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Authors: Judith Arnold

Looking for Laura (23 page)

BOOK: Looking for Laura
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“I don't know what you're going to do about it.”

“What are
you
going to do about it?”

She shot him a quick, dubious look but didn't break her stride. “I'm going to investigate.”

“Nancy Drew, huh.”

“No, not Nancy Drew. Nancy Drew wasn't a cuckolded wife.”

“I don't think wives can be cuckolded,” he remarked. “Only husbands. It's a gender-specific word.” She might be an expert when it came to
exemplar
, but she was definitely on shaky ground with
cuckold
.

“Fine. Then what's the wife equivalent?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh. And here I thought you knew everything,” she said, her voice so drenched in sarcasm he was surprised she wasn't leaving an oily trail of it behind her. “Anyway, how I investigate this is no concern of yours.”

“Of course it's a concern of mine.”

“Because you're a cuckolded friend?”

That didn't sound right, either.

“Why don't you keep working on the names on that computer disk?” she suggested. “I'll deal with the poet.”

“Divide and conquer, huh.”

“Maximize our resources.”

“Cover more ground.”

“Avoid duplication.” She glanced up at him and he was delighted—and then dismayed—to see that she was grinning. Somehow, they'd wound up in agreement, in sync. That old, comfortable hostility was dissipating, leaving him on unfamiliar ground with Sally once more, a strange place where affection filled the air and thoughts about thighs filled his mind. Thoughts about bosoms. About auburn hair and strong fingers, and blue eyes flecked with silver.

“I like you better when I don't like you,” he admitted, surprising himself with his candor.

Her smile widened. “Does it help if I assure you I don't like you?”

He laughed. “It helps a lot.”

“Good.” She touched his arm again, her deceptively graceful fingers brushing against his wrist, and then turned and sauntered down the path to the gate. He remained where he was, watching her, trying to figure out why, if he didn't like her, he liked smiling and laughing with her. And why, long after she'd walked through the gates and out of sight, he still felt the warmth of her fingertips against his wrist.

 

Rosie arrived at the New Day Café at eight-thirty, accompanied by Trevor. Their school was having teacher workshops all day, which meant all the classes were canceled. Rosie had slept over at Trevor's house last night so Sally wouldn't have to worry about having her at the café before dawn, when Greta was still baking, Sally was doing setups and the first of the early-shift cops started moseying in. But Trevor's mother, Marcia, had appointments from nine through twelve, so Sally had
offered to keep an eye on the kids until Marcia could pick them up again.

By nine-thirty, she was doubting the wisdom of this arrangement.

She'd given them wads of dough to play with. That had occupied them for a few minutes. Then she'd supplied them with crayons and paper. She'd kept them busy sweeping the kitchen, even though the floor was spotless, thanks to Greta's compulsive Teutonic fastidiousness.

Sally had given them more dough, which they'd cheerfully rolled into pea-size balls and thrown at each other. She'd fed them a treat—croissants with melted chocolate drizzled over them. Then she'd scrubbed the chocolate from their fingers and faces and combed the flakes of croissant out of their hair. How crumbs had gotten into their hair she didn't want to know.

The café was bustling. It always bustled. Her own fault, she supposed. If she hadn't goosed Greta into jazzing up the joint years ago, if she hadn't hung the curtains and the paintings and turned the place into a warm, welcoming bistro, it would still be the sleepy little coffee shop it had been when she'd first started working there, quiet and underperforming, barely profitable.

Instead, it was busy and noisy and earning tons of money. The scribe in black was at his usual table, sipping from a mug of French roast and writing feverishly in his notebook. The exercise ladies were unbuffing their buff bodies with blueberry tarts and jumbo mocha lattes. One of the salesclerks from the Batik Boutique up near the campus had just ordered six cappuccinos to go. Officer Bronowski would be showing up in about ten minutes.

Sally could have used Tina that morning. She could
have used anyone. Regrettably, she had Rosie and Trevor, who were no use at all.

“Pretend these are bullets,” Rosie instructed Trevor as she rolled bits of dough into tiny pellets. She and Trevor occupied the floor in the doorway to the kitchen, at the far end of the counter. “If you get hit by one, you're dead.”

“I don't wanna be dead,” Trevor complained. He was a sweet, pale child, with wheat-colored hair, freckles and a wavering voice. One reason he and Rosie got along so well was that he usually deferred to her.

He wasn't deferring today. Sally devoted a good chunk of her attention to their conversation, even as she counted out change for the clerk from the Batik Boutique. She silently rooted for Trevor. Turning dough into bullets seemed gory.

“Well, what do you want them to be?” Rosie challenged him. She sat cross-legged, the knees of her denim overalls nearly white from wear and her purple cloche perched on her head. “They could be ice. Like sleet. Then when they fall, they make the road all slippery and you could slip and crash and die.”

“I don't wanna die,” Trevor insisted tremulously. “Can't we make them snow? Then we can build a snowman out of them.”

“But if we made them ice, it could be like when my daddy died.”

“But it isn't ice,” Trevor insisted. “It's too warm, anyway. It's spring. There's no ice in the spring.”

“They're magic pills,” Rosie decided, fluidly switching to a new scenario. “When you eat them, you can go anywhere you want. So I can see my daddy if I eat one.”

“Yuck!” Trevor giggled. “Are you going to eat one?”

“Sure. Are you?”

Sally pushed back the thoughts about Paul that Rosie's make-believe had inspired and tried to remember what was in the dough: flour, water, salt, butter. No raw egg. If Rosie ate it, it wouldn't taste good, but it wouldn't make her sick, either.

Assured that Rosie couldn't poison herself with the dough, Sally let the thoughts about Paul return—specifically, the understanding that Rosie wanted to see her daddy.

Sometimes she talked about Paul as if she expected him to walk through the front door at the end of the day and scoop her into his arms for a big hug. Sometimes she talked about him with anger—he was a poophead for driving his stupid car too fast, and she still remembered the time he wouldn't take her to the circus in Springfield, and the time he yelled at her during her own birthday party, which really hadn't been fair because it
was
her party and the birthday girl ought to get to do whatever she wanted, even if it was encouraging her guests to climb onto the garage roof and jump off.

Other times she didn't mention him at all.

Lately, she'd been talking about Daddy's Friend. All last night over dinner, she'd asked Sally about Daddy's Friend as if she'd smelled him on Sally's clothes or sensed him on Sally's mind. Sally hadn't mentioned that she'd run into him during her errand yesterday afternoon, but Rosie seemed to know. “I like Daddy's Friend's music,” she'd remarked. “I think we should get some Nirvana CDs. I like Nirvana. They scream a lot.”

Maybe Rosie needed a man in her life.

Fortunately, Sally didn't need one in hers. Unless, of course, he joined her behind the counter and helped her
fill the order of the construction worker who'd traipsed in, his hard hat shaping a bright yellow shell over his skull and his paunch swelling above an impressive tool belt.

Behind him stood Jonelle from the hair salon across the street. Behind her stood an elderly man with tufts of white hair sprouting above his ears and a galaxy of age spots decorating his bald scalp. The door opened with a tinkle of the bell, and the next person to join the line was Helen Sloane.

Sally acknowledged Todd's mother with a smile and a wave. She was once again dressed like a real-estate broker, or maybe a high-school principal. Or an executive secretary. The woman exuded midlevel professionalism, in slate-gray trousers and a stylish pink sweater set that clashed with her hair. “The place sure is hopping today, isn't it?” she commented to the white-haired gentleman.

“Eh?” he bellowed.

Helen smiled at him, then edged past him and approached the counter. “Do you need help?” she asked Sally.

Sally recalled joking with her yesterday about her taking a job at the New Day. They
had
been joking, Sally was sure. A brief fantasy for a woman unappreciated by her son at her office, and an equally brief fantasy for an overworked coffee shop manager.

“It's
not
snow!” Rosie erupted from the far end of the counter. “It's
ice!

“No, it's not!” Trevor shouted back in a wobbly voice.

“What's with them?” Helen asked, rising on tiptoe to peer over the counter at the squabbling children. “You're baby-sitting?”

“I'm afraid so.” Sally snapped a lid onto the cup she'd just poured and wedged it into a cardboard tray. “School's closed today.”

“Let me lend you a hand. I'm not useless. I could pour coffee.”

“Helen, I don't know—”

“Or I could watch those two. What are they throwing at each other?”

“Dough.”

“Oh, for God's sake.” Without waiting for permission, she hurried around the end of the counter, strode past Sally and planted herself in front of Rosie and Trevor, legs spread and arms akimbo. “Do not throw dough,” she said, enunciating each word so precisely they stopped to gape at her.

“Who are you?” Rosie asked.

“I'm Helen Sloane. Do not throw dough.”

“I didn't wanna throw it,” Trevor defended himself. “She made me.”

“Did not!”

“Did too! You said it had to be ice.”

“I said it could be bullets.”

“Don't throw it,” Helen warned.

It occurred to Sally that Helen had matters under control at her end of the counter. She turned back to the construction worker and, with an apologetic smile, said, “Can I get you anything else?”

By the time the bell above the door had stopped tinkling and the traffic had dwindled, Helen and the children were seated under the center table in the kitchen, creating a village out of paper cups, paper plates and empty boxes from the plastic cutlery. No strains of bickering emerged from the room, no whimpering, no whining.

Half the tables in the dining area were occupied: the black-clad artiste scribbling, a pair of middle-aged women chattering over bran-apple muffins and herbal tea, a professional munching on a bagel while reviewing documents from a leather portfolio, and Officer Bronowski, who'd showed up an hour later than usual because he'd had to fill in for the DARE officer at the middle school. He was stoically nibbling on a sticky bun. In three minutes he'd be ready for his refill of coffee.

Aware of those three minutes ticking down, Sally spied on Helen and the children from the kitchen doorway. “You're a miracle worker,” she praised Helen. “How did you get them to calm down?”

Helen gave them each a few plastic stirrers, then straightened up and dusted her hands. “I'm bigger than them. They had to listen to me.”

“Mommy, guess what?” Rosie sent her a dimpled grin. “Helen is Daddy's Friend's mommy!”

“Yes, I know.”

“I told her about the necklace Daddy's Friend brought me.”

Bought
you, Sally almost corrected, but she kept her mouth shut. She wondered whether Todd had told his mother about their outing to Boston, whether that was why she'd taken such an interest in the New Day Café. Maybe she'd wanted to eyeball the woman with whom her son had journeyed to the city, for whose daughter he'd invested in jewelry. Maybe Todd had implied things about their relationship….

A patently laughable idea. First of all, there was nothing to imply, and second of all, there was no relationship.

She measured Helen's expression, searching the woman's dark eyes and the creases weighing down the
corners of her mouth for a sign of whether she knew or cared about her son's weekend activities. “A rice necklace,” Helen said.

“That's right.”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“It is.”

“It's beautiful,” Rosie insisted.

“How are things out there?” Helen gestured behind Sally. “Is there a line of customers?”

“Not at the moment.” She checked her watch. “In ninety seconds Officer Bronowski will be wanting a coffee refill.”

BOOK: Looking for Laura
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