4th of July
then peeled the dome of aluminum foil off the platter.
    “Chocolate-chip,” I announced. “From the Cookie Lady.”
    “The Cookie Lady. Like the Easter Bunny?”
    “I guess. Something like that.”
    Joe was staring at me with that dreamy look of his.
    “You look great in that. My shirt.”
    “Thanks, big fella.”
    “You look even better out of it.”
    I grinned and put down the platter. Then I slowly unbuttoned Joe’s nice blue shirt and let it fall from my shoulders.

Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

Chapter 35
    “I USED TO HAVE a pig like this one,” Joe said as we leaned over the pigpen fence that evening.
    “Come on! You’re from Queens.”
    “There are backyards in Queens, Linds. Our pig’s name was Alphonse Pignole, and we fed him pasta and sautéed escarole topped off with a hit of Cinzano. Which he loved.”
    “You’re making this up!”
    “Nope.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “Ate him at one of our famous Molinari family pig roasts. With apple sauce.”
    Joe saw the look of disbelief on my face.
    “Okay, that part was a lie. When I went to college, Al got a great home in upstate New York. Let me show you something.”
    He reached for a rake that was leaning against the pig house, and Penelope began grunting and woofling as soon as she saw it.
    Joe grunted and woofled right back.
    “Pig Latin,” he said, grinning over his shoulder.
    He reached the rake over the fence and scratched Penelope’s back with it. She dropped to her knees and with a pleasurable groan rolled over onto her back and stuck her legs in the air.
    “Your talents know no bounds,” I said. “By the way, I think you’re entitled to three wishes.”

Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

Chapter 36
    THE WANING SUN WAS streaking the sky as Joe, Martha, and I had our dinner out on the deck facing the bay. I’d used my mom’s barbecue sauce recipe on the chicken, and we followed it up with a pint each of Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey.
    We sat nestled together for hours, listening to the crickets and music on the radio, watching the candle flames do the mambo in the soft, sultry breeze.
    Later, we slept in snatches, waking up to reach for each other, to laugh together, to make love. We ate chocolate-chip cookies, swapped memories of our dreams, and fell back to sleep, our limbs entwined.
    At dawn, Joe’s cell phone brought the rest of the world crashing back. Joe said, “Yes, sir. Will do,” and snapped the phone shut.
    He opened his arms and folded me back in. I reached up and kissed his neck.
    “So. When is the car coming for you?”
    “Couple of minutes.”
    Joe didn’t exaggerate. I had 120 seconds to watch him dress in the dark room, one lone ray of light slipping beneath the window shades to show me how sad he looked as he left me.
    “Don’t get up,” Joe said as I pushed back the covers. He drew them up to my chin. He kissed me about eleven times: my lips, cheeks, eyes.
    “By the way, I got my three wishes.”
    “Which were?”
    “Not telling, but one of them was the Cherry Garcia.”
    I laughed. I kissed him.
    “Love you, Lindsay.”
    “Love you, too, Joe.”
    “I’ll call you.”
    I didn’t ask when.

Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

Chapter 37
    THE THREE OF THEM gathered at the Coffee Bean early that morning, settling into deck chairs on the stone terrace, a wall of fog obscuring their view of the bay. They were alone out there, conversing intensely, discussing murder.
    The one called the Truth, wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans, turned to the others and said, “Okay. Run it by me again.”
    The Watcher studiously read from his notebook, citing the times, the habits, his conclusions about the O’Malleys.
    The Seeker didn’t need to be sold. The family was his discovery and he was glad the Watcher’s investigation had confirmed his instincts. He began to whistle the old blues standard “Crossroads”—until the Truth shot him a look.
    The Truth had a slight build but a weighty

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