal, and he happened to be here. That’s it.”
She made a huge smile, and Roger came out, his face stern. “Kat, are you riding home with me?”
“Did you need me to drive anything?” she asked me, still smirking.
“No, thanks.” The kid was digging it in. She thought something was brewing between Gil and me again. Her little secret. “Thank you for the meal,” I said to Roger, and he grunted. To Kat I said, “Good luck with those exams you’ll be taking tomorrow.”
Her grin vanished. She scooted off with Roger, and neither of them said another word to me. Still, I was happy. Kat would return to school and complete her work. No one would bother her there. She’d be safe. And before this week ended, she’d be finished.
I trotted to the Mustang and felt my smug expression fading. Where was Gil? Off with that woman? Even if I wanted him back in my life, could I get him?
Gil wasn’t here. An unbelievable tidal wave of grief washed through me.
Chapter 20
Returning to the condo, I mused. Kat would take those finals—I hoped. She wasn’t happy and might not want to speak to me again. But that was probably okay, as long as she took exams. I could get Kat to talk.
I walked restlessly and reentered the dark den, my apprehension returning. Kat and Sidmore High. John Winston would become livid with her tomorrow when the police questioned him there because of me. My knees wobbled, possibly from the stiletto heels I kicked off. Little good they had done. Gil hadn’t been around to see. Neither had the woman with black stockings… Black. A black truck had come near twice, each time for its driver to possibly hurt me. The same truck? I wasn’t sure, but somehow needed to get the bullet checked out.
I used up nervous energy by buffing the stovetop with a thick dry towel. I drank water to moisten my throat. I poured a refill and automatically dumped it on Minnie. “Oh, no! I’m sorry,” I said, grabbing paper towels. I wadded and pressed them against the soil. I carried Minnie to the sink and tried to hold in the dirt while I turned her pot sideways. Clumps of black dirt fell. No water ran out.
I was doing as badly as Grant Labruzzo had done with Harry Wren’s prized Cero plant.
Apologizing profusely, I attempted to right Minnie to her former erect position. “That’s a girl,” I said, urging her straighter. Her little pink head refused to stay upright. My damp eyes stung. I was envisioning Kat’s hostility and Roger’s grief. Gil hadn’t been there when I’d wanted him.
Sniffling, I set Minnie on a counter far from the sink and said, “I’ll try to do better.” I needed to get thoughts away from family and fears and my former lover, so I went for something that would make me content. I couldn’t dwell on problems I couldn’t solve. I was a positive person. I was positive the police would discover who’d hurt people from school, and with the swift hand of justice, punish them. And I’d do whatever I could to help Roger and Kat.
I located relaxing reading material in the dishwasher, then drizzled lavender-scented oils into my bath water. On the corner of the Jacuzzi, I lit vanilla-scented candles, slender to chunky ones. I set the overhead light on dim. The candle flickers created a pleasant illusion while I stepped into swirling tepid water. I laid my head back on the bath pillow and skimmed my cookbook from Georgia. Not the culinary capital of the country, I decided. But after I’d first dined at Gil’s restaurant, no other foods could compare.
Antipasto was the first entry I read. Mm, good dozing material. To create this appetizer, you’d have to shop for seventeen items. Seventeen! Any silly woman who fixed this dish would need a can of mushrooms and one of artichokes, some Spanish olives, ripe olives, bell pepper, celery, white vinegar…I wondered what would happen if you used dark vinegar instead. Snickering, I felt superior to any person who might actually attempt this chore.
You’d serve these hors d’oeuvres and then have all those empty jars and cans and dirty dishes in the kitchen. And this was only to give guests an appetite! Next item: Antipasto II. Easy. Ah, a wiser person created this recipe. But it required ten items.
My body relaxed, growing weary from imagining having to shove the huge grocery cart out to a car, lug all those bags inside, follow each step in order to prepare the dishes. Cheese Ball I and II. Didn’t everyone know you could purchase balls of cheese? Curry Chutney Mold. Yuk.
My eyes shut. I willed them open so I wouldn’t sink. I watched the candles flicker, and eyed wall shadows that created interesting dancing figures. Shadowed figures. One approached me. And Grant Labruzzo. I thrust my attention to the book. Mrs. Jackson’s Cheese Straws. Oh, come on now. Surely these recipes had been written to calm their readers into sleeping. Cheese Wafers I: flour, garlic salt, shredded American cheese. Ridiculous. No kitchen today would still hold a shredder.
I thought of Gil and my family. My gaze shifted to the squat candle. I watched its flame shift and yielded myself to a meditative condition. My family would be all right. Give yourself totally to this moment, my wise thoughts said. My eyes rolled toward the cookbook. Jalapeno Cocktail Pie. Rolled Cheese Fingers.
Gil’s warm fingers. All their wonderful magic I was missing. Streams of water pulsated out the sides of my tub. Enticing warm bubbles. I shifted my torso, and the water jet gave my thighs a little quiver. Mmm. I shut my eyes and replayed mental pictures of Gil. His deep gray-eyed gaze penetrating mine. His body, nude. The hot water surrounding me helped me relive how I felt pressed against him…I shivered. Jet bubbles sent relief washing through every inch of my body.
* * *
A strident rattling sound made me jump.
My eyes snapped open. The noise, I determined, had been my snores. I’d sunken to my shoulders, my nostrils filled with the scent of the lavender water that was tickling my lower lip. The bottom edge of one my favorite cookbooks had turned dark from touching the water.
I climbed out the tub and spread the book’s pages to dry. Dressed in my softest nightgown, I crawled into bed. Sleep overtook me in seconds.
* * *
I awoke hungry, entertaining visions of lavender-colored foods flavored with vanilla. My hair needed washing but not my body, since it had been totally cleansed. And sated.
The sun hadn’t appeared yet when I leaned over the lavatory, pouring strawberry shampoo into my hair. Its scent made me famis
hed. I’d fix a bagel. Glancing in the mirror, I found the burnt sienna had inched more of itself from my roots. I liked to blame my hairdresser for putting that gray at the base of each hair shaft. Surely it wasn’t caused by age. Maybe I’d go platinum blond next time. I grinned, considering what Roger might say to that.
I shampooed my hair, singing about platinum hair to the tune of “Blue Suede Shoes.” I laughed, in such a jovial mood this morning, knowing I’d sing my new song to Kat. Last night Roger had asked her about exams. She’d take two of them today. Would she really, or would she back out? Would Roger even know before final averages were released?
I had promised myself I’d go to Sidmore High. Now I quit singing and uttered expletives. I hated any kind of promise. I would go to that school. But under what premise? I tried to create one while towel-drying my tresses. Unsuccessful, I entered the kitchen.
Poor Minnie slumped, her soil still black from my dousing. I carried her to the patio and set her beside my back door. “You’ll feel better in the sun, and you’ll dry out here.” I considered bouncing my ideas for the day off her, but her torso slanted, and the pink poufs on her head looked spread out. Maybe she was catching something. Were plant medications available? I’d have to return to that nursery to find out. Or at Sidmore High, I could ask Harry Wren.
Ah. Was that enough of an excuse for returning? Probably not. I doubted whether a person could just drop in and disturb a teacher’s class to inquire about horticulture.
The day promised a clear blue sky. I took time to smell the flowers, which gave off no scent from their beds. They did look pretty—pinks and yellows and reds—and I mentally praised whoever tended them. If I saw that person, I’d get pointers.
A prickle of fear touched my spine. I slowly turned, glancing toward what I’d spied on the street.
A black vehicle approached.
I clenched my fists. I loosened them slightly when I saw it was a car. No other vehicle rolled down this street. Yet. I turned to go back inside. On the cement against the wall lay a chipped piece of red brick. I lifted the piece, found it sharp, and noted the gouged section of wall it had come from. A bullet had nicked that wall. I had a bullet in my purse. It would become evidence if needed, just like this. I set the shard of brick down where it had been. Had someone shot here some time ago? Or yesterday, while I sat outside?
I grabbed Minnie, darted into the condo, and locked the door. I set her down where she would be safe. Nervously, I wiped the stovetop, considering options. I should contact the police. But I also wanted to get to Kat’s school. I needed an excuse.
Some people would already be arriving there. Maybe I could offer to help Cynthia Petre and the other secretaries take phone calls. Naw. Tell Anne Little I was stopping by to see if they needed a sub? No way. I glanced at Minnie. “I could go in wearing coveralls and tell them I want to apply for the dead custodian’s job.”
I gave myself a light cheek slap for thinking of such a thing. My phone rang. Who was up so early? Telemarketers were intelligent people. They didn’t rise until seven in the evening, it seemed from their calls. Gil? “Good morning! I hope you have a fantastic one,” I said in a sugarcoated tone.
“Gram!” Kat screamed. “I need you!”
“Kat, what’s wrong?” I shrieked into the phone.
“My car…somebody blew up my car!”
I panted, clutching my phone. “Where are you? Are you hurt?”
Her quiet moment seemed to extend to an hour. The clack-clacking I heard sounded like teeth chattering.
“Kat, tell me!”
“I’m okay. I’m at school.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Gram, I…” She exhaled heavily and then seemed able to speak again. “I couldn’t get Dad. The police are here.”
I sprinted to the Mustang, talking. “Kat, I’m on my way.” I barreled off in the car. “Tell me what happened.”
More of her heavy breaths sounded before she spoke. “I got here about twenty minutes ago. Parked where I usually do. In the lot. I came in the building and was going to take my first exam, and…”
“I’m with you, baby.” I scooted to the edge of my car seat and shoved the accelerator. “And then what? What happened, Kat?”
“We heard a loud noise. Thought the building was exploding. Everybody started running.” She breathed hard. “People screamed to look out. Then somebody yelled, ‘Kat, it’s your car!’”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Smoke was all over the parking lot.”
Traffic made me brake. Come on, come on, I urged drivers. “Kat, I’m heading there and—”
“I have to go. The police want to talk to me again.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. Hold on, sweetheart, you hear me?”
The clog of vehicles seemed like sludge on the freeway. I veered off to an exit. City streets slowed me down, but I willed myself to be there with Kat. What happened? Who’d want to harm her? Why?
Her little secondhand car surely wouldn’t attract anyone’s envy. Roger had bought that car two years ago. He’d fine-tuned the motor and knocked out the body’s kinks. Kat’s summer jobs at the rec center helped pay for it. She kept that Chevy in shape with weekly washings and much polishing. She was so good at polishing, I thought, feeling a tense smile when I considered her skills. But who’d want to hurt the car? Or Kat?
Grim thoughts made my teeth clench. Did this have anything to do with Grant Labruzzo’s murder? Was he murdered?
Potentially deadly circumstances connected to Kat’s school were startling. Labruzzo died. A woman who’d subbed was shot. Another, with hair like Marisa’s and wearing denim like her that day, was hurt by spilled chemicals. A beaker broke when someone slammed my classroom door. Was the door locked? Why and how? Was Marisa Hernandez attracting killers? Or was she a killer herself? Did her lure endanger Kat?
I tore through an intersection, my scalp tightening with questions, my heart racing in my chest. A blasting horn made me glance out my door window. I’d cut in front of a car, its furious male driver giving me the finger. Ignoring him, I spied unlit stadium lights ahead leaning forward like tall bug-eyed creatures. I careened around a corner to the school.
Vehicles rushed toward and away from Sidmore High. The parking lot made my stomach churn. Police cars with swirling lights surrounded the half-empty lot. Sirens screamed with squad cars and fire trucks pulling up. Firemen were already hosing a smoking car that I couldn’t see in the middle of the lot. My granddaughter’s car.
Hot tears blurred my vision. My body convulsed with trembles. I gripped the steering wheel, overwhelmed by a feeling of losing control.
Where was Kat? How could I find her with all this confusion? I kept telling myself she was okay. The reminder wasn’t working.
Roadblocks had cut off the street in front of the school. Adults wearing worried faces were pulling up all over the adjacent road near the stadium, where people scrambled to cars and each other. Out of the field house between the stadium and the main building came a large policeman with a black Labrador. Police dog. Bomb-sniffing dog.
I parked in the stadium lot and ran with swarming parents who shouted their fears to each other. They hollered names of their children, relief flooding faces when they found kids unharmed. A sense of the surreal washed ever me. Police, teachers, and students everywhere. People sobbing. They spoke into cell phones, telling others they were okay. Many rushed away from the scene, the new crime scene.
“Kat!” I yelled, my head whipping from side to side as I darted through groups, skimming faces. Some I recognized, most I didn’t. I moved through swarms of frantic people and called Kat’s name, asking if anyone had seen her. Teens and adults shook their heads, running past me. My mouth was shaking, my jaw aching from my teeth hitting against each other. The sea of people was thinning, the walkway to the school ahead of me blocked off with tape and adult guards.
I spied a familiar woman. “Anne. Anne Little!” I called, rushing toward
her. She didn’t seem to hear my voice between the sirens’ wails and shouting voices, and headed into the field house.
I ran in behind her. The stench of urine and stale body odor made me bite back the instinct to gag. People were talking loudly beyond the locker room.
In what must have been a coach’s office, I saw Anne Little. She sat at a table with other adults. And Kat.
“Gram,” Kat said, shoving herself up to her feet. She came to me, and we gripped each other.
“It’ll be okay,” I murmured, rubbing her back and feeling her trembles matching mine.
“You must be Katherine’s grandmother,” said a man seated at the table. He was bald and wore a sports coat. The police officer beside him had freckles and looked too young to be wearing a uniform. Anne Little gazed at me with sad eyes and shook her head. Kat and I wiped off our tears and sat.
“Yes, I am,” I replied. I held Kat’s hand and faced this person, who rubbed his hand back and forth under his fleshy chin.
“I’m Captain White,” he said. “Katherine wasn’t hurt. And nobody was in the parking lot, as far as we know, so we were lucky. It doesn’t seem like anyone was injured.”
I breathed relief. Then I said, “Who did this?”
“We don’t know yet.” He peered at me from beneath bushy eyebrows. “We’re securing the school and trying to keep everybody safe.”
I squeezed Kat’s hand. Kissed her forehead. Saw her expression relax into one of gratitude.
“Captain White,” I said, voicing what I’d just surmised, “it probably wasn’t a bomb. Maybe something went wrong with Kat’s car. I’m sure she told you it’s old.”
“Mrs. Gunther, it was a bomb,” he said, his statement settling hard in my chest. “Katherine said she had no idea who might have done this.”
He faced Kat. “Have you offended anyone? Have you caused anyone to be embarrassed?”
“Kat doesn’t have enemies,” I snapped.
