Sunset Bridge (14 page)

The man who still made all her nerve endings sizzle was back in Miami, surrounded by women who would be only too happy to soothe his battered ego.

“You want to go home a little early so you can get ready?” Wanda asked when Maggie glanced up at the clock over the counter. The clock, shaped like a fruit pie with crinkled crust edges, was a new addition. The distance between the hour and minute hands—a knife and a fork—was always in shadow, as if that portion of the pie was a slice—or more—that had already been eaten.

“No reason to,” Maggie said. “I’ll just shower and throw on my good jeans.”

“In my day, unless you were some kind of hippie type, a girl got a little dressed up when a man asked her out.”

“I’ll add a belt, how’s that?”

Wanda shook her head, but she couldn’t quite control her smile. “This is why children move out. Saves everybody these conversations.”

“But clearly you miss them.” Maggie went back to the kitchen to finish six sweet-potato pecan pies that were heading for a ladies tea late in the afternoon. She planned to deliver them, go home and change, then meet Blake at the restaurant for an early dinner.

She was just setting the oven timer when her mother called her back to the front.

“Janya here wants to talk to you.”

Maggie hadn’t realized their neighbor had come in. She greeted her and expressed her sympathy.

Janya nodded her thanks. “From such a terrible situation has come one good thing. We will be allowed to keep the children with us until their family in India makes arrangements to take them. Ken spoke to the agency and convinced them this is what the Duttas would have wished, and after their visit this morning, they agreed. We will take a parenting class that starts soon, but until then, the case worker will come to check on them from time to time and be certain all is well.”

“I’m so glad,” Wanda said. “They’ll be better off with you than with strangers. But, Janya, you got to be careful. You got to be sure you don’t get too attached. They’ll be going to India by and by, and you have to remember that.”

Janya didn’t look annoyed at Wanda’s advice, as Maggie would have been. She obviously took it seriously. Maggie realized how much the young woman respected her mother, and she felt a ridiculous jolt of pride.

“Some things are easy and some are not,” Janya said. “But I think it is better for the children if I do not put myself at a distance. They need to know that someone cares about them now that their parents are gone.”

Wanda didn’t argue. Clearly the respect cut both ways. “Does Vijay know?”

Janya gave a graceful shrug. “I have told him, but what he knows and what he understands are different. The social worker, Miss Crede, has promised to make an appointment with a psychologist who works with children. Perhaps that will help.”

Maggie was glad Janya had wanted to fill her, as well as her mother, in on the situation, but she was a little surprised
that Janya had made such a point of including her. She could see the relationship that counted here was between Janya and Wanda. The surprise disappeared when Janya turned and addressed her directly.

“I have not only come to tell you the news but also to ask for your help, Maggie. Both Rishi and I believe the police in Miami have made a grave error. We did not know the Duttas well, but we are both certain that Harit could not have murdered Kanira.”

Maggie listened as Janya explained her reasons for that conclusion. She knew, from her years on the force, that murder was difficult to accept. Unlikely people sometimes picked up a gun and used it in the heat of anger. Often there was nothing in their background to indicate such a decision was even possible. She had investigated a heartbreaking case in which a devoted mother had shot her disabled son as he lay sleeping, then turned the gun on herself. The boy had been a real-life poster child for his disease, and the mother had raised half a million dollars for research. No one could believe she had killed him, yet in the end, it was the only possible explanation. She’d snapped after learning the boy was declining and there was little hope of stopping it. In her troubled mind, ending his life before his suffering increased had been her final act of devotion.

“I called your father,” Janya said. “He told me the police in Miami are looking into these deaths, but he thinks they have made up their minds. There has to be another explanation, but I am afraid they will stop looking before they find it.”

Maggie thought Janya might be asking for reassurance, so she gave it. “It’s a good police force there, and they won’t take the easy way out. If they decide it’s a murder-suicide, then they’ll have all the evidence they need to support that
conclusion. They will treat the deaths seriously and with respect.”

“This was your department, not your father’s?”

Maggie nodded.

“You still have contacts there? I know I must be asking a great deal, but could you find out what they learned? Could you tell them we would like to talk to them? That we knew the Duttas and are sure Harit would never fire a gun?”

Maggie debated. She liked Janya, and she knew the woman and her husband had a difficult road ahead of them. Caring for the newly orphaned children under the eyes of a social worker, taking classes to become certified foster parents, waiting to see who gained final custody, then having to send the children away, even if the situation with the families in India was less than ideal. Asking old friends for information seemed easy in comparison. But, of course, some of Maggie’s old friends on the force now held her at arm’s length, worried a continued relationship could jeopardize their own positions.

But not Felo.

“Let me think about it,” she said. “I’m not sure what I can do, but there might be something.”

“This is all I ask,” Janya said gravely. “It will ease my husband’s mind if he knows someone takes our view seriously.”

Wanda presented Janya with the ambrosia and cookies to take home, and Maggie left to check on pies. When she returned, Janya was gone.

“You gonna follow through for real?” Wanda asked.

“I guess I am.”

“You’re going to ask Felo to look into it, aren’t you?”

“I guess I am.”

“That’ll be interesting.”

Maggie waited for more—inevitable, she was sure. But
Wanda just nodded, proving that Maggie didn’t know her quite as well as she had always assumed.

After that cryptic exchange, they worked in silence. Maggie cleaned the kitchen as the pies finished baking, then took them out to cool while she called a supplier and gave their order for tomorrow. It was nearly four by the time she left the shop, a pie carrier in each hand. She delivered the pies, then headed over the bridge for a shower and change of clothes. In the end, she didn’t wear jeans. Since the weather was warm, she wore bronze roll-up capris and a cocoa-brown crop top that bared just enough midriff to be worthy of the name. She pulled her hair up in a ponytail and wore gold hoop earrings. And that was as dressed up as she planned to get.

Blake, in a casual sports jacket and jeans, was waiting for her when she got to the restaurant. As promised, the place was a hole in the wall, but all the tables were overflowing with diners by the time she arrived. Dean Martin—a favorite of her mother’s—was singing “That’s Amore,” courtesy of loudspeakers in the corners, and garlic wafted through the air like a ghostly presence.

“It’s everything you promised and more,” she said after he’d kissed her cheek and seated her.

“We even have a stain shaped like Texas on the tablecloth. A very old stain, I’ll add.”

“But it’s been washed in between.”

“More than a million times, I’d say. I ordered a carafe of Chianti, but don’t feel compelled to drink it. The other option is chardonnay. They’re nothing here if not prepared for all tastes.”

“Simple decisions are good. No time wasted.”

“So you’re up for the calamari? I can order it while you check out the menu. Or I can recite the whole thing between
one heartbeat and the next. Spaghetti with marinara, clam or alfredo sauce. Meatballs or Italian sausage are extra, as are mushrooms. Remember all that and apply it to rigatoni. Lasagna comes with or without ground beef. So does manicotti. The salads are green, and you can choose creamy or regular Italian dressing.”

“My head’s spinning. What are you having?”

Their waitress, a lithe young brunette wearing impossibly high heels, arrived with the Chianti and two glasses. Blake ordered calamari and garlic bread, and since Maggie didn’t really care, they both ordered the manicotti without meat and regular Italian dressing on their salads.

“But bring those after the calamari, okay?” Blake told the young woman.

She flashed a blinding smile at him, something that Maggie guessed happened a lot with Blake and strange women. Just like Felo. Blake poured the wine, and they toasted.

Small talk lasted through the introduction of the calamari, which covered a dinner plate and was served with both marinara and aioli sauce. At first bite, Maggie was in love. After the second, she found herself thinking how much Felo would like the unpretentious restaurant.

“So I gather things went okay with the old boyfriend after I dropped you off? You’re in one piece. You don’t look wounded.”

“Should I?”

“That would be up to you. But cops have a reputation. They can disturb the peace just as easily as they enforce it.”

“Cops are like anybody else, only they have a lot more temptations.”

“You don’t think the profession appeals to budding psy
chopaths who use their uniforms to live out their own violent fantasies?”

“I don’t, although there are always exceptions.”

“I gather you know a lot of them. Cops, I mean.”

“Why do you gather that?”

He passed the marinara sauce so she wouldn’t have to reach across the plate. “Well, if you and the cop on your porch were ever serious, you probably knew his friends.”

She debated, but the time had arrived to be fully honest. Otherwise it would look as if she was hiding something she was ashamed of. “He wasn’t the only cop in our house. I was a detective.”

“Wow.”

“My father’s a cop, too. A regular blue epidemic.”

“What happened? Did you get tired of the grind? The danger? The paperwork?”

“Always tired of the last. But no, I was sick of working hard, doing everything right and having a crooked prosecutor dismiss my evidence in an important case for no good reason. I quit in the middle of a press conference. Turned in my gun and shield and any hope of ever working for that department, or probably any other, again.”

“So that’s why you’re here?”

“That and trying to keep my mom from working herself to death before she’s sixty. By the time I leave, maybe she’ll have some reliable staff and a strong customer base. Then she can settle down to making pies, which is what she loves best.”

“Still, going from a life on the edge to making piecrust… It has to be hard.”

“A lot of what I did was boring. Same in this job or any, I guess.”

“I love every part of mine.”

She studied him. The first time she’d seen Blake, she’d thought he looked like a California surfer. Tonight he looked like the Ivy Leaguer he probably was. He had almost classic features, although the nose was a bit snubbed. His eyes were a pale blue, rimmed by dark lashes and just a hair too close together. Added up, the effect was endearing, as if somebody upstairs had tried to soften an overload of perfection.

“What do you like best?” she asked.

“Seeing a project through to conclusion. That final moment when it all comes together successfully.”

“And you’ve done that a lot? You don’t seem old enough.”

“My group’s made up of the hotshots of Cardrake, which used to be a pretty stodgy company. Cardrake does roadways, all sorts of bridges, site development. As civil contractors go, it’s one of the larger companies on the East Coast. When they got some criticism for not being green enough, they went looking for younger talent with those credentials, and nothing’s been the same for them since.”

“And you’re one of those?”

“I have degrees in civil and environmental engineering, plus as much experience as someone my age can acquire. But the bridge to Palmetto Grove Key is the first time I’ve been in charge of a project. Of course, I’m consulting constantly and reporting to more warm bodies than sailed in the ark, but this baby’s mine.”

Maggie imagined that as bridges went, this was one of the smallest Cardrake had constructed. But still, she supposed, if all went well, this entire project would be a star on his résumé, and he would have nowhere to go but up.

“They must think a lot of your work to give you this kind of responsibility,” she said.

“I—we proved ourselves when we brought the bridge repairs in under the estimate. We used new technology and good old-fashioned horse sense. In the long run, though, the financials made the decision. Everyone likes saving money. The city was so happy, they chose Cardrake to build the bridge, and Cardrake was so happy with
us,
they asked us to design and construct it.”

“It’s nice to see someone so enthused about his work.”

“Cops aren’t?”

“In their own way.”

They waited until their waitress had taken away the calamari platter, which was now mysteriously empty, and their salads were sitting in front of them before they resumed.

“What did you like about being a cop?” Blake asked. “What kept you there until you finally gave up?”

“No sound bite intended, but I like helping people. Sometimes we could and did. Sometimes we only put the bad guys away for a while, but that still helped everybody who never came in contact with them.”

“Do you still think like a cop?”

She started to ask what that meant, but she didn’t really need to. She thought about the Indian couple who had died in Miami, and her own curiosity at the scenario Janya and her mother had described.

“I guess I do.” She found herself telling him about the case. “I’ve been asked to look into a murder-suicide that happened this past week in Miami. Some things don’t add up, and a neighbor asked me to see what I can find out.”