Dr. Jierson made another welcoming speech.
Misty sighed loudly. Samantha elbowed her.
Finally, Dr. Jierson introduced Scott, but before he yielded the podium, he announced, “We’re going to be passing a petition around. If you care about Fallingbrook, you’ll want to sign it.”
Chapter 25
Relaxed and smiling, Scott began his spiel.
Mrs. Jierson leaped to her feet, reached into her tote, and yanked out a clipboard. White sheets of paper were clamped to it, and a pen dangled from a twisty pink cord. She shoved the clipboard underneath the nose of the man next to her. Pale and visibly shaking, she dropped her tote. It landed on the floor with a thump.
What was inside it, a firearm? Too bad Brent wasn’t in the gym, although Misty was, and she was staring at Mrs. Jierson. But then, so was almost everyone else.
Interrupting Scott with a loud, “Sorry,” Mrs. Jierson sat down.
The man next to her hunched his shoulders and studied the clipboard.
Oliver seemed to be pondering something over our heads or in the back of the gym. Dr. Jierson was studying his undoubtedly immaculate fingernails. Was anyone paying attention to Scott? I concentrated on what he was saying about smoke detectors, fire extinguishers, and unattended cooking and candles. Even so, I was aware of that clipboard’s progress along the rows of chairs. Recipients looked at it for at least a few seconds. Some whispered to neighbors. Others flipped pages back and forth, most of the people scribbled on the paper, and everyone passed the clipboard on, sometimes bumping other people with it and then apologizing.
The petition came to me. It called for Fallingbrook to refuse to build sidewalks where none presently existed. It waxed eloquent about frugality and retaining the town’s charm and beauty. The first person to sign it was Dr. Jierson, with an address on Packers Road, which had to be the mall where his office was, not his home. The second signer was the name I remembered seeing on his receptionist’s desk, at the same address. The third signer was “Mrs. Dr. Jierson,” also at the Packers Road address. Did the Jiersons have first names? I glanced through all three pages but didn’t recognize any other names.
I tucked the pen into the clamp and handed the clipboard to Samantha. “Don’t sign it,” I whispered. “Tell Misty.”
Samantha raised her eyebrows as if she were about to launch into a debate about whether I had the right to tell her what to do, but she whispered to Misty, who got up, crossed the aisle, and placed the clipboard in a woman’s outstretched hand. Without taking time to read the petition, the woman signed it and passed it on. Maybe I should have held on to the clipboard until everyone left the meeting, and then given it to Mrs. Jierson, signed only by some of the audience members. I hated to think that Georgia might have been killed because someone hoped to preserve real estate values by lobbying against sidewalks that might prevent serious injury or worse to children. And even if the Jiersons and their anti-sidewalk coalition hadn’t actually killed Georgia, I couldn’t admire them for reinvigorating their opposition to the sidewalks even before the Medical Examiner released Georgia’s body.
Oops. I was supposed to be watching the front of the room, not the audience to my left.
Both Oliver and Dr. Jierson were craning their necks to see Scott, and I wondered why they’d opted to sit beside the podium rather than facing it. Both Oliver and Dr. Jierson had dark hair and eyes, but Oliver was taller. I suspected they both worked out. But while Oliver’s face was handsome, Dr. Jierson, who wasn’t much older, seemed to have no expression other than permanent vertical ridges between his eyebrows. Maybe the frowny look came from spending his life peering into people’s mouths. Or maybe he couldn’t help the wrinkles because of the way his eyebrows dipped toward the center of his otherwise smooth face. Or it was the thought of sidewalks ruining his large green lawn. Then again, if I had the sort of crick in my neck that I suspected he had at the moment, I wouldn’t be happy, either. Oliver was farther from Scott, so maybe his neck wouldn’t be in quite as much pain. And while he wasn’t exactly smiling, at least he wasn’t glaring at a spot near Scott’s nose. Watching Oliver was much pleasanter than watching Dr. Jierson.
I still wasn’t paying Scott the attention he deserved. I concentrated on him again, and then I realized that I was mainly admiring his looks, warmth, and wry sense of humor, and not listening carefully to his words.
Samantha nudged me. “It’s almost like old times again, isn’t it?”
I grinned and whispered. “Randy should be here.”
Misty frowned and shook her head. Because she didn’t want to be distracted from listening to Scott? Or because she didn’t approve of Randy? Worrying again that Lois’s photos had increased Yvonne Passenmath’s suspicions of Randy, I felt sorry for Lois, torn between loyalty to the boy she’d helped raise and her desire to help put Matthias’s and Georgia’s murderer or murderers behind bars.
I contrasted Randy with Dr. Jierson. Randy’s eyes tended to be alive with laughter, but except for Dr. Jierson’s scary eyebrows, his face seemed to show no emotion, as if in his attempts not to make grimaces that went with the eyebrows, he had scrubbed all expression from his face. But despite his almost-robotic yet demonic looks and his desire to keep sidewalks from marring his neighborhood, I didn’t believe he was a murderer.
I was certain that Honey Bellaire had concocted her story of Randy’s visit to the post office early Monday morning. Randy would have had no reason to ask about borrowing minivans. Honey must have murdered Georgia. The police would discover that it was Honey’s car that was parked in Dr. Jierson’s spot early Monday morning, and that it was Honey’s car that Dr. Jierson followed from Georgia’s driveway to the mall where his office and the post office were. The police would prove that Honey had seen Randy driving a car like hers and had followed him into Deputy Donut so she could describe him as the driver of the car that had been at Georgia’s.
Dr. Jierson needs a doll doctor to paint a more human look on his face. My head jerked up out of a nod. I’d made that comment about Dr. Jierson in the beginnings of a dream, not aloud, but I was embarrassed, anyway. I’d drifted off while Scott was demonstrating how to tell when a fire extinguisher needed recharging.
“You two!” Samantha whispered.
Misty’s eyes snapped open. “Sorry.”
“It’s hot in here,” Samantha muttered. “I hope no one faints.”
“At least you’re here to give mouth-to-mouth,” I teased.
“If it’s Oliver, I might have to fight you for the privilege.”
“No thanks!”
Misty shook her head. “Sh.”
Scott was watching us and I was sure I detected a twinkle in those blue eyes. He and Misty, both tall, slim, and blond, would look great together, as would Oliver and Samantha.
Both Misty and Samantha knew Scott because they were all first responders and frequently encountered one another at emergencies, but I wasn’t sure that Oliver knew my longtime best friends. I would change that.
After Oliver thanked us all for coming and Dr. Jierson made certain he knew where his petition had ended up and had nodded at his wife to retrieve it, the audience began gathering belongings and clattering chairs.
“Come to the front with me,” I said to Misty and Samantha. “You know Scott, and I’ll introduce you to Oliver.”
Misty stared at Dr. Jierson. “I’ve talked to that dentist’s wife, but not to him.”
“I don’t know him,” I said, “but maybe Oliver will introduce you.”
When we arrived at the front, however, Oliver was finishing signing the petition. Dr. Jierson grabbed the clipboard, turned away, and shepherded his wife toward the door. Why was he in such a hurry? Was another patient in pain? Maybe his wife had told him that Misty was a police officer and he didn’t want to stick around and possibly have to talk to her. Guilt could do that to someone, guilt about an affair with his receptionist, perhaps. Or about murdering the woman who lived across the street from him . . .<
br />
I introduced Samantha and Misty to Oliver. “They also went to school here,” I told him. “They were in my grade.”
He was as charming as he’d been then. “I remember you both. All three of you. You seemed to be observing everything around you, all of the time.”
Especially the best-looking guys. But I didn’t say it with Scott right there. We hadn’t spent much time ogling Scott, which, looking at him now, and knowing him better than we had then, seemed like a major omission on our part. “What do kids know?” This time, I did say it aloud, and nearly clapped my hand over my mouth. Our old high school gym seemed to be transforming me into an underconfident ninth grader. Hoping that neither Oliver nor Scott had somehow latched on to my thoughts about our having been remiss in not having dreamed about Scott as much as we’d dreamed about Oliver, I searched for a different topic of conversation. The custodians who had set up the chairs were nowhere to be seen. “Who’s putting the chairs away?” I asked Oliver.
“The Chamber of Commerce.” He glanced toward the door. Dr. Jierson had disappeared. “I guess that means me,” Oliver said. “Sorry to delay you, Emily.”
“No problem. I’ll help.”
“Me, too,” Samantha said.
Misty and Scott pitched in, and it didn’t take us long. With Scott and Samantha carrying Scott’s cartons, we all left. Oliver set the alarm and locked the door.
In the parking lot, we all admired Oliver’s Model T.
Oliver suggested, “The night’s young. Why don’t we all go out for a drink?”
It was a perfect opportunity for the matchmaking I’d hoped to do. I smiled at Oliver. “That Model T is lots of fun, and I already had a turn. Why don’t you ride with Oliver, Samantha, and I’ll drive your car?” Maybe I was being too obvious....
“I came with Misty.”
I offered, “I’ll ride with Misty. Okay, Oliver?”
“Sure. Come on, Samantha. Meet you all in ten minutes at the Fireplug Pub?”
The rest of us agreed. Scott went alone in his fire chief SUV, and I followed Misty to her sporty convertible. “I could drive your car if you want to ride with Scott,” I told Misty.
“Nice try.” She started the car. “But you’re not driving this car. And technically, Scott’s not allowed to take passengers who aren’t firefighters.”
“I’ll bet there are exceptions for police officers.”
“Only in emergencies.” She let Oliver get ahead, and then followed him. “You don’t mind possibly giving Oliver to Samantha?”
“He’s not mine to give. Was I rude?”
She laughed. “A little. He took it well, though.”
“He should. Samantha would be quite a catch.” I squinched my mouth to the side in remorse. “But I should have told him I’m not ready to date.”
“He could have caught the gist.”
“I suppose. Hey, did you know that the fire chief is following you?”
“Yep.”
“You two would make a great couple.”
She shrugged and shifted gears. “He kept looking at you.”
“Probably because when I wasn’t drifting off, I was watching that clipboard.”
At the Fireplug, a popular pub in downtown Fallingbrook next to the firehouse and only a block from Deputy Donut, I didn’t have to pair people off. Oliver scooted into the booth first, followed by Samantha, talking nonstop about the Model T. I sat across from Oliver, and Misty sat across from Samantha. Scott fetched a chair and sat at the end of the table, adjacent to both Misty and Samantha. Score.
I insisted on paying for the first round of drinks, which didn’t exactly break the bank. Misty, Samantha, and Scott were all due to begin shifts at ten, and opted for nonalcoholic beverages. After I downed my small glass of craft beer, I pointed out that I had to be at work at six thirty in the morning. Oliver offered to take me home, but I told him my car was at Deputy Donut, and I could easily walk there.
Then my plans fell apart. After Misty let me out of the booth, Scott insisted on walking me to Deputy Donut. He told the others to stay there, and he’d be right back.
I could hardly keep up with him and his long-legged stride, but I really wanted him to return to Misty quickly, so I put an extra hop into every other step. Somewhat breathlessly, I thanked him for the presentation. “You did a good job.”
He laughed. “I saw you fighting sleep.”
“Sorry. It wasn’t your fault. That gym was hot, and I do get up most mornings around five.” Beside my car, I asked him, “Want a ride back to the Fireplug?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I should get some exercise after all those donuts I eat.” He started back toward the almost, sort of, kind of double date that I had engineered.
Chapter 26
As usual, the Knitpickers took Saturday off from their morning meetings at Deputy Donut.
Scott showed up late in the afternoon for his first meal of the day—our featured dark roast Peruvian coffee and two battered and deep-fried sausages. For once, Oliver didn’t join him. I hadn’t talked to either Samantha or Misty since I’d left the Fireplug the night before.
I asked Scott, “How did the rest of last night go?”
“Fine, but we missed you.”
“Was Oliver okay?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“I was afraid he would feel like he had a date with me, and that I kind of dumped him before the evening was over.”
“Afraid he would think it was a date?”
“Well, you know, you were here when he said he’d pick me up, and it wasn’t really a date, but I wouldn’t want him or anyone else to think I’m . . .” I rubbed at a bead of water on the shiny woodgrain table. “. . . available. I’m just not.”
He studied me for a second, then asked gently, “Because of Alec?”
Other customers were at nearby tables. I spoke quietly. “I know it’s silly, but I still feel married to him.”
Scott’s crooked grin was irresistible. “Don’t worry about it, Emily. I think Oliver was happy to show off his Model T, and you and Samantha were very appreciative. Besides, he was the one who suggested going out for a drink. It was more like a group of people having fun together than a date. You didn’t dump him. You gave him more admirers for his car.”
“Thanks, Scott. I was worried when he didn’t come in this afternoon like he sometimes does. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
A glint lurked in Scott’s eyes as if he knew I’d been matchmaking. “You weren’t.”
I wanted to ask him how he liked Misty, but it wasn’t something I could just blurt out. I thanked him and went off to chat to other customers.
Randy came in and joined Scott, but neither of them stayed long.
About four, Tom and I were mixing yeast dough so it could rise during the night. Tom turned his head and smiled broadly. “Look who’s here.”
It was Brent, dressed for work in a navy blazer, gray slacks, a light blue shirt, and a red-and-blue-striped tie.
Wiping his hands on the towel hanging over his apron strings, Tom hurried to the sales counter. “Detective Fyne, sir, how are you doing?”
Brent grinned. “Okay.”
“Aw, come on,” Tom urged. “Say it.”
“I’m Fyne.”
“Fine, Fyne. What can we get you? First visit’s on the house, for a Fyne detective like you.”
Brent just shook his head and looked past my father-in-law to me. “Is he always like this?”
I finished drying my hands and joined them at the counter. “Never.” It was nearly true. Tom had been more lively before his only child had been killed, and although I believed he loved working at Deputy Donut, he was fairly quiet, making donuts and other pastries while keeping his eye on the shop and everyone inside it. But he had always liked Brent. I hadn’t seen them interact at the police department when Tom was chief, so I didn’t know how much they’d teased each other at work in those days. Police officers tended to joke with each other
in ways that the rest of us didn’t always understand. I gave Brent a patently fake evil eye. “You must be a bad influence.”
From the office came a rather loud Meow!
We all laughed, and Brent backed up until he could smile at Dep in her window. “Your boss is calling me, Em. Think I could have a coffee in your office so I can obey the summons?”
“Sure,” I said. “What would you like?”
Brent looked a little scared, the typical expression of someone who was unsure of all the latest terms for coffee and didn’t want to make a mistake around people who might consider themselves experts. “You choose. Just don’t put stuff in it, flavors or dairy products or sweeteners. I like to taste the coffee.”
“Will you be working late tonight?”
“Not sure.”
We had just enough Kona beans left from Wednesday for one mug of coffee. I ground them, and then, hoping to make the best coffee he had ever tasted, I brewed it in our one-cup French press. Tom’s and Brent’s voices were low, and I couldn’t make out all of their words, but I definitely heard “investigation” and “Passenmath.”
I poured heated water from our always-hot spigot into a mug to warm the mug, pressed the French press’s plunger, replaced the hot water in the mug with delicious-smelling coffee, and turned around.
Brent was gone. Tom was heading toward his unfinished dough.
The mug in my hand was steaming. “Where’s Brent?” I asked Tom.
“He wasn’t kidding about visiting Dep.”
The office windows looked into the kitchen and the dining room, but if Brent was with Dep, he had to be in the corner of the office where there were no windows. I carried the coffee into the office and closed the door. Brent was sitting on the end of the couch nearest the kitchen. Dep was purring on his lap. Wondering who had named coffee tables and how often they were used for coffee, I set the mug on the one in front of the couch. “Can I get you a donut?”
“No, thanks.” He leaned forward and picked up the mug without appearing to disturb Dep. “Do you have a sec, Em?”
Survival of the Fritters Page 19
