She had asked him: Did he want to come inside? Hell no, he didn’t. He just couldn’t stand watching her make eyes at the man, like she did with all the others. But she always said it didn’t mean anything. Just my way of doing things, she’d say. Gets them on my side. Sure, it got them on her side because they wanted to get her on her back. It gave Thomas Peabody a big knot in his stomach just thinking about it.
Who was this Marlin guy, anyway? A game warden. Not even a real police officer. Peabody was surprised they were even allowed to carry guns. And now this guy-this high-and-mighty game warden-was in there, chatting with Inga, probably having a good laugh about the incident at the coffee shop, then checking out her breasts when she wasn’t looking. Or maybe even when she was.
From the moment Peabody had met Inga at a logging protest, where he had chained himself nude to a massive redwood, Peabody had loved her with a feverish intensity. She was truly a vision, more beautiful than the loveliest Rodin, more haunting than the most provocative Picasso. She seemed to share so many of Peabody’s qualities, too: a love of nature and its delicate ecosystem, an affinity for the animals that graced the Earth, and a strong moral compass that dictated the actions necessary to defend both.
They had been fighting the good fight together for two years now, traveling the country when necessary. Living off Thomas’s trust fund, doing their best to right wrongs wherever they found them. When Inga had spotted an article in Birdwatcher about the plight of the red-necked sapsucker, Thomas had said, Certainly, by all means, let’s see what we can do about it. Let’s mosey on down to Texas and have us a look-see. That had elicited a smile, but not the kind of smile Peabody wanted. More like a smile you’d get from your sister.
Then, when he had humbly asked for her hand in marriage, he had received that same smile again. Oh, Tommy, she had said. I don’t know what to say. You’re so sweet to ask. So sweet to ask. What kind of comment was that? That’s the kind of remark you make when a friend inquires about your sickly aunt.
That’s when he realized she wasn’t just going to give him her heart. He was going to have to win it. He was going to have to prove just what kind of man he was. A good man. A gentle man. A compassionate man. And if he had to vandalize a few backhoes or slander a couple of developers along the way, so be it.
Inside, sitting at the small kitchen table, Inga sipped her beer and gazed around the room. “I like your place. Kind of rustic, all the wood and rock, nice and comfortable. Makes me feel right at home.”
“Thanks. I enjoy it out here, away from town.”
“God, from what I’ve seen, even when you’re in town you’re not exactly bumping elbows with people on the sidewalk. I think I’ve got more people living on my block in Minneapolis than you guys do in the entire county.”
“Well, a small town like this, it’s not for everybody, that’s for sure,” Marlin said, thinking of Becky.
Inga gave him a curious glance, started to say something, then let it pass.
“Want another beer?” Marlin had noticed her bottle was empty.
“Sure.”
As Marlin went to the fridge, Inga said, “Listen, I came out here because I wanted to tell you about something. Tomorrow evening, I’m holding an assembly, sort of a town-hall meeting, at the high school gymnasium. I want to address this brush-clearing business, see if I can talk some sense into some of these people. I think if they heard the facts, some of them would think twice about what they’re doing.”
Marlin set two fresh beers down and stared at her for a few seconds. He said patiently, “I can tell you right now, you want to be careful how you phrase things. Like, ‘talk some sense into these people.’ You start making them feel stupid or ignorant, they won’t listen to a word you say.”
She gave him a surprised look. “Oh, I know that. I wouldn’t say that in the meeting….”
Marlin looked up at the clock. Almost time to get back on patrol.
Inga sighed. “Now you think I’m kind of a bitch, don’t you? That I think everyone around here is a hick.”
Marlin shrugged.
Inga said, “The truth is, I don’t think ‘these people’ are stupid or ignorant. Maybe a little uninformed, a little desperate, that’s all. They’re looking to solve a tough problem, and they’re going about it the best way they know how.”
Marlin gave her a small smile. “Okay, now you’re sounding reasonable.”
“Anyway, this assembly, it’s at seven o’clock, and I was wondering whether you’d join us.”
Marlin didn’t want to get in the middle of this.
“Please,” she said, reaching across to lightly touch her fingers to his forearm. “It would help out a lot, and I know people would listen to any comments you wanted to make.”
Marlin hesitated. “How do you know anyone’s even gonna be there? I mean, this is the first I’ve heard of it, and-”
“There’s going to be a notice in tomorrow’s paper, right on the front page. I talked to Susannah Branson, the reporter.”
Ah, there it was. That’s how Inga knew Marlin was single. Probably knew a lot more than that.
“Will you come, John? Help me out a little?”
He tried to avoid her eyes, but she tilted her head, used body language to draw his gaze to hers.
He wanted to say, Thanks but no thanks, I’ve got enough issues to deal with at the moment. But staring into those blue eyes, Marlin knew he didn’t stand a chance.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
While doing a little light cleaning Wednesday afternoon, Maria noticed that a lamp was missing-the one that normally sat on the table at the end of the hallway, where the Mamelis placed their mail. Maria thought perhaps Mrs. Mameli had moved it into the living room or one of the bedrooms, but she could not spot it anywhere. Very strange.
Then, while dusting in Mr. Mameli’s den, she realized that some of the art on the walls had been rearranged. Three oil paintings that had been displayed in various places throughout the room were now clustered on one wall. It seemed an odd grouping to Maria, giving the room a lopsided feel, but she was not an art expert.
She rolled the Hoover upright into the den from the hallway and switched it on. Despite the noise-maybe because of it-vacuuming always had a calming effect on Maria. The persistent droning of the motor, the rhythmic pushing-and-pulling motion: it was almost hypnotic. Maria often found her mind wandering when she vacuumed, usually back to her homeland or someplace equally pleasant.
Today she found herself thinking about that nice man from yesterday. Smedley. He had visited the Mameli household many times, sometimes staying for dinner. But yesterday was the first time he and Maria had spent any time alone.
She wondered about the name “Smedley,” whether it was as regal-sounding to American ears as it was to hers. The man had a kind heart, she was sure of that. After all, he had helped her bury the cat in the backyard. How many men would be willing to do that? Certainly not Mr. Mameli or his strange son.
Maria was not sure of Smedley’s relationship with the Mamelis. Maybe he was a friend of the family, or possibly a coworker of some sort. She knew that Mr. Mameli seemed to get uptight when Smedley came around, so he must be a friend of the senora’s.
Maria shook her head and chided herself for being so foolish. Thinking these thoughts about an American man would lead nowhere. What possible interest could he have in a housekeeper, especially a humble foreigner such as herself.