procedures didn’t necessarily mean the Foresters’ marriage was in trouble. And it certainly didn’t seem like an adequate reason for anyone to declare Bryan a person of interest in his wife’s homicide.
Bob Larson pounded twice on a bell in the pass-through, announcing that one of Edie’s orders was ready to be picked up. Edie shot off to deliver plates of food, leaving Ali to mull over what had been said. Yes, Ali knew Morgan Forester handled the bookkeeping part of her husband’s company, Build It Construction; she sent out the invoices, paid the bills. The neighbor had said she was a stay-at-home mom, although Ali thought she had been more of a work-at-home mom.
Edie returned and refilled Ali’s cup. “Cindy also said that Morgan was always complaining that her husband was a workaholic—that he lived and breathed for his business. That’s not good for a marriage, either.”
The idea that Edie Larson was disparaging someone else for being a workaholic would have been downright laughable if Ali could have found anything in this dreadful situation even remotely funny. Bryan Forester had lived in the community all his life. Ali didn’t like the idea that people were already turningagainst him based on nothing more than flimsy hearsay from his wife’s manicurist. Ali felt obliged to defend him.
“One person saying it doesn’t make it so,” Ali declared. “Yes, Bryan Forester is a very hard worker, but that doesn’t mean he’s a workaholic. And it doesn’t make him a killer. Besides, most workaholics don’t have time for affairs.”
Edie seemed taken aback by Ali’s remark. “I see,” she said, although Ali wasn’t at all sure that her mother did see. It seemed instead that this was a subject on which they would simply agree to disagree.
Bob sounded the bell once again. This time Edie brought Ali’s breakfast. While Ali ate, a seemingly abashed Edie hustled up and down the counter, busying herself with other customers. When she returned, she had evidently decided it was time to change the subject.
“About Thanksgiving,” she began. “If the new house isn’t going to be ready—”
“Bryan’s crew is coming to work today,” Ali interrupted. “Let’s see how much they get done in the next few days. For right now I don’t want to cancel.”
“All right,” Edie said. “Suit yourself. I hope it all comes together.”
So did Ali. After breakfast, she drove from the restaurant to the house on Manzanita Hills Road. When she had left the night before, Bryan Forester’s Dodge Ram pickup had still been parked at the bottom of the hill. Now the pickup was gone, but vehicles belonging to other workers lined both sides of her driveway. True to their word, Bryan’s crew had turned up for work even if their boss hadn’t. The same thing went for the videographers. Their van was there, too.
When Ali pulled into the yard, she was surprised that shehad to move aside in order to make way for the departing building inspector. Yvonne Kirkpatrick had obviously stopped by first thing to sign off on that permit.
Thank you, Billy, Ali thought. You’re getting things done after all.
The front door of the house stood open, with workmen coming and going. Ali followed one of them inside, where she was thrilled to see that after months of seemingly no progress but the framed skeleton of a building, studs were now disappearing behind sheets of expertly installed wallboard. She found Billy Barnes in the bathroom of what would be a master suite. He was deep in conversation with one of his crew of wallboarders, walking the worker through some thorny issue.
“Looks like you’re making good progress,” she said when he looked up and noticed her. “And I saw that the permit got signed off on after all.”
Billy Barnes nodded. “That one took some doing,” he said.
“What about Bryan?” Ali asked. “Have you heard anything from him—how he’s doing?”
“About how you’d expect,” Billy
Bob Larson pounded twice on a bell in the pass-through, announcing that one of Edie’s orders was ready to be picked up. Edie shot off to deliver plates of food, leaving Ali to mull over what had been said. Yes, Ali knew Morgan Forester handled the bookkeeping part of her husband’s company, Build It Construction; she sent out the invoices, paid the bills. The neighbor had said she was a stay-at-home mom, although Ali thought she had been more of a work-at-home mom.
Edie returned and refilled Ali’s cup. “Cindy also said that Morgan was always complaining that her husband was a workaholic—that he lived and breathed for his business. That’s not good for a marriage, either.”
The idea that Edie Larson was disparaging someone else for being a workaholic would have been downright laughable if Ali could have found anything in this dreadful situation even remotely funny. Bryan Forester had lived in the community all his life. Ali didn’t like the idea that people were already turningagainst him based on nothing more than flimsy hearsay from his wife’s manicurist. Ali felt obliged to defend him.
“One person saying it doesn’t make it so,” Ali declared. “Yes, Bryan Forester is a very hard worker, but that doesn’t mean he’s a workaholic. And it doesn’t make him a killer. Besides, most workaholics don’t have time for affairs.”
Edie seemed taken aback by Ali’s remark. “I see,” she said, although Ali wasn’t at all sure that her mother did see. It seemed instead that this was a subject on which they would simply agree to disagree.
Bob sounded the bell once again. This time Edie brought Ali’s breakfast. While Ali ate, a seemingly abashed Edie hustled up and down the counter, busying herself with other customers. When she returned, she had evidently decided it was time to change the subject.
“About Thanksgiving,” she began. “If the new house isn’t going to be ready—”
“Bryan’s crew is coming to work today,” Ali interrupted. “Let’s see how much they get done in the next few days. For right now I don’t want to cancel.”
“All right,” Edie said. “Suit yourself. I hope it all comes together.”
So did Ali. After breakfast, she drove from the restaurant to the house on Manzanita Hills Road. When she had left the night before, Bryan Forester’s Dodge Ram pickup had still been parked at the bottom of the hill. Now the pickup was gone, but vehicles belonging to other workers lined both sides of her driveway. True to their word, Bryan’s crew had turned up for work even if their boss hadn’t. The same thing went for the videographers. Their van was there, too.
When Ali pulled into the yard, she was surprised that shehad to move aside in order to make way for the departing building inspector. Yvonne Kirkpatrick had obviously stopped by first thing to sign off on that permit.
Thank you, Billy, Ali thought. You’re getting things done after all.
The front door of the house stood open, with workmen coming and going. Ali followed one of them inside, where she was thrilled to see that after months of seemingly no progress but the framed skeleton of a building, studs were now disappearing behind sheets of expertly installed wallboard. She found Billy Barnes in the bathroom of what would be a master suite. He was deep in conversation with one of his crew of wallboarders, walking the worker through some thorny issue.
“Looks like you’re making good progress,” she said when he looked up and noticed her. “And I saw that the permit got signed off on after all.”
Billy Barnes nodded. “That one took some doing,” he said.
“What about Bryan?” Ali asked. “Have you heard anything from him—how he’s doing?”
“About how you’d expect,” Billy
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