monster with a good soul.”
“Like a hooker with a heart of gold?” Grant said.
“I guess so. He helped a singer realize her potential and died for that. Actually, he died for killing people, but he did it for her.”
“ Grease is my speed.”
“I like that one too,” I said, putting down my mug and doing a bit of the Hand Jive.
Grant smiled. I think he was a little embarrassed by my hyperactivity. I know I was. I suggested we go back to the living room. We sat on the sofa.
“So, this murder,” I said, looking for anything else to discuss.
“It’s a strange one,” he said. “I gave your writer’s name to Whitman—I have to do this through channels—and he said he knew about him. They haven’t talked to him yet.”
“Reason?”
“He didn’t show up on the initial tag run.”
“Tag run?”
“One of the officers got the tag numbers of all the cars in the driveway. Cell phone photos. We’ve got an app that IDs them instantly. His didn’t come up.”
“Hmmm. It was too far to walk. Maybe he thumbed a ride?”
“They’re checking on it.”
“I assume someone asked Lolo about it,” I said.
He nodded as he sipped. “She said he dropped off the scenario the day before, then told her she wouldn’t see him again until she found him—and these are her words, not mine—‘pretending to be pretending to be dead.’”
“It makes sense,” I assured him. I went and got the scenario from the kitchen.
Grant took a moment to read it; while he did, I read him.
He was more relaxed now that he was in the police work groove. Truth be told, so was I. More truth be told, I wish we weren’t there. I wanted to—well, I wanted to not be doing police work.
“Wow,” he said.
“I know.”
“I wonder what she paid for this,” Grant said.
“Whatever it was, it was too much. Any idea how they met?”
“Local author, wrote some thrillers—”
“The Cozies, right,” Grant said. “Like gas on a match.”
“What was?”
“Their attention, his vanity.”
“Probably,” I said. “Though it was pretty strange he wouldn’t see me.”
“What, a writer? Strange?” Grant said.
I chuckled.
“Maybe he’s got a mother fixation, only talks to women over forty or fifty,” Grant went on. He turned and looked at me with those soft but spicy eyes. “You’re too young and hot. You scared him.”
Talk about gas on a match. I put my mug on the little coffee table where Uncle Murray’s keyboard still sat, a reminder of the nuttier yet dream-driven side of the clan. I took Grant’s mug and set it next to that.
I kissed him, everything on one role of the dice.
He grew a tongue and arms, and I had no further thoughts that night of Gary Gold, Lolo Baker, or Hoppy Hopewell.
Chapter 11
Remember what I said about the happiest thing in the world being when you were proven wrong about something bad that had its claws in your soul? I’d like to amend that. It’s happy only so long as the bad thing stays away. If it comes back, metamorphosed into something even uglier, the happiness turns to ash.
Grant didn’t stay the night. He left sometime after—well, just after. I didn’t know he had; I was sleeping. A deep sleep. A grateful sleep. I woke about seven and the bed was empty, the covers crudely straightened on “his” side. I listened for the sounds of water running in the bathroom. Nada. The plip-plub of Mr. Coffee hard at work turning McNulty beans into morning glory. Also no-go. I stretched myself from a fetus position, looked on the floor where I knew we had left his pants. They were gone.
It felt like my heart had become stone and my brain numb. The first thoughts were a rerun: Dumb, dumb, dumb! What did I expect? A little velvet box with a ring? Crap, I didn’t even want that. Life returned swiftly to my two stupidly impressionable organs.
Brain: One-night stands crash. Even second one-night stands.
Heart: That’s usually because the participants are usually too drunk to go. I
“Like a hooker with a heart of gold?” Grant said.
“I guess so. He helped a singer realize her potential and died for that. Actually, he died for killing people, but he did it for her.”
“ Grease is my speed.”
“I like that one too,” I said, putting down my mug and doing a bit of the Hand Jive.
Grant smiled. I think he was a little embarrassed by my hyperactivity. I know I was. I suggested we go back to the living room. We sat on the sofa.
“So, this murder,” I said, looking for anything else to discuss.
“It’s a strange one,” he said. “I gave your writer’s name to Whitman—I have to do this through channels—and he said he knew about him. They haven’t talked to him yet.”
“Reason?”
“He didn’t show up on the initial tag run.”
“Tag run?”
“One of the officers got the tag numbers of all the cars in the driveway. Cell phone photos. We’ve got an app that IDs them instantly. His didn’t come up.”
“Hmmm. It was too far to walk. Maybe he thumbed a ride?”
“They’re checking on it.”
“I assume someone asked Lolo about it,” I said.
He nodded as he sipped. “She said he dropped off the scenario the day before, then told her she wouldn’t see him again until she found him—and these are her words, not mine—‘pretending to be pretending to be dead.’”
“It makes sense,” I assured him. I went and got the scenario from the kitchen.
Grant took a moment to read it; while he did, I read him.
He was more relaxed now that he was in the police work groove. Truth be told, so was I. More truth be told, I wish we weren’t there. I wanted to—well, I wanted to not be doing police work.
“Wow,” he said.
“I know.”
“I wonder what she paid for this,” Grant said.
“Whatever it was, it was too much. Any idea how they met?”
“Local author, wrote some thrillers—”
“The Cozies, right,” Grant said. “Like gas on a match.”
“What was?”
“Their attention, his vanity.”
“Probably,” I said. “Though it was pretty strange he wouldn’t see me.”
“What, a writer? Strange?” Grant said.
I chuckled.
“Maybe he’s got a mother fixation, only talks to women over forty or fifty,” Grant went on. He turned and looked at me with those soft but spicy eyes. “You’re too young and hot. You scared him.”
Talk about gas on a match. I put my mug on the little coffee table where Uncle Murray’s keyboard still sat, a reminder of the nuttier yet dream-driven side of the clan. I took Grant’s mug and set it next to that.
I kissed him, everything on one role of the dice.
He grew a tongue and arms, and I had no further thoughts that night of Gary Gold, Lolo Baker, or Hoppy Hopewell.
Chapter 11
Remember what I said about the happiest thing in the world being when you were proven wrong about something bad that had its claws in your soul? I’d like to amend that. It’s happy only so long as the bad thing stays away. If it comes back, metamorphosed into something even uglier, the happiness turns to ash.
Grant didn’t stay the night. He left sometime after—well, just after. I didn’t know he had; I was sleeping. A deep sleep. A grateful sleep. I woke about seven and the bed was empty, the covers crudely straightened on “his” side. I listened for the sounds of water running in the bathroom. Nada. The plip-plub of Mr. Coffee hard at work turning McNulty beans into morning glory. Also no-go. I stretched myself from a fetus position, looked on the floor where I knew we had left his pants. They were gone.
It felt like my heart had become stone and my brain numb. The first thoughts were a rerun: Dumb, dumb, dumb! What did I expect? A little velvet box with a ring? Crap, I didn’t even want that. Life returned swiftly to my two stupidly impressionable organs.
Brain: One-night stands crash. Even second one-night stands.
Heart: That’s usually because the participants are usually too drunk to go. I
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