always looking over his shoulder or was sure everyone he met was up to something. You know that old cop saying, don’t you?”
“Which one?”
“There are cops and there are assholes. If you’re not a cop, you’re an asshole.”
I shook my head in amazement. He did know cops.
“I’ll bet you a fish dinner he’s already in the process of having me checked out through the Phoenix PD. Don’t worry, my buddies there will vouch for the fact that I’m an upright if slightly immature individual. Hope he doesn’t call my daughters. They might not be so generous in their recommendations. So, what’s on your agenda today?”
“Right now, getting rid of this jacket and then who knows?”
He tossed the bucket of rags into the garage and said, “Hey, you up for some leftovers? I made tomatillo and green chile enchiladas last night, and since I’m used to cooking for a bunch of hungry firefighters, I made way too much. It tastes better the second day, I swear. Especially with lots of sour cream and guacamole.”
I hesitated, Gabe’s suspicions ringing through my head.
“You can have it to go if you prefer,” he said, amused by my reluctance. “But honestly, you don’t want to miss this. I won the best main dish award ten years in a row at my station. I was taught by an expert—my late wife, Maria.”
My instincts told me this guy was all right, so I said, “I’ll be over as soon as I get rid of this jacket.”
He wasn’t lying about his cooking. The enchiladas were the best I’d ever eaten and I wasn’t even hungry when I sat down. “You could open your own restaurant,” I said.
“I’ve been told that before. The problem is, I only like to cook what appeals to me at the moment so I couldn’t have a set menu. People would have to take their chances.”
“Believe me, they wouldn’t regret it. So, tell me about your daughters.”
“Twenty-seven, twenty-nine, and thirty-two. A teacher, an attorney, and a social worker. Smart as whips and so beautiful I threatened every young buck in the Phoenix Fire Department with a slow, torturous death if they even looked cross-eyed at them.”
“So you’ve cautioned your daughters not to date firemen.”
“You bet. I’m nothing else if not a good and caring father.”
Maybe it was the easiness with which he talked about his daughters or the softness that came over his face when he said his wife’s name, or maybe it was just how the intimate act of eating often puts people in a more familiar frame of mind, but before I realized it, I’d told him everything—the strange conditions of the will, the scrapbook I’d found, the film, and the wood carving message.
“This gets stranger every time I talk to you,” he said, resting his elbows on the kitchen table, his dark eyes interested. “It would make a great plot on One Life to Live though. What does your husband think?”
“He doesn’t like it, naturally,” I said much too quickly, irritated at myself for telling him about the scrapbook before Gabe. And for spilling my guts so easily to a virtual stranger, albeit a charming one, just like Gabe said I would.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Try to figure out why he left his estate to me. It doesn’t make sense, because I’ve found out he had relationships with other people. Close ones. As a matter of fact, I met the woman you told me about.”
“The redhead I saw going in and out of his house.”
“Tess Briggstone is her name. She owns a gift shop down on the Embarcadero. She has two sons.”
His dark face was thoughtful. “I’ve seen them around. To be honest, they look like a couple of losers to me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just the fact that two men that age shouldn’t still be living with their mother. They sit around on weekends drinking beer and playing music loud enough to broil steaks. They screech up and down the alley at three in the morning in trucks that need mufflers more than I need new knees.”
I nodded,
“Which one?”
“There are cops and there are assholes. If you’re not a cop, you’re an asshole.”
I shook my head in amazement. He did know cops.
“I’ll bet you a fish dinner he’s already in the process of having me checked out through the Phoenix PD. Don’t worry, my buddies there will vouch for the fact that I’m an upright if slightly immature individual. Hope he doesn’t call my daughters. They might not be so generous in their recommendations. So, what’s on your agenda today?”
“Right now, getting rid of this jacket and then who knows?”
He tossed the bucket of rags into the garage and said, “Hey, you up for some leftovers? I made tomatillo and green chile enchiladas last night, and since I’m used to cooking for a bunch of hungry firefighters, I made way too much. It tastes better the second day, I swear. Especially with lots of sour cream and guacamole.”
I hesitated, Gabe’s suspicions ringing through my head.
“You can have it to go if you prefer,” he said, amused by my reluctance. “But honestly, you don’t want to miss this. I won the best main dish award ten years in a row at my station. I was taught by an expert—my late wife, Maria.”
My instincts told me this guy was all right, so I said, “I’ll be over as soon as I get rid of this jacket.”
He wasn’t lying about his cooking. The enchiladas were the best I’d ever eaten and I wasn’t even hungry when I sat down. “You could open your own restaurant,” I said.
“I’ve been told that before. The problem is, I only like to cook what appeals to me at the moment so I couldn’t have a set menu. People would have to take their chances.”
“Believe me, they wouldn’t regret it. So, tell me about your daughters.”
“Twenty-seven, twenty-nine, and thirty-two. A teacher, an attorney, and a social worker. Smart as whips and so beautiful I threatened every young buck in the Phoenix Fire Department with a slow, torturous death if they even looked cross-eyed at them.”
“So you’ve cautioned your daughters not to date firemen.”
“You bet. I’m nothing else if not a good and caring father.”
Maybe it was the easiness with which he talked about his daughters or the softness that came over his face when he said his wife’s name, or maybe it was just how the intimate act of eating often puts people in a more familiar frame of mind, but before I realized it, I’d told him everything—the strange conditions of the will, the scrapbook I’d found, the film, and the wood carving message.
“This gets stranger every time I talk to you,” he said, resting his elbows on the kitchen table, his dark eyes interested. “It would make a great plot on One Life to Live though. What does your husband think?”
“He doesn’t like it, naturally,” I said much too quickly, irritated at myself for telling him about the scrapbook before Gabe. And for spilling my guts so easily to a virtual stranger, albeit a charming one, just like Gabe said I would.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Try to figure out why he left his estate to me. It doesn’t make sense, because I’ve found out he had relationships with other people. Close ones. As a matter of fact, I met the woman you told me about.”
“The redhead I saw going in and out of his house.”
“Tess Briggstone is her name. She owns a gift shop down on the Embarcadero. She has two sons.”
His dark face was thoughtful. “I’ve seen them around. To be honest, they look like a couple of losers to me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just the fact that two men that age shouldn’t still be living with their mother. They sit around on weekends drinking beer and playing music loud enough to broil steaks. They screech up and down the alley at three in the morning in trucks that need mufflers more than I need new knees.”
I nodded,
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