4th of July

Chapter 125

MARINARA SAUCE WAS IN the air as I came up the walk to Carolee’s Victorian live-in schoolhouse. I shielded my eyes against the last rays of sun flashing off the many-paned windows and dropped the brass knocker on the big front door.

A dark-skinned boy of about twelve opened up and said, “Greetings, police lady.”

“You’re Eddie, right?”

“Ready-Eddie,” he said, grinning. “How’d you know that?”

“I’ve got a pretty good memory,” I told him.

“That’s good, since you’re a cop.”

A cheer went up as I entered the “mess hall,” a large open and airy dining room facing the highway.

Carolee gave me a hug and told me to sit at the head of the table. “That’s the ‘honored guest’ spot,” she said. With Allison grabbing the chair to my left and Fern, a small red-haired girl, fighting for the chair to my right, I felt welcomed and at home in this huge “family.”

Bowls of spaghetti and a tub of salad with oil and vinegar journeyed around the table, and chunks of Italian bread flew across it even as the kids pelted me with questions and riddles—which I fielded and occasionally aced.

“When I grow up,” Ali whispered, “I want to be just like you.”

“You know what I want? When you grow up, I want you to be exactly like you.”

Carolee clapped her hands together, laughing gaily.

“Give Lindsay a break,” she said. “Let the poor woman eat her dinner. She’s our guest, not something for you to devour along with your food.”

As she got up to bring a liter of cola from the sideboard, Carolee put her hand on my shoulder and leaned down to say, “Do you mind? They love you.”

“I love them, too.”

When the dishes were cleared and the children had gone upstairs for their study hour, Carolee and I took our coffee mugs out to the screened-in porch facing the playground. We sat in matching rockers and listened to the crickets singing in the darkening night. It was good to have a friend in town, and I felt especially close to Carolee that night.

“Any news on whoever shot up Cat’s house?” Carolee asked, concern edging into her voice.

“Nope. But you remember that guy we had a run-in with at the Cormorant?”

“Dennis Agnew?”

“Yeah. He’s been harassing me, Carolee. And the chief isn’t making a secret of the fact that he likes Agnew for the murders.”

Carolee looked surprised, even shocked. “Really? I’m having a hard time imagining that. I mean, he’s a creep, all right,” she said, pausing. “But I don’t see him as a murderer.”

“Just what they said about Jeffrey Dahmer.” I laughed.

Then I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair; Carolee crossed her arms over her chest, and I imagined we’d both gone inside our heads to think about killers in the wind.

“It’s pretty quiet here, huh?” said Carolee at last.

“Remarkably. I love it.”

“Hurry up and catch that maniac, okay?”

“Listen, if you ever get nervous about anything, Carolee—even if you think it’s just your imagination—call nine-one-one. Then call me.”

“Sure, thanks. I will.” After a moment of silence, Carolee said, “They always get caught eventually, don’t they, Lindsay?”

“Almost always,” I answered, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. The really smart ones not only didn’t get caught, they weren’t even noticed.