to get some exercise and I noticed the package was still on your porch.”
“Hunh,” I said. “I haven’t ordered anything lately. I’m not quite geared up for Christmas yet. If you don’t mind, maybe you should get it and take it inside your house. I’ll collect it tonight after work.”
“No problem,” Viv assured me. “I worry about things left outside for very long because of your other neighbors and their rotten kids. They’ve made off with some of Val’s garden tools and his chainsaw. Fortunately, we got all the stuff back, but next time it happens, we’re calling the sheriff.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “So far, I don’t think they’ve stolen anything of mine, but maybe I don’t have items that appeal to them.”
Viv harrumphed. “I’d hardly call Val’s Weed Eater an enticing object for teenagers except as a weapon. Those Nelson kids are too lazy to do any work around their own house.”
I agreed, and after a few more words of chitchat, I thanked Viv and hung up. The rest of the morning flew by with the usual busy work to meet our Tuesday deadline. It wasn’t until after I got back from getting my takeout lunch at the Burger Barn that I heard from Milo.
“I’ve been at the hospital for over half an hour,” he said, sounding grumpy. “I’m waiting until Stella is finished and I’m damned hungry and I won’t eat any of this crap they call food around here. I had enough of that when I was a so-called patient.”
“Stella?” It was the one thing he’d said that grabbed my attention. “You mean Stella Magruder, as in Stella’s Styling Salon?”
“Who else?” Milo snapped. “She’s grooming Laurentis. Nobody else could untangle Laurentis’s hair and beard. Jesus Christ, you’d think I never interviewed somebody with lousy hygiene.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly the point,” I said. “Given Craig’s lifestyle, he could infect the hospital. I imagine the medics who brought him in sanitized themselves after they left him in the ER.”
“Whatever. Anyway, I still haven’t talked to the guy. In fact, I’m going over to the Venison Inn and grab some lunch. I’ll call you whenever I’ve got something that isn’t fleas or lice or whatever Laurentis might still be able to pass on to me.”
“I’ll be here,” I said. “It’s deadline day.”
I changed my mind as soon as I hung up. Now that the rest of this week’s edition was almost wrapped up and we were playing a waiting game to finish the front page, I grew curious about the mysterious package Viv Marsden had seen on my front porch. It probably wasn’t from Ben, who never Christmas-shoppeduntil the last minute. Besides, if my brother had sent something, he would’ve mentioned it when we spoke on the phone. As for Adam, his teachers at the seminary apparently had never taught him that Catholic dogma didn’t prohibit the shipping of parcels both ways. Except for sending some knitwear that his native parishioners had made, my son believed that it was better to receive than to give, at least when it came from his mother.
I dialed Viv’s number and asked if she’d had time to retrieve the package. She had, remarking that it was fairly heavy and bore a PERISHABLE sticker.
“Food?” I said. “Where was it sent from?”
“Ooh-la-la, Emma,” she said, laughing. “It’s from a shop in Paris.”
Damn
. I thought I’d heard the last of Rolf Fisher. My former so-called lover, for lack of a better term, had taken early retirement from the AP, exchanging his Seattle condo for a cottage in the Loire Valley. Or something like that. I was never sure what to believe with Rolf, which was probably why he intrigued me enough that I slept with him. Maybe I kept hoping I’d actually fall in love with the exasperating yet attractive and eligible jerk. He’d invited me to join him at his oh-so-charming
petite maison
in château country, but I’d repeatedly turned him down. I hadn’t heard from him for
“Hunh,” I said. “I haven’t ordered anything lately. I’m not quite geared up for Christmas yet. If you don’t mind, maybe you should get it and take it inside your house. I’ll collect it tonight after work.”
“No problem,” Viv assured me. “I worry about things left outside for very long because of your other neighbors and their rotten kids. They’ve made off with some of Val’s garden tools and his chainsaw. Fortunately, we got all the stuff back, but next time it happens, we’re calling the sheriff.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “So far, I don’t think they’ve stolen anything of mine, but maybe I don’t have items that appeal to them.”
Viv harrumphed. “I’d hardly call Val’s Weed Eater an enticing object for teenagers except as a weapon. Those Nelson kids are too lazy to do any work around their own house.”
I agreed, and after a few more words of chitchat, I thanked Viv and hung up. The rest of the morning flew by with the usual busy work to meet our Tuesday deadline. It wasn’t until after I got back from getting my takeout lunch at the Burger Barn that I heard from Milo.
“I’ve been at the hospital for over half an hour,” he said, sounding grumpy. “I’m waiting until Stella is finished and I’m damned hungry and I won’t eat any of this crap they call food around here. I had enough of that when I was a so-called patient.”
“Stella?” It was the one thing he’d said that grabbed my attention. “You mean Stella Magruder, as in Stella’s Styling Salon?”
“Who else?” Milo snapped. “She’s grooming Laurentis. Nobody else could untangle Laurentis’s hair and beard. Jesus Christ, you’d think I never interviewed somebody with lousy hygiene.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly the point,” I said. “Given Craig’s lifestyle, he could infect the hospital. I imagine the medics who brought him in sanitized themselves after they left him in the ER.”
“Whatever. Anyway, I still haven’t talked to the guy. In fact, I’m going over to the Venison Inn and grab some lunch. I’ll call you whenever I’ve got something that isn’t fleas or lice or whatever Laurentis might still be able to pass on to me.”
“I’ll be here,” I said. “It’s deadline day.”
I changed my mind as soon as I hung up. Now that the rest of this week’s edition was almost wrapped up and we were playing a waiting game to finish the front page, I grew curious about the mysterious package Viv Marsden had seen on my front porch. It probably wasn’t from Ben, who never Christmas-shoppeduntil the last minute. Besides, if my brother had sent something, he would’ve mentioned it when we spoke on the phone. As for Adam, his teachers at the seminary apparently had never taught him that Catholic dogma didn’t prohibit the shipping of parcels both ways. Except for sending some knitwear that his native parishioners had made, my son believed that it was better to receive than to give, at least when it came from his mother.
I dialed Viv’s number and asked if she’d had time to retrieve the package. She had, remarking that it was fairly heavy and bore a PERISHABLE sticker.
“Food?” I said. “Where was it sent from?”
“Ooh-la-la, Emma,” she said, laughing. “It’s from a shop in Paris.”
Damn
. I thought I’d heard the last of Rolf Fisher. My former so-called lover, for lack of a better term, had taken early retirement from the AP, exchanging his Seattle condo for a cottage in the Loire Valley. Or something like that. I was never sure what to believe with Rolf, which was probably why he intrigued me enough that I slept with him. Maybe I kept hoping I’d actually fall in love with the exasperating yet attractive and eligible jerk. He’d invited me to join him at his oh-so-charming
petite maison
in château country, but I’d repeatedly turned him down. I hadn’t heard from him for
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