From the Grounds Up (21 page)

'Only that if the kids, at their ages, want to go,' I could hear a veneer of regret in Caron's voice, 'Sarah's going to lose them.'

I stopped at Schultz's Market and picked up a couple of nice rib-eyes for the grill. Before Luc and Tien's store closed, I had gone to Schultz's only for fish and seafood.

The owner of the store was Jacque Oui. Despite his name, he wasn't all that agreeable, but he did know quality in his raw materials.

'What do you buy, Maggy?' The fishmonger extraordinaire demanded when he caught me turning away from the butcher's counter, steaks in hand. 'You eat the red meat?'

He checked the label on the butcher-wrapped steaks. 'More than one pound? This feeds a family of six in my homeland. You eat this? You and your bear, perhaps?'

Somehow he'd gotten it into his head that Frank, admittedly big and furry, though also white, was a bear.

'First off, Frank is a sheepdog, not a bear, Jacque. Secondly, I'm having company.'

'Ah, the sheriff,' Jacque said smoothly. 'A good man, but you feed him this?' He held up the prime beef. 'You will kill him. And the death? She will be an ugly one.'

I grabbed for my meat. 'We are having rib-eyes, mushrooms and onions and French fries. With ketchup. Not exactly your idea of a gourmet meal, but it's comfort food and once a month or so it won't kill us. Next time Pavlik comes over, I'll buy some nice fish and cook it.'

'You will cook?' Jacque said, holding the steaks out beyond my reach. 'That, too, will kill him.'

Why were people trying my patience? I snatched away my thirty-two dollars a pound, dry-aged, grass-fed instruments of mass destruction and dropped the packet into my basket.

'Thanks, Jacque,' I said, moving away. 'I'll keep it in mind.'

Not exactly a stinging reprimand, but I'd found taking the high road worked best with him.

True to form, he politely wished me a good evening and went off to torment other customers. Scary thing was, they seemed to like it. Indeed, I thought as the cashier toted up my bill, we all paid a premium for the privilege, whether we relished it or not.

Frank was waiting at the door when I arrived. He started out to relieve himself and then pulled up short.

He sniffed the air.

Then he sniffed his hindquarters.

Then he came back and sniffed my grocery bag.

'I'll try not to be offended that you're confusing my platinum rib-eyes with your hairy butt,' I told the sheepdog.

Frank padded down the porch steps. Once on the grass, he immediately squared up to poop. Guess that explained the butt-sniffing. Probably seeing if he had time to investigate the steaks before his situation became dire.

I was still being punished. Frank didn't so much as look at me as he finished, instead stalking away to water the trees.

Geez, everybody was touchy these days.

Shrugging, I left the door open so the ungrateful lout could come in when he was done and went to the kitchen to start my preparations for dinner.

I was starving. I didn't want to ruin my dinner, though, so I poured myself a glass of cabernet and started to unload the groceries. Simultaneously, I was trying to organize my thoughts, which were as
dis
organized as my refrigerator, but without the moldy bacon.

As far as I could see, things were moving along nicely toward the new coffeehouse. I still had to put together the list Ronny needed, but other than that--assuming the plumber or electrician didn't throw us a curve--I thought we had a good chance of opening by September first.

I slid the rib-eyes into the fridge and took a slug of my wine.

Sarah's situation, too, seemed to have stabilized. If Caron was right, our friend was under a doctor's care, presumably for depression. Her new, more positive attitude made it clear that, whatever the treatment, it seemed to be working.

A celebratory sip.

Then there was Courtney and Sam. Again, some progress had been made. Sarah was seeing a family law attorney, who should be able to help her far more than any of us, including Pavlik, could.

As for the 'accidents', I intended to tell the sheriff tonight that Sarah had parked her car nose-in. That meant that the Firebird should have landed on the deck back-end first. Sort of a breach berth. Tee-hee.

Uh-oh. Empty stomach and red wine--not a good mix. I slid my glass down the counter, out of arm's reach and harm's way.

It was just after seven--house clean, mushrooms and onions ready to sauté, frozen French fries placed on the baking sheet, me sober, showered and dressed--when I realized the door was still open and there was no sign of Frank inside.

The sheepdog didn't usually wander off, but since he was miffed at me, I couldn't rule out the possibility that he had taken a walkabout.

I started out the door and nearly tripped over Pavlik sitting on the porch steps.

As I steadied myself on the railing, Frank came bounding back with a tennis ball in his mouth.

So much for being the center of either creature's universe.

'Hi.' I dropped down on the step next to Pavlik. 'I didn't know you were here.'

'Just arrived,' he said, turning and planting a light kiss on my lips. He was wearing a gray-blue shirt that matched his eyes and his dark hair was tousled. I wanted to do unimaginable things with him.

Frank dropped the ball between my feet. When I reached for the already slimy thing, he reclaimed it and placed it square in front of Pavlik.

Maybe I'd do better with the sheriff. 'Can I get you something to drink?' I said, getting up.

'Oops.' Pavlik threw Frank's ball and then pulled a tall brown bag from under the bush next to him. He handed it to me. 'I brought this.'

I unsheathed a nice bottle of ancient-vine Zinfandel. 'Thank you. This will be perfect with the rib-eyes.'

'Rib-eyes?' Pavlik got up to follow me in, Frank trailing us.

Figured. The mention of meat drew males of any species like flies.

I gestured at the steaks I'd set out to gain room temperature before cooking. 'I thought we'd grill them.'

'I'll do it,' Pavlik volunteered. 'I'm great at grilling.'

Having been a subject of his grilling techniques, I couldn't disagree. 'They're all yours, then. Do you want them marinated?'

Pavlik was eyeing the steaks like I wished he'd eye me. 'These babies? They're too beautiful to marinate. They'll be perfect just the way they are.'

Like I said.

Still. Once the rib-eyes and Frank were put to bed, I planned to have
my
way with Pavlik.

After the steaks, which were perfectly cooked, and the French fries, which were not, Pavlik and I settled down on my couch with the remains of his wine, while we waited for our coffee to brew.

Much as I wanted to canoodle, work before pleasure. 'Were you able to find anything on Patricia's sister?' I asked.

Pavlik whipped out his notebook, flipped it open and scanned his notes. Then he closed it. 'Nothing.'

'You're kidding, right?'

'See for yourself,' Pavlik handed me the notebook.

I looked at the first page. Patricia's name. Her mother's name (Patsy) and current address in Buffalo, New York. Patrice's married name (Fontana). Her husband's name was Harry. Patrice's brother, Bert. No Ernie.

Next to each name was a colon. Next to that was a check mark.

'What's the check mark mean?' I asked.

'That they checked out,' Pavlik said, reaching for the pad.

'Cute,' I said, moving it away from him. I flipped the page. Empty, except for the words 'wheat flour' and, under that, 'talcum'. In the bottom right corner, something that started with an 'L' was scribbled.

'What's this?' I asked, pointing. 'Lithuania?'

Pavlik took the notepad away from me and slapped it closed. 'As I said. None of the family seems to have a record. Not for abuse or anything else.'

'Police reports?' I figured we should close this subject before I interrogated the sheriff on page two.

'A couple of noise complaints dating back to when Patricia, Patrice and . . .' He started to open the notebook.

'Ernie,' I supplied.

'Bert,' Pavlik corrected with the hint of a grin. 'When they were kids living in Southern Illinois. Nothing that was followed up on.'

'Patsy and her boyfriends,' I said.

'Maybe,' Pavlik said. 'But there's no record of any abuse.'

'Damn.'

'Hey.' Pavlik massaged the back of my neck. 'This is
good
news.'

'Not if it happened but nobody knew about it. I was hoping to give Sarah and her attorney some ammunition.'

'She's retained counsel?' Pavlik said. 'That's good.'

The way he said it made me sit up and twist to face him. 'Does she need it?'

'If she hopes to keep the kids,' Pavlik said.

'Oh.' I settled back.

'Why?' he persisted. 'What did you think I meant?'

'I'm not really sure,' I admitted. 'Things are so confusing.'

'Like what?' Pavlik resumed massaging my neck.

I settled back against him. He smelled of Dial soap and some other clean scent--deodorant, aftershave, cologne. I didn't know what, but I wanted me some. Actually, I wanted me
him
.

'What's confusing?' Pavlik restated.

'Life.' I said. 'But in particular, what's been going on at the Junction.'

'Kornell's accident and Sarah's car?' Pavlik said. 'Two pieces of bad luck, I'll grant you, but—'

I jumped up, remembering I'd wanted to tell him about the Firebird. My head caught Pavlik under the chin.

'Are you OK?' I asked.

'Fine, fine,' he said.

'You have tears in your eyes,' I pointed out.

'They're watering.' He swiped at his eyes. 'A natural response to having one's jaw driven into one's nasal cavity.'

Huh. I didn't know that. Probably because he made it up. Pavlik was a manly man.

'I'm really sorry,' I said, rubbing his chin.

'Not exactly the way I thought I'd see stars with you tonight.' He cupped my face and kissed me lightly.

'If you want to see stars, perhaps you should visit the Thorsen Planetarium,' I murmured.

'Shows every night?' He was kissing my throat now.

'I wish,' I said involuntarily.

Pavlik chuckled and moved down to my collarbone. 'Maybe we can arrange for a private viewing.'

A warm breath tickled the back of my neck.

Unfortunately, it smelled of steak scraps and kibbles. 'Go away, Frank.'

The sheepdog didn't obey, preferring instead to lick the nape of my neck.

'C'mon, Frank,' I said. 'Go away.'

I looked at Pavlik.

'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' he asked.

'Threesome?' I said. 'Even I'm not that desperate.'

I slapped my hand over my mouth, appalled by what I'd said. Not so much the threesome part, though I did draw the line there. More the 'desperate' part. Men want what they can't have. Hell, we
all
want what we can't have.

'No.' Pavlik looked taken aback. 'I was thinking he must need to go out.'

'Oh. Sure.' I jumped up, wanting to get out of the room as quickly as possible. 'I'll take him.'

As I started toward the door, Pavlik caught my hand and pulled me back to him. 'I want you,' he breathed into my hair. 'Take care of the dog. Then let's go to bed.'

'Is that a toothbrush in your pocket,' I asked, rubbing up against him, 'or are you just happy to see me?'

'Both.'

Chapter Twenty-Two

It wasn't until we were in the kitchen the next morning that Pavlik and I returned to the subject of the accidents at the Junction.

'Should have brought your razor.' I set a mug of coffee in front of him, then ran my hand over the stubble on his chin.

'You sure it's five o'clock shadow?' he asked as I sat down across from him with my cup. 'Maybe it's the bruise from when you clocked me.'

'It's more like a nine a.m. shadow,' I said, 'and I'm sorry about jumping up like that.'

'What were you so excited about?'

I tried to think back. God, a little sex, and it pushed everything else out of my mind. We had talked about Patricia's family, and then Pavlik . . .

I had it. 'You called the offing of Sarah's Firebird an accident.'

'It collided with a building. What would you call it?' He took a sip of coffee.

I leaned earnestly toward him. 'Sarah says that she parked across the street next to the piano teacher's place.'

'Right.' Pavlik was dumping cream into his mug. 'She told the police officers that.'

'But what she didn't tell them was that she pulled
forward
into the spot. How did the car end up across the street and turned a-hundred-and-eighty degrees?' I crossed my arms and sat back.

Pavlik took another taste and started piling sugar into the cup. 'Don't take this the wrong way, but Sarah might not be the most dependable chronicler of her activities these days.'

Now how could I take that the wrong way? Sarah, on the other hand,
she
might. 'I know Sarah's been a little--and unusually--emotional,' I said. 'But I think she'd remember parking her "baby".'

'Maybe.' Pavlik shrugged and tried the coffee one more time. 'Whoa,' he said making a face. 'Both cream and sugar, yet this stuff still tastes like pencil lead.'

Now
that
, I could take the wrong way. 'What do you mean?' I said, lifting my cup. 'This is Kenyan. It's one of my . . . ugh.'

'Pencil lead, right?'

'I don't understand,' I stood up and went to the coffeemaker. 'It tastes like it sat all night, but I just made it this morning.'

'Did you empty out what you brewed last night?'

'Last night?' I stopped short. Of course. I had started the coffee last night, but we'd gotten side-tracked. And front-tracked. And . . .

'I always set up the pot the night before,' I said, dumping the coffee grounds and starting over. 'This morning when I came down, I just hit the "brew" button, but there was nothing in it. This must have sat all night.'

I poured water into the reservoir, fresh grounds into the basket and punched the button again. Then I turned to Pavlik. 'So, what is Sarah on?'