“Don’t even think about it. I wasn’t paying a visit. Just being the Cookie Lady. Welcome to Half Moon Bay.”
I thanked Carolee, and we exchanged a few more words before she said good-bye and got into her car. I stooped to pick up the morning paper, glancing at the front page on the way back to the bedroom. Sunny today, NASDAQ down ten points, Crescent Heights murder investigation still going nowhere. It was nearly impossible to believe that people had been murdered in this lovely place.
I told Joe about the slayings, 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 presence.
“You make good points,” said the Truth. “But I’m not convinced.”
The Watcher became agitated. He pulled at the collar of his crewneck sweater, riffled through the photographs. He stabbed the close-ups with his finger, circled details with his pen.
“It’s a good beginning,” said the Seeker, coming to the Watcher’s defense.
The Truth waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. “Don’t jerk me around. Get me the goods.” Then, “Let’s order.”
The waitress named Maddie pranced out onto the terrace in skinny hip-huggers and a tank top that exposed a smooth expanse of tummy.
“That’s what I call a belly-blinker,” said the Seeker, his charm overshadowed by the hunger in his eyes.
Maddie gave him a wan smile before refilling their coffee mugs. Then she pulled out her order pad and took the Truth’s order: scrambled eggs, bacon, and a freshly baked cinnamon bun.
The Seeker and the Watcher ordered, too, but unlike the Truth, they only picked at their food when it came. They continued to speak in muted voices.
Working the angles.
Trying it on.
The Truth stared into the fog, listening intently as a plan finally came together.
Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July
Chapter 38
THE DAY UNFURLED LIKE a yellow beach blanket. It was a terrible shame that Joe wasn’t here to share it with me.
I whistled Martha into the car, and we headed into town for provisions. As we sped along Cabrillo Highway, I saw the sign: Bayside School, Department of Child Welfare, State of California.
The big blue Victorian house loomed large on my right side. On an impulse, I pulled the car into the parking area.
I sat for a long moment, taking in the house, the playground, the tall chain-link fence. Then I locked the car and walked up a gravel pathway to a heavy oak door.
A very overweight black woman, probably in her midthirties, answered the bell.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Dr. Brown.”
“Come on in. She’s in the teachers’ lounge. I’m Maya Abboud. I’m one of the teachers here.”
“What kind of school is this?” I asked as I followed her through dark, narrow hallways and up two flights of stairs.
“The state stashes runaways here, mostly. These kids are the lucky ones.”
We passed small classrooms, a TV lounge, and dozens of children from very small ones to adolescents. It was a far cry from Oliver Twist, but still, that all of these children were essentially homeless was sad and troubling.
Ms. Abboud left me at the threshold of a bright, many-windowed room, and inside it was Carolee Brown. She jumped to her feet and came toward me.
“Lindsay. Good to see you.”
“I was passing by and, well, I wanted to apologize for being abrupt yesterday.”
“Oh, stop. I surprised you, and you didn’t know me from a tuna fish sandwich. I’m glad you’re here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”