When we went back upstairs, Tom was at the kitchen table where he does accounting work. I unsnapped Billy Elliot’s leash, kissed him goodbye, and slipped out before Tom could ask me anything else about Laura Halston’s murder.
By the time I finished with all the other afternoon calls and went to walk Mazie, shadows were lengthening, the late sun was blotted out by treetops, and I had an empty-stomach headache. Guidry’s Blazer and several crime-scene cars were still at Laura’s house, but the ambulance was gone. That meant the medical examiner had come, examined Laura’s body, and zipped it into a plastic body bag for transfer to the morgue.
Inside Mazie’s house, Pete sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a face alternating between happiness and worry.
Mazie lay beside him, her dark eyes full of sadness.
I said, “Have you heard from Hal again?”
Pete nodded. “Jeffrey’s out of ICU, and all the neurological tests are good. Hal says they’ll probably move him to a regular room soon.”
I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Does that mean he won’t have any more seizures?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it does, but I didn’t ask. These things are always one step at a time, nobody can say anything for sure, and even if they do they don’t always know.”
Pete’s voice was full of bitter memories that I didn’t probe.
“Has Mazie eaten today?”
“A little bit, not much. She’s got so much heart, and it’s hurting.”
Mazie rolled her eyes up to look at us, but she didn’t lift her head.
I stood up and got her leash. “Okay, Mazie, it’s time for some exercise.”
She sighed, but got to her feet. Outside, we walked in the opposite direction from Laura’s house. I moved briskly to get Mazie’s blood moving, but I kept the walk short. Mazie was panting hard, a sure sign that she was overstressed. Service dogs need to be of service, that’s their entire focus in life. Take away the person to whom they give service, and they’ve lost their purpose. Every day that passed without Jeffrey to watch over would bring more stress to Mazie.
When we went back inside, I pulled out my cell phone and called Hal. He answered in the hushed tones of someone sitting vigil beside a sleeping child.
I said, “Hal, I know this is an interruption, but would you mind speaking to Mazie for a minute? She needs to hear your voice.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Hal’s voice, thick with suppressed emotion. “Of course, Dixie. Thank you.”
I squatted beside Mazie and held the phone to her ear. Her neck stiffened when she heard Hal’s voice, but she stayed very still and listened. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, just the faint sound of speech. In a minute or two, her tail moved in an almost wag, and her throat worked as if she wanted to make some kind of reply.
I brought the phone to my own ear and heard Hal say, “We love you, Mazie.”
I said, “I think Mazie will be happier now.”
“Of course she will. I should have thought of it myself.”
“Maybe it would be a good idea to tell Jeffrey you talked to her.”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
We said quick goodbyes and I clicked my phone closed.
Pete said, “He should have put the phone to Jeffrey’s ear, let Jeffrey listen to Mazie. He needs to know that Mazie wants him to come home.”
He had an inspired look in his eyes. I didn’t want to spoil it by reminding him that Mazie didn’t talk.
I said, “She’ll probably eat better now. Next time Hal calls, let Mazie listen to him for a minute. When Jeffrey’s up to it, he can talk to her too.”
I left him and Mazie looking slightly happier than they’d been when I arrived. Driving away, I did not allow my head to turn toward Laura’s house. I could not bear another thought of her murder. There would be time enough for that tomorrow.
16
When I got home, an orange sun was hanging above the edge of the glittering sea, its heart visibly beating as it gathered courage to drop into that vast unknown. Michael and Paco were standing on their deck raptly watching, and when I joined them they barely acknowledged my presence. We all stood in fixed fascination as the giant orb suddenly let go and slid into those waiting watery arms, turning the sea bronze and sending up piercing golden rays that gilded the wings of celebratory gulls.
Michael put out a hand and squeezed the back of my neck. “Supper’s almost ready.”
I was so near starving that I felt like my navel had sucked in and stuck to my backbone.
I said, “I’m past ready,” and thundered up the stairs to shower and pull on baggy pants and a loose T.
Barefoot, I hustled down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the big butcher-block island was set for three. Michael was at the stove. Paco was beside the island tossing a green salad. Ella Fitzgerald was on her bar stool. They all looked up when I came in and waved something—spatula, salad spoon, tail.
I was sure Michael had told Paco about Laura’s murder, but by unspoken agreement nobody mentioned it. While Michael dished up whatever we were eating and Paco put salad into three salad bowls, I poured three glasses of Shiraz from the open bottle sitting on the butcher block. The fact that three wineglasses were out instead of two meant Paco wasn’t on duty that night. I didn’t comment, I just noted it and felt a bit more relaxed. Those of us who love people whose jobs put them in mortal danger live in a constant state of red alert, even when we aren’t aware of it. Having already lost a firefighter father and a deputy husband, I take danger seriously. It isn’t just an idea, it’s a lurking shadow always ready to destroy your happiness.
Michael set down three plates of yummy-smelling something, opened the oven and mitted a hot loaf of bread onto a dish towel, flopped the sides of the towel over it, and tossed it on the table. We all took seats. Ella Fitzgerald’s whiskers twitched, but otherwise she made a good show of not being interested.
I looked at my plate. “Oooh.”
Lightly sautéed sea scallops lay over a heap of white beans. The white beans were atop a mound of steamed fresh spinach leaves. The whole thing was topped with a scattering of chopped red tomatoes. It was a red, white, and green dish, sort of an Italian flag of food.
Michael nodded modestly. “New idea. Try it.”
I already knew before I took a bite that I’d love it. Anything Michael makes is delicious, and this was downright soul-stirring. The white beans were flavored with garlic and something else that raised them above ordinary white beans, the scallops were delicately sweet and tender, and the spinach and tomatoes made everything else sit up and take notice. I tried not to make a pig of myself, but I had two helpings, plus two hunks of hot bread with butter.
My idea of heaven is a place where people who love one another gather for good food and good conversation, so I was in heaven. It’s good to be able to recognize those heavenly moments, good to be inwardly grateful to be so lucky.
We didn’t speak about Laura. Instead, we talked about how much better traffic was now that most of the snowbirds had gone home. Paco told us about a procession of bikini-clad young women on spring break following a line of slow-crossing Mottled Ducks that had stopped traffic on Ocean Avenue that morning, and how nobody in the line of cars had objected to the wait—some because they liked the bikinis and some because they liked the ducks. I said lots of bright cheery things too, the way women do to avoid topics they don’t want to talk about. And Michael and Paco nodded and smiled, the way men do when they really aren’t listening to a word you say, but they love you and don’t want you to guess they’re thinking about carburetors or football scores or whatever it is that men think about.
After Todd and Christy died, especially in that terrible first year, the only person I told my feelings to was a shrink I went to for a while. I never told Michael and Paco that I wanted to die as well. I never let them hear me rail about the half-blind old man who had run into my husband and child in the parking lot. I never told them how I despised the state for allowing people to renew their driver’s license without a visual exam, how furious I was at God for allowing my husband and baby to be taken from me. Michael and Paco had been almost as devastated as I was. Dumping all my emotions on them would have made them feel even worse.