convention rosters would have to be checked out.
My head pounded now. The traffic was horrendous, and I had to fight not to run my siren and slap the flashing light on my roof and take the shoulder home. One crawling minivan driver was so annoying that many unkind but highly descriptive remarks left my mouth in a low, muttering growl, but, hey, I didn’t yell or scream profanities or make unpleasant gestures. I am classy that way.
Finally, finally, I pulled off Highway 54 and turned right on the private gravel road I shared with Harve Lester and Dottie Harper. Suddenly, it occurred to me that my fridge looked a lot like Sylvie Border’s had, minus the salad and wine. I ticked off my mental grocery list. Let’s see, no milk, no bread, no eggs, no bacon, no nothing. Food sounded good, but not enough to fight minivan drivers anymore. I thought I remembered a can of chili in the cabinet, but that might’ve been dog food left over for the stray black mongrel that sometimes came to call.
My mailbox appeared, looking old and rusted and forlorn beside Harve and Dottie’s brand-new, silver, industrial-sized one, one big enough for a toddler to live in. Theirs had silver numbers that glowed in the dark; mine had numbers in faded black Magic Marker. They actually got mail. I drove on without stopping. Dottie picked up my mail and kept it in a cute little wicker basket on her front porch in case I ever showed interest in it.
Harve Lester and I had been friends for years, and although Dottie was pretty much a disenfranchised flower child with nothing in common with either of us, she took very good care of Harve. Hiring her as his nurse and live-in housekeeper had been the smartest thing Harve had ever done.
Harve and I were partners when I worked in L.A., and he’d fixed it for Charlie to hire me. He’d been shot in the line of duty and had no feeling below his waist. He was pretty much self-sufficient, but when Dottie had come along two years ago, it had made a huge difference in his life. She never left him alone for long, except for the weekends, when she ran around with Suze Eggers and lifted weights and kayaked and pretty much kept her athletic body in perfect condition. She was great, and a good friend to me, too.
When I couldn’t take California anymore, Harve offered me the small A-frame fishing cabin he owned a quarter of a mile down the shore from his own house. Rent free. He’d inherited twenty acres of plum lake-front footage from his grandmother that was now worth a small fortune, and he loved it almost as much as he loved Dottie Harper. He never spoke his feelings aloud, probably because Dottie didn’t share his feelings, and kept their relationship strictly platonic, but I knew him well enough to see it in his eyes.
Nearing Harve’s place, I saw Dottie step out of the screened porch and wave. I braked and rolled down the window.
“Hey, Claire! Dinner’s about ready! Come on in and tell us about that murder over at Cedar Bend.”
Great. They already knew about the murder. That didn’t bode well. Oh, yeah. Our mutual friend, Suze. “I don’t know, Dot. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’ve got a headache.”
“I’m making my special lasagna with extra mozzarella. And I’ll fix you a toddy for your headache.”
I hesitated and listened to my stomach react at the mention of Dottie’s lasagne. Dottie did Italian right. A vision of cheesy lasagna bubbling in a pan did me in.
“Give me ten minutes to shower and change, and I’ll be over.”
Dottie gave a thumbs-up and disappeared back into the house. The screen door banged behind her, and I drove on to my little corner of the world. I got out of my car and stood looking out at my dock, where I tied up my little jon boat, but I saw fish pecking at Sylvie Border’s ravaged face. I shut down the thought as I’d learned to do. Yep, the day was a downer, but whaddaya gonna do?
Twenty minutes later I was clean and dressed in a different T-shirt
My head pounded now. The traffic was horrendous, and I had to fight not to run my siren and slap the flashing light on my roof and take the shoulder home. One crawling minivan driver was so annoying that many unkind but highly descriptive remarks left my mouth in a low, muttering growl, but, hey, I didn’t yell or scream profanities or make unpleasant gestures. I am classy that way.
Finally, finally, I pulled off Highway 54 and turned right on the private gravel road I shared with Harve Lester and Dottie Harper. Suddenly, it occurred to me that my fridge looked a lot like Sylvie Border’s had, minus the salad and wine. I ticked off my mental grocery list. Let’s see, no milk, no bread, no eggs, no bacon, no nothing. Food sounded good, but not enough to fight minivan drivers anymore. I thought I remembered a can of chili in the cabinet, but that might’ve been dog food left over for the stray black mongrel that sometimes came to call.
My mailbox appeared, looking old and rusted and forlorn beside Harve and Dottie’s brand-new, silver, industrial-sized one, one big enough for a toddler to live in. Theirs had silver numbers that glowed in the dark; mine had numbers in faded black Magic Marker. They actually got mail. I drove on without stopping. Dottie picked up my mail and kept it in a cute little wicker basket on her front porch in case I ever showed interest in it.
Harve Lester and I had been friends for years, and although Dottie was pretty much a disenfranchised flower child with nothing in common with either of us, she took very good care of Harve. Hiring her as his nurse and live-in housekeeper had been the smartest thing Harve had ever done.
Harve and I were partners when I worked in L.A., and he’d fixed it for Charlie to hire me. He’d been shot in the line of duty and had no feeling below his waist. He was pretty much self-sufficient, but when Dottie had come along two years ago, it had made a huge difference in his life. She never left him alone for long, except for the weekends, when she ran around with Suze Eggers and lifted weights and kayaked and pretty much kept her athletic body in perfect condition. She was great, and a good friend to me, too.
When I couldn’t take California anymore, Harve offered me the small A-frame fishing cabin he owned a quarter of a mile down the shore from his own house. Rent free. He’d inherited twenty acres of plum lake-front footage from his grandmother that was now worth a small fortune, and he loved it almost as much as he loved Dottie Harper. He never spoke his feelings aloud, probably because Dottie didn’t share his feelings, and kept their relationship strictly platonic, but I knew him well enough to see it in his eyes.
Nearing Harve’s place, I saw Dottie step out of the screened porch and wave. I braked and rolled down the window.
“Hey, Claire! Dinner’s about ready! Come on in and tell us about that murder over at Cedar Bend.”
Great. They already knew about the murder. That didn’t bode well. Oh, yeah. Our mutual friend, Suze. “I don’t know, Dot. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’ve got a headache.”
“I’m making my special lasagna with extra mozzarella. And I’ll fix you a toddy for your headache.”
I hesitated and listened to my stomach react at the mention of Dottie’s lasagne. Dottie did Italian right. A vision of cheesy lasagna bubbling in a pan did me in.
“Give me ten minutes to shower and change, and I’ll be over.”
Dottie gave a thumbs-up and disappeared back into the house. The screen door banged behind her, and I drove on to my little corner of the world. I got out of my car and stood looking out at my dock, where I tied up my little jon boat, but I saw fish pecking at Sylvie Border’s ravaged face. I shut down the thought as I’d learned to do. Yep, the day was a downer, but whaddaya gonna do?
Twenty minutes later I was clean and dressed in a different T-shirt
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