by Sandra Balzo
'It'll all be public record.' I had a brainstorm. 'Not to mention TV news. I hear Kate McNamara scored some sort of investigative coup.'
The sheriff had been about to pour wine into my glass, then paused. 'What kind of coup?'
Popping the clear top off the plastic tray, I scooped out a dumpling for each of us. 'Not sure. She just seemed to think it was important. Something about timing, maybe?'
Pavlik visibly relaxed and finished pouring. 'Well, that's easy enough to reconstruct. We have a tape from the television station showing the cup being blown up—'
'Please, "inflated"!' I had enough problems.
'Inflated just before six a.m., no corpse evident. Eight a.m., out tumbles JoLynne.'
JoLynne. Not 'the victim' or 'the deceased', nor even 'Ms Penn-Williams', as earlier. No, instead Pavlik, the ultimate law-enforcement professional, broke protocol to use the first name of a murdered woman he claimed not to know.
Bullshit. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if JoLynne had taken a sudden trip to Chicago earlier this week, staying at the same hotel hosting Pavlik's DEA conference.
He'd finished his dumpling and moved to the moo-shu, first spreading hoisin sauce on a pancake, and then adding shredded pork. 'Which means she was killed and dumped there in that two-hour period before she was found.'
Before I could reply, 'my' sheriff lifted his wine glass. 'How about a toast? To the new Uncommon Grounds. Long may it brew.'
'I'll drink to that,' I said, clinking with him. I took a sip of the Shiraz and carefully placed my glass back on the table. 'I assume Kevin doesn't have an alibi for that time period?'
'Parts yes and parts no, from what we can tell so far.' He was looking at my fried dumpling, lust in his eyes and a fork in his hand. 'Are you going to eat that?'
'Yup.' I speared the thing. The guy had taken my post-divorce innocence. He sure as hell wasn't getting my dumpling, too. 'So by "parts yes and parts no", you mean Kevin's alibi has holes in it?'
Pavlik had returned to his moo-shu. 'He was supposedly setting up the staging and all. But according to my detectives' canvas at the scene, nobody saw him after about seven twenty.'
Hmm. Sarah and I had been with Kevin part of that time. Should I tell Pavlik?
Heck, why not? Maybe even push things a little further. 'I'm sorry to mess up your case,' I said, laying my hand on his this time, 'but Kevin was with Sarah and me between seven thirty and maybe seven forty-five. He went off in search of caution tape to cordon off the stairs and gallows, but Sarah and I were near the base of the cup from seven fifteen until it toppled. We'd have noticed anybody dumping JoLynne's body into it.'
'Gallows?'
I had Pavlik's attention now. 'It's what the staging guys call the raised structure they built for the cup.'
'Kevin Williams, too?'
I seemed to be getting poor Kevin in deeper, despite my good intentions. 'It's just an expression,' I said. 'You know, trade jargon?'
'We'll see.' Pavlik pulled his hand out from under mine to retrieve a notepad from his jeans pocket. I leaned forward, but couldn't quite make out what he was writing from across the table.
'Tough to read upside down, huh?' Pavlik said with a grin, as he slipped his notepad back into the pocket.
'Did you make a note about what I said?' I asked. 'So you can look into it?'
'Of course. We aren't trying to railroad anyone. The TV footage is time-stamped and more accurate than your –' he looked up at me apologetically – 'or anyone else's, memory could be. Thing is, it would have taken somebody only five minutes to suffocate JoLynne and hoist her pretty petite body over the cup's side.'
Again with 'JoLynne'. And was there a comma hanging in the air between 'pretty' and 'petite'?
That-a-way, Maggy. Be jealous of a corpse. I, at least, still had a lifetime to lose those five extra pounds. Which is probably about how long it would take me.
I kept my tone level. 'That 'somebody' you're talking about being Kevin.'
'Our current theory.'
Theory? They'd arrested the man.
'The sides of that cup and saucer were five-feet high,' I reminded Pavlik.
'But made like a kid's swimming pool. Once he had her on the edge, he'd just have to roll her over. Remember, Kevin's a big guy and, like I said, JoLynne was tiny.'
Well, he should know. I made it look like I was contemplating something.
'What?' Pavlik asked as he began assembling another moo-shu burrito.
'Oh, I was just thinking that Kate should probably concentrate on her other theory.'
He grinned. 'And what's our intrepid reporter's "other theory"?'
I smiled sweetly, taking in the blue eyes for what I feared would be the last time. 'She thinks JoLynne was having an affair. Or even, affairs. Plural.'
Pavlik left shortly after that. No, that's an understatement. He shoveled his moo-shu and chugged his Shiraz, all the time being careful not to denigrate the idea.
If: 'Well, Maggy, there's certainly precedent for that kind of motive.'
And: 'I suppose Kevin could have found out something and confronted JoLynne.'
But: 'Why wouldn't Kevin tell me about any affair involving his wife if he knew?'
Indeed, why wouldn't he? Unless Kevin also knew he was sitting across the table from the man who was banging his spouse.
'Probably didn't want to provide you with a motive for him to kill JoLynne,' I suggested mildly as I followed Pavlik to the door after our hastily concluded dinner.
'Sorry, I have to run,' he said, stepping out on the porch. 'Only I've got a ton of paperwork to do.'
'Not to worry.'
Pavlik kissed me quickly and I handed him his jacket, giving it one last feel.
Which turned into one last feeling.
The three of us – Pavlik, the coat, and me – were done.
Chapter Eleven
I slept soundly that Thursday night. Granted, the remainder of the Shiraz I'd downed might have played a role.
If I'd needed confirmation of Pavlik's affair with JoLynne, his behavior had provided it. He'd bolted from my house as fast as decently possible, though I didn't think 'decent' would be a word I'd use in describing him again.
I felt so stupid. I thought those eyes burned bright and blue only for me.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
'Maybe I read too much into what he said, Frank.' It was just before five a.m. and I was lying on my back in bed, waiting for the alarm clock to beep and send me off to the morning shift at Uncommon Grounds. The sheepdog's gigantic head was on my stomach and I played absently with his tousled hair as I stared up at the ceiling. Believe me, I saw the irony.
'I guess I wanted to believe Pavlik loved us.'
Frank opened one eye.
'OK,' I admitted. 'He probably does love you.' If throwing an increasingly slimy tennis ball time after time wasn't love, then I didn't know what could be.
Which maybe I . . . didn't? I hadn't told Pavlik I loved him. Partly because I wanted him to say it first, but also because I wasn't sure. I mean, I thought I'd loved Ted, too, but it had been disturbingly easy to transform that feeling into contempt and, later, even pity.
'If it's love, shouldn't we be talking about forever?' I asked Frank. 'No matter what the other person does?'
The stump of a tail thumped the comforter twice. I didn't know if that meant he'd love me forever or he thought I was a patsy.
'I love Eric that way – through thick and thin. But maybe it's different.'
Frank rolled over on his back, nearly clouting me with one uncoordinated foreleg, but still managing to keep his head on my stomach.
'I mean, maybe we're just muddling the semantics. Maybe 'love, ,when it refers to your child, is a wholly different animal.'
Frank flopped his head sideways to look at me.
'Sorry, not your kind of animal. Amend that to "emotion".'
Frank showed his approval by wriggling, though it also was the signal he wanted a belly-rub.
I obliged. 'Anyway. I was saying that for your children you feel all kinds of innate emotions – from nurturing to fierce protectiveness. Like a mama lion.'
That earned me another look.
'Or mama sheepdog,' I conceded. 'But maybe there should be a different word for what we feel toward a spouse or a lover. In addition to lust, of course.'
Frank unleashed a groan of delight, which I had to admit creeped me out a bit. The beeping of the alarm clock forestalled further conversation. It was for the best, anyway. Pillow talk with a sheepdog is probably right up there with hearing voices.
The alarm cued Frank that his belly-rub was at an end. He rolled back over on to his stomach, giving me just enough time to slither out from under.
'Hope I didn't disturb you.' I clicked off the alarm.
The dog's sigh as he settled back down, this time with his head on my pillow, said it all. Yes, I had disturbed him, but he was willing to forgive and forget.
If only people were so easy.
It was still dark when I arrived at Uncommon Grounds a little before six. I left my Escape in the depot's rear parking lot and walked up its driveway and around to the front entrance. As I mounted the porch steps I thought I could see the sky lightening slightly toward the east. That would have cheered me up if the days weren't already getting shorter as winter approached.
And in Wisconsin, it could be a very long winter. This past one, the first snow appeared in November and the last didn't melt until May. An oddity for the area, but a disaster for my prior business location.
Which led me to the door of the new Uncommon Grounds. I turned the key and stepped into the dark shop, bells a-jingling.
'Morning,' a cheery voice called from in back.
Tien Romano stuck her head out of the kitchen. 'I have coffee brewed and the sticky buns just came out of the oven. Got time for one?'
God, yes.
'You are a wonder, Tien,' I said as I joined her in our kitchen. The place smelled wonderful. Caramelized sugar and butter and pecans, all brought lovingly together in a little mound of perfection called a sticky bun.
Tien removed a pan from the oven and slid a knife around the edges. As I poured both of us cups of coffee, I watched her, in one smooth motion, invert the pan so what had been the top of the swirled rolls was now the bottom, resting on waxed paper.
With two taps and a little shake, Tien lifted the pan straight up and off the buns slowly, allowing the nuts and home-made caramel – that had been nesting comfortably on the buttered bottom of the pan – to cascade over the rolls, bathing them in syrupy sinfulness.
'I think I just had an orgasm,' I said.
Tien laughed. 'They are enticing, aren't they?'
'Enticing?' I said, holding out a paper plate. 'With the store smelling this good, customers will never want to leave.' Hell, I might never leave.
Using a pancake turner, so she wouldn't lose any of the 'sticky', Tien slid a bun on to my plate. I set it down and passed her another.
We repaired cozily to one of the deuce, or two-seater, tables, rolls and coffees in front of us. I raised my cup. 'To Tien. Thank you so much for rearranging your schedule to stay and help us. You've truly brightened my day.'
I took a sip, then picked up my fork to start eating. It was only then that I realized Tien was looking at me with concern.
'Are you OK, Maggy?'
'Fine.' I forked a piece of bun and put it in my mouth, closing my eyes in ecstasy. If Tien made these every day, I'd never lose those five pounds. A sacrifice I was willing to make. 'Why do you ask?'
Tien was holding her coffee cup in two hands and now she looked down into it. 'Well . . .'
'You know something I don't?' I asked the question, but I was hoping her answer would be 'no'.
And it was. She returned her cup to the table and looked up. 'I don't want to intrude, Maggy, but I heard about the confrontation with Rebecca yesterday and what she said about her sister . . .'
'And Pavlik,' I supplied. I shouldn't have been surprised that it was getting around, at least within our own, small circle. Sarah, Amy and Michael had all heard Rebecca say JoLynne and my sheriff were . . .
'Yes, Pavlik.' Tien began extending a hand to pat mine, but the latter was busy delivering sticky bun to my mouth. I always envied people who couldn't eat when stressed. 'I wanted to make sure you were all right. I know how close you've been to him.'
'Not as close as you – or I, it appears – thought.'
Tien stopped my hand. 'Men are different, Maggy.'
Oh, puh-leeze. Not a 'they have their needs' sermon. Especially from someone who had even less experience with multiples of the opposite sex than I did.
'I appreciate the concern, Tien, but—' I raised my fork.
Tien actually took it away from me. 'But, nothing. I know that I've not been married, as you have, and I also haven't dated much, what with running the store and all. I have, however, spent pretty much my whole life in a man's world – my father's.'
I dearly hoped she wasn't going to tell me something I really didn't want to hear.
I opened my mouth for a reason unclear to me. I wasn't going to interrogate Tien, nor was I going to shovel in more food, thanks to her.
Nonetheless, she waved down any potential interruption. 'As I said, I don't know much about dating, marrying and loving a male partner. What I do know, though, is that men live very simple lives. Either you are a friend or an enemy. Nothing else counts. If you are a man's friend, it's for life, unless you really trash that relationship.
'Maggy, men are not wondering what you're thinking. They expect you to tell them anything important, and, if they independently want to know, they'll ask. They can't understand why we don't do the same. If you confide a problem, they will try to fix it. Analyze, rather than empathize. They don't see why we would want to "share" if we also didn't want their version of a solution.'
I took a sip of my coffee. I was thinking back to when Eric entered high school. He'd had a terrible time getting to his locker and back to his classes in time, but couldn't carry all his books. God help him, should he need an interim bathroom stop.
I'd suggested he talk to his friends. Share his feelings with them.
Ted, on the other hand, sat down with our son and diagrammed the school building. They mapped out Eric's classes, his locker and, yes, even the bathrooms. Problem solved.
The 'guy' way.
'So what are you saying?' I asked. 'That if I had wanted Pavlik to be "exclusive" with me, I needed to spell it out for him?'
'My experience, limited as it is, answers yes.' Tien pulled apart her sticky bun. 'Men don't look ahead in relationships. They're not into fairy tales. They're not planning their next Saturday night, much less a June wedding. They're just . . . there.'
'I exist, therefore I am?'
'More like, they exist, therefore they're men.'
I laughed and reclaimed my fork. Then set it down. 'But Pavlik and . . .'
'JoLynne Penn-Williams?'
I nodded.
I couldn't, wouldn't say anything about Pavlik's 'dating' Wynona Counsel early in our relationship. Tien would think it wasn't relevant and she'd probably be right. Still, on the tail of that, the affair with JoLynne was just another nail in the coffin of trust.
Tien blushed a bit, tried to cover it by getting up for a carafe and pouring us more coffee.
'What?' I said, after she sat back down.
'I once had an affair with a married man.'
Yeah, well, there was a lot of that going around. Still, Tien seemed like such an innocent, despite the fact she had to be well into her thirties by now. I didn't ask her with whom, or when, or why. I just waited.
She stirred her coffee. I was coveting her nearly untouched bun, but I kept my already-sticky fingers to themselves.
A glance at the Brookhills clock. Six fifteen. Amy and Sarah would arrive any minute. Actually, should be here already. 'Mistake?'
Tien looked up from h
er reverie, almost startled. I realized then that the affair was – or at least had been – extremely important to her. Not something to belittle or criticize.
She gave me a . . . I don't know what kind of look it was.
Forlorn? Brave? Wise beyond her years? Wise beyond my years?
'You know the opening lines in A Tale of Two Cities?' Tien asked, just a touch of damp luminosity shining from her hazel eyes. '"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times"? That pretty much sums up the way I felt.'
'You enjoyed the excitement?' I asked gently.
'And the attention.' She shrugged. 'Also, I can't deny that I loved believing I could make him happy, when his wife couldn't. Stupid.'
'Join the ever-growing club,' I said.
'I was hoping for "happily ever after",' Tien said, with a shy grin, 'but all I got was "The End".'
'With him or you as the author?'
'Me.' Now she picked at her sticky bun. 'He was fine with going on as we were. I don't think his wife even cared. They'd been following separate paths for years, staying together only for the sake of their kids.'
Or not. Funny how easily-spotted bullshit is from a distance. Then you just go step in it anyway.
'I respected him for that,' Tien continued. 'But I'm thirty-three years old, Maggy. I haven't been engaged. I haven't been married. I haven't given birth to a baby. Heck, I've scarcely held somebody else's baby. I want it all.'
'Which you deserve.'
'I think so, too.' This was said with a little smile. 'But I guess the point of all this is that sometimes we make up fairy tales and cast ourselves in the starring roles.'
Tien looked out the window to the noticeably brightening sky and then came back to me. 'Men aren't mind-readers. They also aren't Prince Charmings or whatever more we like to pretend about them. They're human, complicated and simple all at the same time. And if you really want to know what's running through a man's mind, you only need to ask.'
Tien Romano stood up to clear the table. 'Because, unlike us women, chances are they'll actually tell you.'
Out of the mouths of thirty-somethings.
Sarah Kingston and Amy Caprese arrived moments later, swooning over the aromas still wafting into the air of Uncommon Grounds.
