by Sandra Balzo
'Only, what, thirty years of sibling bickering?' Sarah pointed at the egg roll. 'Better eat that before it gets cold again.'
I gingerly tried to unroll it from the napkin without searing any fingers. 'You know what I mean. Rebecca was jealous of her sister, maybe with good reason. If Michael and JoLynne were involved, Michael would have warned Jo if her sister suspected.'
I knew the affair was fact because Michael had admitted it to me. I didn't tell Sarah that, though, figuring it wasn't crucial to our conjecture.
She said, 'So, JoLynne confided the supposed affair with Pavlik to Rebecca, to put her younger sister off the track.'
'Exactly. And, apparently, Rebecca believed her.'
Sarah pointed toward my plate. 'There's a little bit stuck to it.'
A little? The layer of napkin that had been closest to the egg roll seemed permanently bonded to it.
'And you, in turn, believed Rebecca.' Sarah pointed again. 'Try that edge. Once you get it started, the rest should come right off.'
Spoken like a woman who had dealt with paper-encased food in the past.
I said, 'Only problem: the fact that Rebecca thought her sister was having an affair with Pavlik didn't seem to stop her from believing Michael was also in the mix. Remember how she carped at him?'
'And called her sibling a slut, I might add. Even after JoLynne's body was found.'
I gave up on restoring my food and pushed the plate away. 'You know what this means, right?'
'That I ordered that egg roll and reheated it for you in vain?'
I looked at the soggy pink tube between us. 'Sad, but true. It's not what I was thinking, though.'
Sarah stood up, picked up my plate and rolled the shrouded egg roll into the garbage. 'Then I give up.'
'It means –' I picked up my glass, which contained a carefully preserved half-inch of Sauvignon Blanc – 'that Rebecca Penn had a motive for killing her sister.'
Sarah turned. 'Well, that will be good for your sheriff.'
'Yup.' I took a self-satisfied sip. 'This will give him a viable suspect, now that Kevin has been cleared.'
Assuming Pavlik listened to me. He sometimes pooh-poohed my theories for no reason beyond they're being wildly imaginative.
'Actually,' Sarah said, 'it'll give someone another suspect. That was my piece of news.'
'Your news?' I'd forgotten that while I'd told Sarah, at her request, about my conversation with our sheriff, she hadn't reciprocated. 'What, that Milwaukee County is taking over Pavlik's investigation into JoLynne's murder? I already know. You were there when Kate sprang it on me, remember? On camera, I might add.'
Sarah stood over the sink, rinsing off my plate, then turned off the water and faced me.
'Yeah, I remember.' Almost apologetic. And Sarah was seldom apologetic. 'This is more recent, Maggy. I just found out on my drive home.'
Suddenly my second dinner of Chinese food in as many days wasn't sitting so lightly in my stomach. 'Found out what?'
Sarah wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans. 'It's Pavlik. It looks like he's been arrested.'
Chapter Sixteen
'For murder?' I gasped.
'No. A parking ticket. What do you think he was arrested for?' Sarah, having shifted from apologetic to sarcastic, compensated by filling my wine glass to the brim.
I ignored it. There had to be a mistake. Even if the investigators believed Rebecca about the affair, it was just hearsay, right? Besides, there couldn't be any real evidence against Pavlik.
Could there? 'Sarah, how do you know about the arrest?'
'Twitter. Apparently they were waiting for Pavlik at his house.'
I assumed Sarah meant the authorities were waiting, not the old Twiddies, as my partner so disdainfully called them. Didn't stop her from being one.
But, hold on: 'This must have just happened. What about the "news" you were dangling like a carrot all afternoon?'
I didn't even bother asking why she – having gotten the information en route to her house – had waited until after dinner to tell me. That was simply quintessential Sarah. After all, why ruin a good meal?
'I lied. I wanted information and figured you'd spill if you thought I knew something you didn't.'
'I hate your knowing things I don't know,' I muttered, still trying to get a handle on her 'news'.
'I know.' Sarah held my wine up to me. 'Hence the lie.'
This time I took the glass. I didn't drink from it, though. 'I should go home.'
'Why? So you can sulk?'
'I don't sulk,' I countered. 'I cogitate.'
'You wallow in your bed and talk to a dog.'
Had me there. 'I do not.' Liar, liar, pants on fire.
'Stay here and discuss it,' Sarah urged. 'At least I can talk back.'
Sarah's talking back was the problem. Frank seldom commented beyond a sage nod and the occasional fart as punctuation mark.
I stood up and put the overfilled wine glass on the kitchen counter. 'Thanks, but I really don't know what there is to say. I need more information and neither of us is going to get any tonight.'
'True.' Sarah had begun digging through a cabinet. 'But tomorrow's Saturday. What do you think you're going to find out on a weekend?'
'I don't know, but I'm off from Uncommon Grounds and I have to try. Maybe I'll visit Brewster and Anita Hampton at home. Brewster should have some sense of the facts.'
Sarah turned with Cling Wrap in her hand. 'You're just going to pop in on our county executive and his lovely wife?'
'Why not?' I said defensively. 'I introduced them before they became who they are.'
'Right. Makes you practically family. Anita, Brew and you.' Sarah waved the yellow and red box at me. 'Want your wine saved?'
'In plastic wrap? What's wrong – run out of Baggies to pour it into?'
'I'll just stretch it over the top,' Sarah said, tearing off a strip, 'so the wine is waiting for you next visit. Waste not, want not.'
I know when I'm being punished. 'Fine. I'll eat the egg roll next time, pink napkin and all.'
'Yes, you will,' my frugal friend said, sliding the wine glass into her fridge.
The next day, as Sarah had said, was Saturday, my least favorite day to work at Uncommon Grounds. Everyone was in a good mood – stopping by for coffee before going off to meet friends, shop or visit a museum or art fair.
They were happy.
And so I hated them. I wanted to be happy, too.
That's why I'd engineered Saturday as my traditional day away from the shop. I could be on a frolic of my own. No coffee smell permeating my hair, no signature T-shirt nor navy-blue apron.
Speaking of aprons, I was hoping my cellphone was in the pocket of one I'd hung from a wooden hook the night before. If not, the thing could be anywhere, and I'd probably need it. I hadn't decided whether to call and give Anita and Brewster Hampton a heads-up on my coming by their place. My investigative instincts said no, but my manners shrank at that tactic. Drop in unannounced? Horrors.
Anyway, I still wanted the phone and I didn't half-mind visiting Uncommon Grounds when I, too, could be a woman of weekend leisure.
Sarah was behind the counter when I entered. Having left my car on the street in front rather than our parking lot out back, I was surprised there wasn't a single customer in the place.
'Uh-oh,' I said, after checking the stand-up tables around the corner. 'Where is everyone?'
'You think they'd be leaning over an elbow when they could be sitting on chairs three sizes too small for their butts? Or, speaking of sitting, did you check in the bathroom?'
And top of the morning to you, as well.
'So, nobody's been in?' I asked.
Sarah gestured at the Brookhills clock above her head. 'See that? Well, I opened at six, and now it's nine. Three hours and nothing with a pulse except Amy and you has come through that door.'
Hearing our voices, Amy stuck her head out of the kitchen. 'It's perfectly understandable, you know. Until we
build a reputation in this new location, people aren't going to think about coming here as a destination on their precious weekends.' She pointed across the quiet street outside our front window. 'Especially when none of the other businesses are open.'
Admittedly, Rebecca and Michael's graphics and writing studio was closed on Saturdays and, even during the week, it wasn't the type of business that drew casual shoppers. Same with Art Jenada's catering operation and Christy's piano studio.
'We need something special to go in next door,' I said. 'Next door' was an abandoned florist shop. 'Women's clothing, maybe a kitchen gadget store or gourmet spice emporium.'
'One store isn't going to make a difference,' Sarah said. 'We need all our low-traffic neighbors across the street to move out, so some high-end shops can replace them.'
'Speaking of neighbors.' I looked around. 'The place looks great. Did Christy come back this morning?'
'Nope,' Sarah said. 'If this is what Ms Clean considers a half-finished job, I'm afraid she'll scrub the paint off the walls if I let her back in.'
'You turned her away?'
'Sarah wouldn't even let her get her toothbrush,' Amy tattled.
Poor Christy. But I had no idea where I'd put the thing anyway.
I went to the back hooks and felt through apron pockets until I found my cellphone. As I came back out, I held it up. 'I just stopped by to get this. Is there anything else I can do?'
I figured it was the perfect time to make the offer. No customers and the place was spotless.
'Take my place,' Sarah said, untying her apron.
'Sorry.' I was backing toward the door. 'I'd really like to, but I have to go see Brewster.'
'But you said you wanted to help,' Sarah protested.
'I lied.' I disappeared out the door.
As I made my way down the sidewalk, I could hear hammering, so I followed the direction of the sound.
As I rounded the corner bordering the train tracks, the hammering was joined by a power drill, its whine a little off-key.
Ragnar Norstaadt was working on the stage with the drill, backing out screws toward removing the plywood panels that formed the floor. I waited until he paused to pluck out the screws he'd just loosened.
'Ragnar,' I called.
'Good morning, Maggy Thorsen,' he said, standing up and brushing off his hands.
'Good morning.' It wasn't, of course, but no one wants to hear 'Crappy morning' or even 'So-so morning'.
'You look for Kevin?' Ragnar asked, approaching the edge of the stage. 'He must take a meeting this morning and cannot join us until after we lunch.'
'Assuming you're not already done by then.' I waved my hand toward a Williams Staging guy that I didn't know, who was dismantling the gallows where the cup and saucer had stood. Another worker was busy loading Ragnar's detached plywood panels into the back of a stenciled van. 'You're making great progress.'
'Ahh,' he said, hopping down so we were on the same level, 'it is what you call the optical illusion, yah? After the top decking is gone, our hard work begins.'
'But you'll be done today?'
'True, Maggy Thorsen. We will not be back.' His blue, blue eyes met and held mine.
Sigh.
Was it wrong of me – main squeeze in the slammer – to be sorry that Ragnar wouldn't be coming 'round my shop no more, no more'?
Of course it was. And I was deeply ashamed of myself. Though Pavlik's 'overlapping' of Wynona Counsel and me took away a bit of that guilty sting.
Two wrongs might not make a right, but they sure could feel good.
Or would. If I did.
But I wouldn't.
With an effort I pried my eyes away from Ragnar's and stuck out my hand. 'Well, thank you for everything.'
He pulled off his work gloves and took my hand, turning it palm up. 'I feel our life paths will cross again, Maggy Thorsen. Very soon, I think. '
He didn't let go.
All of a sudden, I had a devil on each shoulder, both of them leaning forward, hissing, 'Go for it, Maggy. What can you possibly have to lose??'
To my eternal credit, I shushed the evil – yet remarkably cogent – fiends.
'That sounds wonderful,' I said, giving Ragnar's hand a quick shake before I pulled mine away. 'But right now I need to go see my, ummm . . . boyfriend. The sheriff, you know.' I dug my toe into the dirt and twisted it.
'The Pavlik of Brookhills?' Ragnar drew himself up to full height. 'But he is jailed.'
I knew that. 'How did you find out?'
I was expecting Twitter or Facebook or some such thing. 'The news that is on my television this morning. I watch before I come to work.'
'Ragnar, what did the television reporters say?'
'Your sheriff and Mrs Kevin, they had . . .' He seemed to struggle for a polite phrase in English.
'Sex?' I was trying to put Ragnar at ease?
'No.' The mime-cum-construction stud looked shocked. 'No, no. An event, maybe?'
An 'affair,' maybe? But there was no need to correct him. Let Ragnar think that Pavlik and his boss's wife had thrown one great party.
'I'd best be going,' I said, starting to move away.
Ragnar touched me on the arm. I turned. I could see he was blushing. 'I do not like to ask, a time like this.'
Oh, dear. Apparently I had turned him down so obliquely, he hadn't registered it. 'That's all right, Ragnar. I'm very flattered, but I'm also not interested.'
Another lie. I was damn interested, but I wasn't going to do anything about it.
'This I understand now. But before you go –' he dug a white rectangle out of his jeans' pocket – 'you take this, yah?
A business card with his phone number and e-mail.
I started to object, but he waved me down. 'Please. You must take.'
He pressed the card into my hand, closing my fingers over it. 'Some day you see. You will want Ragnar.'
Oh, yeah, some days were like that. But. . .
'It is then you must call me,' he continued, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it. 'At any hour. '
I was afraid to open my mouth, not sure what might come out of it.
Ragnar held my gaze for a beat of three, four, five. Then, 'I will be good to you, Maggy Thorsen. Better than any other.'
I cleared my throat. Or tried to. Something seemed stuck. 'I'm sure you—'
'No, no. We do not speak of it.' He put his finger to my lips.
'But—'
'Ahh, but you must know more, yah? You are a wise woman. I can promise you,' a quick glance around, 'the ten. '
The ten? He couldn't possibly mean what I thought he meant.
This time I did manage to clear my throat. 'Umm, did you say ten? '
'That is not enough?' Ragnar looked surprised. 'You demand the fifteen?'
Only men truly believe bigger is better, at least in these increments. Ten? Fifteen?
Wait a second. 'Are you talking percentages? As in discounts?'
'Yah, but of course. What is it you believe that I am saying? '
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 'That's very generous of you, Ragnar, and I will certainly keep it in mind.'
Bidding the mime adieu, I beat a hasty retreat around the corner.
Well, if I had to make a fool of myself, at least I'd done it in the privacy of my own head, I thought as I unlocked the Escape.
But a lousy fifteen percent discount? Was that all I meant to the clown?
Settling into the driver's seat, I fished out my phone and flipped it open to 'Contacts'. I scrolled down, but found no Hampton, Anita or Brewster. That made the decision whether to call ahead or arrive unannounced a simple one. Of course, it also meant I couldn't ask for directions.
After their lavish wedding, Anita and Brewster had built a house about twenty miles beyond Poplar Creek, which forms the western boundary of the town of Brookhills. I'd been out there only once, but I should be able find it again. I hoped.
As I drove west, I switched on the radio to keep me
company and caught a measured, male voice in mid-pronouncement '. . . theory is that the events woman—'
'Affairs woman,' I said to the dashboard.
'. . . was still alive when she was placed in the cup. JoLynne Penn-Williams' toothmarks were found on the inflatable, apparently made as the woman struggled to breathe. Someone – and law enforcement officials fear it may be one of their own – wanted just the opposite.'
I pushed 'CD' and was rewarded with smooth jazz. Great music for relaxing, though I wasn't sure anything was going to help this morning. After talking with Brewster, I'd drive straight to the jail. I needed badly to talk to Pavlik, to get his take on all this. The county must have Saturday visiting hours, right?
Twenty minutes later, I turned into a long, brick driveway. Not 'real' brick, but the kind etched into red-stained concrete to simulate the tonier treatment. At least until the concrete cracks, as it always does in Wisconsin, where the earth regularly freezes and thaws.
Still, it beat the rat-a-tat-tat of gravel pocking the undercarriage of the Escape as it rolled into the driveway of my place.
I left the car, hearing immediately the thwock of a tennis ball being struck by racquet strings. Curious, I circled the white mini-manse instead of going directly to its front door.
Wow. A backyard tennis court.
As a kid, I'd begged my dad endlessly to make one for me. Who needed grass and trees anyway? In my ten-year-old imagination, I'd teach myself to play tennis and beat Chris Evert on the way to a grand slam. Then, in the winter, I'd flood the court, learn to figure-skate and win a gold medal at the Olympics, like Dorothy Hamill. All three of us – Chrissy, Dor and me – we'd be best friends.
Oh, lay off the sarcasm, will you? I was ten.
Brewster and Anita Hampton were facing each other across the net on a bright green court. They both wore white, matching the gleaming lines. The whole set-up looked brand new.
As I watched from under a sugar-maple tree, Anita tossed the ball up for a serve, but, instead of swinging at it, she caught the ball. 'Damn wind,' she said.
The leaves on my tree indicated no discernible breeze.
She went to toss again, but this time let the ball fall. 'Bugs,' she complained, stomping and swiping at her legs.
Excuses, excuses. I wasn't being bothered in the least.
