Bishop's Road by Catherine Hogan Safer

the way old Ruth was looking at buddy? I could’ve gagged on it.” And they laugh all the way up into the trees.
    â€œAt the station we call her the mouth,” says Patrick, comfortable in the sitting room, his long legs stretched out in front ofhim, kittens climbing all over them. When they installed the freezer, Ruth had discovered a cache of ancient wine. Fifty or more bottles of wonderful red. They have been sipping it ever since with supper. Just a glass each. Tonight being special, Ruth cracks another bottle. Brings a clean glass to Patrick and pours. Thinks wicked thoughts. Patrick Fahey can see them in her eyes. He wants this woman. He hasn’t wanted anyone in a very long time but he wants this woman. It’s all he can do to keep from reaching out and touching her thick curls. None of this is making sense to him. He is not the kind of man who shirks his duty and before he entered this house, no one could have convinced him that he would sit around with someone he was investigating and actually have a meal. Wine. And let the little snip go traipsing out the door saucy as she was without saying anything. Patrick Fahey is a cop’s cop. But when Ruth started throwing her lies all around the place that sad thing that eats away at the pit of his stomach just kind of up and disappeared. He felt it leave. And noted its absence. And realizes that now, when it comes back, it will be so much harder to ignore. He asks Ruth if she would like to go out sometime. Maybe dinner and a movie. She answers, “Yes. But I have to warn you, I’m a bit of a bitch.”
    True, he thinks. And you tell lies. And I don’t care. Aloud he says, “How about tomorrow night. Are you free?”
    â€œPatrick Fahey, I’ve been free for about a month now. Why don’t you pick me up at seven?”

    Mrs. Miflin is so angry she could spit. It’s all bad enough what with her mister dead in the freezer and that crowd all seeing the bones in the attic and knowing that she dug them up. It’s all bad enough they’ve got company coming and going and she can’tsit at the table with that cast on, and the smell of paint is all through the house and she knows they aren’t doing the laundry when they should. It’s all bad enough but now she finds out from Eve that Ginny Mustard has been designing a nursery. Staying up late and drawing pictures of a baby’s room. First she thought the silly thing might be pregnant but Eve corrected her. Ginny Mustard wants a nursery for Mrs. Miflin’s baby. She screams out for Ginny Mustard to get up here as fast as her two legs can carry her. “What are you doing? You can’t make a room for a dead baby. It’s ungodly. Sinful.”
    â€œWell, it’s not any more sinful than digging up the poor little baby in the first place. Or her being kicked to death before she was even born. She needs a pretty room with pictures on the wall and a little warm rug on the floor. It’s not nice in the attic. And she wants a rocking chair.”
    â€œYou are a raving lunatic, Ginny Mustard. That’s what you are. You can’t do things like that.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause the baby is dead!”
    â€œWell I’m not dead and I never had a pretty room and a little warm rug. What about if I make one for me and the baby can stay there too. I got lots of money from my sister now and I can buy all the things. It’s no skin off your nose.”
    And Mrs. Miflin can’t think of a good argument. Ginny Mustard is making her nervous. She has never spoken like this before. That’s what comes of having money. It makes you rude to people. She lies back on her pillow. Asks Ginny Mustard to close the curtains and turn off the light. She thinks she might be getting one of her really sick headaches. When that doesn’t sway the girl she gives up. This place is going to hell in a handbasket.
    Hell it may be but everyone is