Sunset Bridge (15 page)

“Why is she or he interested? Miami’s not Palmetto Grove.”

“They were living here. The neighbor was keeping their children.”

He listened while she told him the Duttas’ backgrounds and the little she knew about the case. He shook his head sadly as she talked, his blue eyes flashing compassion and concern. She wondered if this was a man who could be dragged to a chick flick and shed a tear when a scene warranted it. Felo, for all his machismo, had been one of those.

“That’s an awful story,” he said when she finished. “What’s going to happen to the children?”

She explained, and he looked relieved. “At least somebody has them who cares. So what will you do next?”

“I still have friends on the force. I’ll check around a bit, just to relieve my neighbors’ minds.”

“So you think there’s something to your neighbors’ suspicions?”

“It’s doubtful. Mistakes can be made, but generally the investigations are thorough, and this looks cut-and-dried. So often we think we know somebody, but in the end they turn out to be somebody completely different.”

“Amen.” He nodded solemnly.

Their dinners arrived, heaped to the edges of their plates. She looked up. “No more talk of murder. Let’s discuss your amazing ability to choose great restaurants.”

He smiled, too, then he reached over, took her hand and squeezed it. “Nobody can say you’re a boring date. And you can talk about anything you want. That was a lot more interesting than where you buy your clothes or the last movie you saw. Promise me updates?”

“Yikes, I’d forgotten how boring dating can be. It’s usually that bad?”

“Worse. But not this time.”

They unclasped hands, but Maggie realized she was glad to be here with Blake, surrounded by strangers laughing and talking over platters of aromatic marinara and bottles of cheap wine. Her past was best forgotten; her future was a monstrous question mark. But for this moment, the present seemed just about right.

W
anda had promised herself she would stay out of Maggie’s life. Of course, that promise had been made the day Maggie turned twenty-one and Wanda was still working at it, like one of those fancy tablecloths Alice crocheted that took practically forever.

Still, it was Tuesday, the start of their work week, and here was Wanda’s own daughter making a phone call to her ex-lover. Maggie’s cell phone was giving her problems, wouldn’t hold a charge or some such technical gobbledygook, and she hadn’t bothered installing a landline. So now she was calling Felo right in Wanda’s very own kitchen to find out if he would ask around and see what he could turn up about the Dutta murder case.

Of course, she hadn’t exactly
told
Wanda this. Wanda had surmised as much by careful listening. Very, very careful.

Five minutes passed, and Maggie finally walked into the front, where Wanda was finishing preparations so she could open the door and welcome the public.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Wanda said.

“Of course you couldn’t. You were standing in the doorway.”

“I wasn’t! Not quite that close, anyway, and this is a small shop. Don’t forget it.”

“Just so you won’t fill in the blanks with erroneous information—”

“And just so
you
remember, I stood on my feet and served hush puppies and shrimp for decades to send you to college so you could learn words like ‘erroneous.’”

Maggie ignored the customary inducing of guilt. “I’ve done everything I can from here to learn more about the Dutta murders, but I haven’t picked up anything helpful. I couldn’t think of another way to get hard information, so I had to ask Felo to help. He knows about the case. It’s been in the news, and he
is
in Homicide.”

“It’s not his?”

“Someone working closer to the motel caught it, which I knew. But Felo said he’d nose around.” She paused. “For a fee.”

Wanda bristled. “What’s wrong with that man? It’s a simple favor. Is he too angry to help?”

“He wants to cook me breakfast. This weekend.”

Wanda pondered that. A man who could cook and liked it, to boot. That was a man a woman couldn’t let go of easily.

“Some fee,” she said. “Your dad fries an egg so hard it could stand in for a hockey puck. Felo wants to cook for you, how hard is it to say yes?”

“Apparently not very. He’s coming on Sunday morning.”

Wanda heard the ambivalence in her daughter’s voice. “You sorry?”

Maggie looked as if she didn’t know what to say, or per
haps she didn’t want to say it to her mother. But finally she shrugged. “The whole time we talked, I wondered if I was calling to help Janya and Rishi, or just using that as an excuse to talk to him. It’s hard. All of this. We were together a long time. He meant everything to me.”

Wanda wasn’t sure she’d heard her daughter right. This was Maggie, who, when her beloved grandmother died, hadn’t shed a tear except in the privacy of her bedroom. The girl had only been ten, but she’d already made up her mind that emotions were, if acknowledged at all, a private matter.

“I know it’s hard,” Wanda said. “Your dad and I went through a bad patch after he killed that drug dealer back at his old job. He stopped talking, stopped paying attention to anything, especially me. Somehow we got through it, but I’m not sure what we did to make things right.”

“I don’t know if Felo and I can. Make things right, I mean.”

“Well, while you’re waiting to figure it out, you’ll get some of that tasty cooking of his on Sunday. Don’t set yourself up to ruin breakfast by fretting and doubting yourself between now and then.”

Maggie smiled a little. “That’s actually good advice.”

“Didn’t think that was possible, did you?”

“You think I’d answer that?”

Maggie disappeared back into the kitchen, and Wanda, smiling, finished arranging pies in the display case and listing the day’s selections on the blackboard.

The shop had only been open for fifteen minutes when her first customers walked in. For a moment she was rooted to the spot. Then she was afraid she might swoon, like the sweet young thing in one of her beloved pirate novels.

She might not be a sweet young thing, but this man had
definitely been a pirate. Captain Pierce Arrowhart in
Under an Azure Sky,
a movie so bad it had gone straight to DVD, but what did she care? She’d bought three copies, afraid if she bought one she might wear out the disc and never be able to replace it.

“Derek Forbes,” she said, surprised that sound could still issue from her throat.

“You must be Wanda.” Derek Forbes extended his hand, moving past Larry Bly. Larry had his razor-thin nose tilted toward the ceiling, as if better to capture the fragrance of the pies baking in the back.

Wanda held out a trembling hand. “Derek Forbes,” she said again, when nothing else occurred to her.

“I get that a lot,” he said with his noteworthy grin. And, of course, the grin had been noted a million times. He was a little older than she was, his hair just beginning to thin and thread with silver, neither of which he tried to hide. His skin was leathery, as if he spent his life in the sun, but the tan was the perfect setting for his deep green eyes, eyes compared so often to emeralds that seeing them in real life should have been disappointing but wasn’t. He had a man’s face and body, nothing pretty or soft but angles and planes and toned muscle. And even if he was a little shorter than he seemed on film, he was still half a head taller than she was.

Wanda recovered just a little. “I bet you do. I needed preparation. A facial. Manicure.” She fanned herself with her hand.

Derek laughed. “You look exactly right to me. A woman who can bake a good pie is a woman any man finds beautiful.”

“Then I’m on a par with Liz or Demi or Meryl.”

He gave a bawdy wink. “The stories I could tell about those three…”

Wanda wanted to pinch herself, but she wasn’t sure she had regained enough coordination. “We just set out all the pies for the day. I bet you’d like a sample or two.”

“The way some men want a cold beer and a willing woman.”

“I could rustle up the first, and the second’s no problem at all.”

His eyes crinkled when he smiled. Both seemed completely genuine, too, as if he was enjoying himself. “I bet you’re married to a good man. You deserve to be.”

“Right on both counts.”

He moved forward to study the blackboard over the counter. “Are these today’s selections?”

“What’s baked already. We’ll be adding pina colada as soon as my supplier gets me more coconut, and Elvis Surprise if we need more pies ’cause we get a morning rush.”

“Elvis Surprise?”

“Crushed peanut brittle, bananas and chocolate chips. After the King’s favorite sandwich. One of my special pies.”

“Would you make me one someday?”

“Was Dorothy wearing ruby slippers?” By this time Wanda had managed to get her legs working again and circled the counter, taking out the pies destined to be served piece by piece and cutting small wedges. She chose three, a mocha pecan, a new lemon-blueberry chiffon she was debuting today and a raspberry crumble. They were all newish recipes, part of her eternal quest to find the perfect pie, and while not the Holy Grail of pastry, they were, by her own high standards, passable.

“Want coffee with them?” She looked at both men,
although Larry had yet to say a word. “Milk, soda—although I don’t really recommend anything that competes with my pies.”

“Just pie,” Derek said, taking a seat on the first red stool at the counter. “And maybe some water?” Larry nodded in agreement.

Wanda served both men pie, then went into the kitchen and grabbed her daughter’s shoulder. The mixer was on, and Maggie was whipping cream. “Do you know who’s out there?” she mouthed.

“I figured it out.”

“Come out with me this minute. I need you to catch me when I faint.”

“Can’t leave this right now.”

“Girl, you are some piece of work.” Wanda grabbed two of the glasses she reserved for private pie parties and filled them with ice, then bottled water. She went back to the front and set them in front of the men.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Derek said. “This lemon pie? I’ve never had anything like it in my life.”

“It’s my newest recipe. Glad you like it. I wasn’t sure about the blueberries.”

“Did you try it with raspberries?”

Nothing was easier to talk about than pie. Wanda figured if countries at war could just sit over pie at the negotiation table and talk about recipes before they delved into who invaded what strip of land, then everything would work out just fine for everybody.

She felt herself warming to the subject. “I did, but I liked the sweetness of the blueberries as a contrast to the lemony lemon. You know, you have to get blueberries when they’re just ripe enough, soft but not mushy. So I’ll have to gauge
when I offer it according to what’s available. But that’s nothing new. I don’t use any fruit that’s not right at its prime.”

He was interested, no mistaking it. About this time most men’s eyes were glazed, their brows furrowed. They wanted to eat, no explanations necessary. But Derek Forbes? He loved pie the way she did.

Ten minutes later they hadn’t even scratched the surface. She’d dished up new plates with small wedges of everything else being served that day. Larry Bly looked a little green at the gills, but Derek Forbes was in his element, eating slowly, luxuriating in every little crumb.

“Will you come and make pie with me soon?” he asked, when most men would have been groaning with the calorie overload. “I want to see you in action.”

That was the kind of sentiment most women would kill to hear. But Wanda knew he was talking about pies, and that was good enough for her. “Any time you want me. I hear they moved you into the Statler mansion. I’ve been in that kitchen of yours, and I’d pretty much give a toe or my appendix to get back in there and cook.”

“Then it’s a deal.” He pushed himself up. “I don’t remember a morning this good. I’m going to be thinking about these pies all day. We’ll buy four to take with us.” He named his choices.

Wanda packaged them and turned them over to Larry Bly. Derek Forbes moved around the counter to hug Wanda, while Larry fished in his pocket for his wallet.

“Now, don’t forget, we have a date.” He kissed her cheek; then the two men left together.

“Did I hear him right?” Maggie asked from the doorway. “What are you going to tell Dad?”

Wanda fell into the nearest chair. “Call and tell him all
those CPR classes he had to attend are going to come in handy. And better call him quick.”

When Tracy had agreed to be Olivia’s mother at the middle school’s traditional mother-daughter softball game, she’d worried about the way she might feel. But now that it was time, she wasn’t worried, she was resigned. Although the worst of the nausea was beginning to abate, lethargy was settling in. Prepregnancy, she had usually stayed at the rec center until the last match had been won and the last swim team parents had taken their shriveled, shivering children out for pizza or hamburgers. Now she was dead on her feet by four.

“I could take your place. I am good at cricket,” Janya told her. “I have watched your baseball games on television, and Rishi has explained what is happening. I understand touchdowns.”

“Apparently not well enough.” Tracy laced up her sturdiest sneakers. She had cleats, but wearing them didn’t seem sporting. The other mothers probably couldn’t catch a ball if their gloves had built-in radar. She supposed being pregnant was a fair handicap.

She straightened and clasped her hands over her head to stretch. “Besides, you have your hands full, and I’d rather be out on the field kicking butt than in the bleachers wiping it.”

“You are getting very good at changing Lily’s diapers.”

“How are the kids today?” The question was a daily one. As often as possible, Tracy made sure to stop by Janya’s house, bouncing Lily on her hip, bearing small gifts for both children and for the worried new mother. Most important, she knew Janya could use a listening ear.

She hadn’t thought of it before, but today she and her Indian neighbor had even more in common than usual. Tracy
was mothering Olivia, and Janya had Vijay and Lily. They were both pitching in to help raise other people’s children.
Pitching
in at the softball game. At least she was still thinking like a recreation professional.

“You think you will not harm yourself or the baby?” Janya asked. “By running and throwing?”

“I asked my obstetrician, and she said I’ll be fine doing anything, as long as I don’t overdo.” Tracy got to her feet and tried to summon energy. Rishi had the children outside on the toddlers’ playground. With all the turmoil and sadness in their household, the Kapurs still hadn’t wanted to miss this chance to cheer on Olivia. They were hoping, too, the game might cheer up Vijay, who rarely spoke now, and whose first visit with a play therapist had ended with a full-blown tantrum.

“The flowers on your desk are lovely,” Janya said as they passed the vase of roses and tiny purple iris on their way outside to gather Janya’s family for the trip to the middle school.

“Marsh,” Tracy said.

“The same Marsh who is not romantic or in love with you?”

“I never said that.”

“Not in those words, I suppose.”

“He’s been…” Tracy searched for the right words. “Attentive. Sweet.”

“Does this help you?”

Tracy thought it might. Marsh hadn’t suggested one “Marshy” thing to do since taking her to the Baithouse Bistro two weekends ago. No bird watching. No hiking, camping or canoeing. No chaining their bodies to trees in protest of something or other. Of course, only a little more than a week had passed, but she was encouraged, even though she was also
just the least bit sorry there was nothing adventurous planned for their immediate future. She hoped some muscular woman with spiky hair, twenty-two earrings in each lobe and wash-board abs wasn’t enticing him into the swamps with promises of albino alligators or double-billed wood storks.

“He seems to care,” she said. “He’s bringing Bay to watch me play this afternoon, then he’s cooking for us at his house. I just wish he’d come right out and declare his undying love, buy me a huge diamond and beg me to marry him.”