Read The Man on the Washing Machine Online
Authors: Susan Cox
The Man on the Washing Machine (32 page)
“She told me she was giving up the junk. She laughed. Said I could have it as a souvenir, you know?” He sniffed and rubbed his nose vigorously.
“Her sister asked me to dispose of her things; if you'd like anything elseâ”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah. Okay. I'll call you, okay?” He held out his hand and after a hesitation I shook it.
Before he and his escort had cleared the end of the steps, I heard footsteps on the back stairs that could only belong to Davie.
“Hi, Mr. Pryce-Fitton,” I heard him say. “Ben here? I was gonna ask if he'd let me in to feed the butterflies.”
Ben handed me a key ring. “These are yours; I meant to return them.”
“Why don't I let the boy into the shop?” Grandfather said, appearing suddenly and taking the keys before my fingers had time to close around them. “And then I think I'll be going, Theophania.” He bent down for me to kiss his cheek. “I'llâerâtelephone tomorrow, eh?”
Davie shambled over to me. “Hi, Theo,” he said casually. “Do your ribs still hurt?”
I nodded. “Okay,” he said, and gave me a tentative hug. I threw both arms around him and squeezed him tight, and then grunted as he responded enthusiastically, lifting me until my toes dangled off the floor.
“I've got a new designâlook.” He put me down and turned around to show me that the lightning bolt had been replaced with two interlocking triangles shaved into his short hair. He was wearing a gold stud in his nose instead of the amethyst. “Ben gave it to me,” he said, seeing the direction of my glance. “He had two like it,” he explained kindly.
“Nice,” I said.
He nodded. “Yup. Are you coming in to the store tomorrow? Some little travel bag things arrived today. Haruto says they're pretty good quality for the price and maybe we can get more than the usual markup.”
“That sounds good. UmâI guess I'll be in tomorrow all right. Do we still open at ten?”
He laughed his asthmatic's laugh. “Heh-heh-heh. Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He and Grandfather left together. I could hear Grandfather asking him about the butterflies as their voices receded down the stairs.
Ben and I faced each other across several feet of Oriental rug. It felt as wide as the Pacific.
Ben said: “I had to protect Charlie and I was afraid you'd have the law on him if you knew where he was.”
“I tried, believe me. He scared the wits out of me.”
“Ever since I first saw you in that bar on the corner⦔ He frowned.
I took a deep, painful breath. “You knew Charlie wasn't the killer. Why didn't you suspect me?”
“I knew it wasn't you,” he said simply.
That kind of faith was worth almost anything. I still hesitated, and then I almost heard Grandfather's voice: “It might be a risk, Theophania, but impulsive doesn't necessarily mean imprudent.”
I would have to tell Ben the truth. Tell him my real name, my family's history, the reason I was in San Francisco. I wasn't sure if I was ready to give up all my secrets. But a first step would be crossing the carpet. I watched his face as I took one step, then another, and then a third. I stood in front of him and waited, my heart hammering in my chest. I'd gone as far as I could. The next step was up to him.
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Thanks to Helen Norris for allowing me to borrow her San Francisco shop for Aromas; to Susan Dunlap, Judy Greber, Louise Ure, Linda Williams, and Gloria White for being the role models a writer needs, and for their unflagging encouragement; to the Mystery Writers of America and to Minotaur Books who jointly had a wonderful idea for a writing competition; to Kelley Ragland and Elizabeth Lacks of Minotaur for knowing their way around a blue pencil and for making me feel welcome at the Flatiron; to Melody Chasen for not being surprised and to Gabriella Kennaston Schuermann for sharing the ups and downs. And special thanks to my mum, Jean “Cis” (Gibney) Cox, who has taught me by example how to triumph over tragedy and paddle my own canoe.
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SUSAN COX
is a former journalist. She has also been marketing and public relations director for a safari park, a fund-raiser for nonprofit organizations, and the president of the Palm Beach County Attractions Association of Florida. She considers herself transcontinental and transatlantic, equally at home in San Francisco and Florida and with a large and boisterous extended family in England. She frequently wears a Starfleet communicator pin, just in case. Her first novel,
The Man on the Washing Machine
, won the 2014 Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel Competition. You can sign up for email updates
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CONTENTS
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE MAN ON THE WASHING MACHINE.
Copyright © 2015 by Susan Cox. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover illustration © Jon Wolf
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
e-ISBN 9781466872790
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at
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First Edition: December 2015