What the River Knows (10 page)

At four-thirty, he texted Rica. “Need me to pick up anything on the way home?” When there was no request from Rica by five, he left the office. On impulse, he swung into Dillon’s on the way home to pick up a bouquet of pink roses. He hoped they kept her mood forgiving.

Scott opened the door to the scent of lasagna, his favorite of Rica’s many culinary treats. “That smells good.” He hung his cap and jacket on the peg by the door. He slipped his holster off his belt and laid it on the small console table under the coat rack. He crossed the living room, noting that Rica had completely cleaned and straightened the living room and lit candles. “Are we having company?”

“Don’t we deserve to be treated like company sometimes?” She turned from the counter to greet him, her gaze falling on the roses he held. “My, these are pretty.”

He leaned forward to kiss her lightly. “Pretty roses for a lady who is even prettier.”

She returned his kiss, not so lightly. “Scott, I’m sorry. I was a little harsh with you after the party.”

He ran his hands up her smooth back. “No, I should apologize. I was way out of line.” He kissed her cheek, then continued down her neck. “I’m sorry. I knew better than to drink more than one.”

She smiled. “I think you could have handled two.” She stroked his cheek. “I didn’t notice until later that someone was always putting another drink in front of you.”

He laughed, relieved to see something besides anger in her eyes. “Probably someone with stock in a brewery.” He slid his hands down to her hips. “I don’t even know how many I had.”

“Shall we just agree it was too many?”

“Agreed.”

She moved toward the stove. “Still, we need to talk.”

His stomach clenched. “Okay.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “What about?”

She came back to hug him. “Just about us in general. Where we’re going. How we’re getting there.”

He tried to relax in her arms. “About having kids?”

“That could be part of it.” Once again, she stepped out of his arms. “We’ll chat while we eat?”

He grinned, though he didn’t feel it. “Then what can I do to help get dinner on the table. That smells too good to wait.”

She smiled. “I knew you’d like it.” She handed him a basket of breadsticks.

“Just don’t expect a lot of talking until the first plate is empty.”

At that, she laughed. “I didn’t.”

But they did make small talk during the first plate, chatting about the day’s happenings for both of them. The conversation continued through the second helping. Rica stopped with seconds, but Scott reached for another serving. “I shouldn’t have thirds after the meal I had for lunch.” He spooned more lasagna and salad on his plate.

“What did you have?” Rica nibbled on a piece of lettuce.

He looked at her sheepishly. “Fried chicken.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ll need a good workout tonight.”

“I was going to run—” He stopped as he realized what kind of workout she had in mind. “Don’t think I’ll need to run, then.” He took her hand. “I love you, Rica.” Except for the prospect of talking about “us,” the evening so far was about as perfect as they had ever had.

She grasped his hand. “And I love you, too, Scott.” She put her other hand over his. “So much that it hurts to see how we’ve changed.”

“Changed?” He didn’t think he’d changed that much. She had started to nag him occasionally, but he usually deserved it.

“Well, maybe we haven’t so much changed our behavior as we have the way we look at it.”

“What do you mean?” Now, three servings of lasagna didn’t feel so good locked in a taut stomach.

“Scott, you are ‘messy.’ I knew that when I married you, thought it was kind of cute, but now it irritates me. Instead of cute, I guess I see it as irresponsible or lazy.” She kept hold of his hands.

“But—”

She patted his hand. “I know you don’t mean to be. It’s just part of who you are. That’s why you lose track of time and are late coming home from work or get sidetracked on a different task when you are trying to work on another.” She paused. “You probably have attention deficit disorder.”

“Maybe I do.” He shook his head slowly. “But Rica, my being messy and forgetful is not intentional.”

“I know,
mijo
, and I understand, I really do.” She scooted her chair to face him more directly. “But, even when I understand, sometimes it irritates me.”

“Well—”

“And I know I can be a real
cabrona
sometimes, when I nag you.”

“Well, Rica, I know how ambitious you are, and how organized and disciplined, and that’s part of what I love about you.”

“And the fact that you aren’t is what attracted me to you, Scott.” She ducked her head. “Maybe somewhere deep inside, I thought I could change you, fix you.”

He chuckled, though he didn’t feel it. “A wise friend once told me that a man marries a woman hoping she’ll never change, and a woman marries a man hoping to change him into the man he ought to be.”

She smiled. “Your friend was indeed very wise.”

His grip on her hands tightened. “So what are we going to do about it?”

She stared into his eyes for so long that he feared his heart would stop. “Keep working on it,
mijo
. Keep working on us.”

He got up from his chair to take her in his arms. “I will do everything in my power to change my messy ways, Rica.” She melted into him. “I love you, Rica. It took me so long to find you, I couldn’t imagine living without you.” Her non-verbal reply lasted a couple of hours and left the dishes to fend for themselves.

Later, when the dishes finally came to mind, they cleaned up the kitchen together, wearing only a pair of pajamas they shared between them. Scott rinsed and Rica loaded the dishwasher according to her own system.

“Rica,” he began as he rubbed the plates with a soapy brush. “Do you ever think about your high school classmates?”

She stopped loading the dishwasher. “Of course I do. I work with Vanessa and four of my best friends go to church with us.”

He rinsed another plate. “Oh, yeah. I forgot you grew up here.” He handed it to her. “Do you think you’d stay in touch if you didn’t live here?”

She put the plate in its place. “Probably not, except with Heather.” She waited while he rinsed the glasses. “She’s like a sister to me.” She touched his shoulder. “Are you wanting to move away?” Glancing down at the beautiful face turned up to him, he thought he saw fear in her eyes.

“No, of course not.” He gripped her hand to reassure her. “This is home now, and everything is going well for both of us on the job.” A slight smile came to her delicious lips. “It’s this case I’m working on. It’s probably just a romantic notion from reading too many cop novels, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that the answer will come back to high school.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You know, one advantage of being ADD is that you take in a tremendous amount of information without realizing it. The clue may be right in front of you.”

“Well, if it is, it is well hidden.” He rinsed the last casserole dish. “And Bates and I have to go to her funeral tomorrow and then interview her boss.”

Rica closed the dishwasher and turned to face him. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, I hate funerals, especially when I have to look at every one who goes as a suspect.”

She grabbed his pajama pants. “I was thinking it was too bad we couldn’t spend the morning in bed.”

He placed a hand on either side of her. “I don’t have to be at the office until ten-thirty.” He leaned against her as her hands deftly untied the pajamas.

“We’ll just have to make the most of the time we have then.” Her lips met his as he lifted her to the counter.

Chapter 17

“I hate funerals,” Bates muttered as he and Scott seated themselves in the back of the Methodist church. They were the first of the mourners to arrive, although the place was a bustle of activity as the funeral director and his staff arranged flowers, and the minister set out his Bible and a bottle of water. As soon as the family named a mortuary, the chief requested a photocopy of the funeral guest book. Scott knew that would provide hours of work winnowing through the names. Unless they could wring a confession out of Moran. Or someone else.

To engage himself until people began to arrive, Scott studied the architecture of the place. Classically appointed, with fluted columns and a two-story curved ceiling, the sanctuary boasted ornately carved wooden moldings around the altar, pulpit, and choir area. Technology intruded on the peaceful design with huge speakers hung from a massive iron rack bolted to the soaring ceiling. Viewing monitors for the choir were attached to one of the columns.

Beside him, Bates checked email on his cell phone, as few mourners had yet arrived. Though Scott tried to dodge the memories, they sneaked up on him, and he remembered his father’s funeral. His dad would have considered it much dramatic foolishness taking time away from fields that needed planting.

Bates nudged his arm. “There’s Shawna and Trish, and some of the other ladies from the office.”

Scott looked up, glad to be distracted from his memories. “Bet Moran is happy the funeral is on a Saturday, so he doesn’t have to close the office to avoid looking callous.”

“Yeah, doubt he’d do that.”

Mourner after mourner settled into the padded pews, occupying Scott’s attention as he reviewed how the ones he recognized connected with Delia. He could identify less than half of them. Moran came out of the back of the church, probably having spoken to the family, and took a seat behind the family section.

Soon, the family, with Ellery Enfield carrying a cherubic, curly-haired toddler, filed into the reserved pews. A few more people entered the sanctuary, then the minister stepped to the lectern and the service began. Even from the back, they could hear Enfield’s sobs over the minister’s solemn voice.

Shawna went forward and spoke about the wonderful friend and co-worker Delia had been. Moran said a few words about her being a loyal employee with much potential. A woman introduced as a cousin of Enfield talked about her virtues as a mother. His shoulders shaking, Enfield held tight to the baby. Even if he had the gift for public speaking, he could not have made it to the podium, much less addressed the crowd. A woman whose quavering contralto made Scott wince sang “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” and the minister concluded the service. He announced the cemetery where the graveside services would be held.

Bates and Scott scrambled out of their seats and stood discreetly to the side of the doors through which the mourners exited. Moran, Shawna, and the rest of the company entourage that they had interviewed glanced at them, but made no acknowledgement. It appeared all of the office staff had attended the funeral. Excluding the Moran staff and family, they had only a couple dozen mourners to track down. Ms. Frank nodded at Scott as she walked past, but said nothing. When everyone except the family had filed out, Bates and Scott headed to their car.

Though Bates had parked the sedan in the shade, 103 degrees made even shade hot. Bates started the car and rolled down the windows while they waited for the air conditioning to kick in. “In the movies, all they ever have is a graveside service, so we can be more discreet.”

Scott fanned himself with the funeral program. “That’s because the movies are always set in California.” Finally, the air turned cool, and he rolled up the window. “They don’t have our Midwestern sensibilities and ties to tradition. Or hundred degree summers.”

“Right.” Bates rolled up his window as well. “I forgot you’re working on a Master’s in psychology.”

“Well, it made more sense than a Master’s in physics.” Scott adjusted his air vent for more flow. “Besides, I got a wife out of the deal.”

Bates pulled into the end of the line. “By the way, did she forgive you yet?”

Scott yawned; there hadn’t been much sleep last night. “Yeah, finally.”

Bates glanced at him as they turned onto Main Street. “Hmmmm.”

Not all of the Moran entourage accompanied Delia to the cemetery. Just over a dozen people crowded into the shade of the tent as the minister said a few more words. Another half-dozen people hung back. The minister shook the hands of the family members. He paused to grip Enfield’s shoulder, as the big man collapsed, sobbing, in the arms of an older woman. He patted the head of the baby and moved behind the family as most of the remaining mourners filed past. Some of the mourners drifted back to their cars rather than speak to the family. One slight young woman, wearing an old-fashioned hat with a veil, stood near a tree, watching the family, her shoulders shaking as if with sobs, before she turned and made her way to a small silver car. Chevy Cavalier, Scott noted, four-door. He couldn’t see the plates.

Chapter 18

Charlotte Daniels twisted the key in the ignition with a hand that shook. She let go when the car started, adjusted the air vents, and turned on the air conditioner. She sat back in her seat, as the cooling air fanned the sweat on her brow and the tears on her cheeks. She pulled off her hat and dropped it in the passenger seat beside her purse.

The funeral, the simple oak casket even now being lowered into the ground—all of it still seemed surreal, like a bad horror movie she could walk out of into the light. She shuddered with sobs held deep inside her being. She couldn’t collapse yet; she had seen the two men in cheap suits standing apart from the family and friends, much like she had, except that she would never wear anything as tacky as those suits. They had to be cops, and she didn’t want to talk to them now. Or ever.

She put the car in gear and drove out of the cemetery. She threaded through traffic to a Sonic drive-in where she sat and ordered a raspberry tea. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. She left the cemetery over twenty minutes ago. That should be enough time for everyone to have gone. She pulled away from the drive-in, and five minutes later parked her car in the same spot as before. She let it run and sipped her tea, as the cemetery workers took down the awning that covered Maggie’s grave. They had already lowered the casket into the vault and sealed it. They put the awning and poles on a flatbed truck. Then, slowly, a backhoe crept up to the hole where Mags lay. The bucket grabbed a gulp of dirt, then drizzled it over the vault. Charlotte rolled down her window. Over the throaty rumble of the backhoe, she heard the clods of dirt hit the vault. Each ping shook her; each felt like a nail driving into her own coffin.