Deeper Than the Dead

57

“Mimosas,” Franny told the waitress. “And keep them coming, honey.”

On Saturdays they met for breakfast at the Ivy Garden, a favorite place off the plaza where tables spilled out of garden-inspired rooms into the garden itself. A fantastic spreading oak tree grew like something from a fairy tale right in the center of the space, shading the tables in daytime and providing a canopy of twinkling lights at night.

“I need the alcohol,” Franny said, fussing with the bright yellow bandana he wore twisted at the open throat of his purple Ralph Lauren polo shirt (collar turned up, of course). The bandana matched the little polo pony embroidered on the chest. “I’m still shaking from last night. Are you all right? I knew that woman was a bitch, but MY GOD! She’s bat-shit crazy!”

A pair of older ladies at the next table looked over from their French toast. Franny rolled his eyes at them.

“I’m worried about Tommy,” Anne said.

“Can you imagine having that F-U-C-K-I-N-G C-U-N-T for a mother?”

“Kind of.”

“Your mother was a saint.”

“But my father is Dick.”

“Your father is a dick, but he’s not crazy,” Franny said. “I was stunned speechless last night, and that hasn’t happened since . . . ever. Thank God for Vince!”

Vince. His new best friend.

“Where is he?” he asked. “Did he take you home last night? Did you sleep with him?”

Anne blushed and ducked her head.

“Oh my God, you DID!” he exclaimed, delighted. “You vixen! I’m so proud of you!”

“Stop!” she hissed, swatting at him with her napkin. “Stop it!”

“Tell all!”

“I’m telling nothing. We are in a public place and I teach the fifth grade. And I wouldn’t tell you anyway, because I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Well, apparently you are.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, eyes bright. “So what was it like? Sweet and romantic or hot and wild with animal passion?”

“It was none of your business,” she said bluntly.

“This is very interesting,” he said. “You haven’t slept with a man since Jimmy Carter was president.”

“That is categorically untrue. It was the first Reagan administration—and that wasn’t that long ago.”

“So what now? Where is he? Did he spend the night?”

“He’s working, and this part of our conversation is over,” Anne declared as the waitress returned with their drinks.

“I’ll have the lemon blueberry ricotta pancakes,” Franny said, handing his menu over. “And so will my friend. She worked up a big appetite last night.”

Anne let that one go. If she didn’t rise to the bait, he would get bored.

He raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to ya, Anne Marie. That’s all’s I’m sayin’.”

“Good. Then the rest of the meal will be pleasantly quiet,” Anne said, picking a cornbread minimuffin from the basket on the table.

She had no big revelations to make on the subject of Vince Leone at any rate. She had to sort through her feelings about what had transpired between them the night before. She didn’t regret it, she knew that. Strange as it sounded to her own ears, it felt right and good to share herself with a man she barely knew, who would probably be gone in a week. It was going to take a while to make sense of that.

“I’m worried about Tommy,” she said, going back to her original topic of concern. “I want to talk to him, but how am I supposed to accomplish that?”

“You can’t go to their house,” Franny said. “That creature will pull you into her cave, suck all the blood from your body, and pick her teeth with your bones.”

“I know. But am I just supposed to wait until Monday? He looked so hurt last night. It broke my heart. Who knows what his mother put in his head? She said I made him think his father might be a serial killer.”

“Did you?”

“No! Vince asked me to ask Tommy if his father was home the night Karly Vickers went missing. That was all I did.”

Franny’s eyes got big. “Does Vince think Peter Crane is a k-i-l-l-e-r?”

“You do realize most adults can spell, don’t you?” Anne said. “Spelling doesn’t prevent eavesdropping.”

“But they have to work harder at it,” Franny said loudly, squinting at the old ladies.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Franny.”

“Call Vince. He might not have an answer, but you can always screw his brains out.”

“Don’t try to distract me just yet,” Anne said, too familiar with his MO. “I have a real problem here.”

“But I don’t know how to help you, sweetheart,” he confessed. “I don’t want you involved in this mess at all.”

“Mr. Franny!”

One of Franny’s kindergartners came charging over to the table. A bright-eyed, adorable moppet with a head of curly brown hair.

Franny went instantly into kindergarten-teacher mode, making a face of wild surprise and slapping his hands against his cheeks. “Oh my gosh! It’s CASEY! How are you today? Are you having breakfast?”

“I already did. I had pancakes!” As evidenced by the syrup smeared on the face and fingers that grabbed hold of Franny’s hands.

“I’m having pancakes too!” Franny said.

The parents stopped by and exchanged pleasantries. As they left, Franny turned back to Anne, made a wacky face, and said, “Poop-in-the-sandbox kid. I’m going to go disinfect myself. And when I come back you’re going to get your mind off this for an hour, young lady. Drink up!”