“Your daughter said I’d be impressed with your cooking.” Bobby set his fork on an empty plate. “She was right.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. My wife was a fantastic cook. When she got sick, I tried to entice her to eat with all of her favorites.”
“I was sorry to hear of your loss.”
John cast Bobby a quick, somewhat surprised glance. “Raye isn’t usually so chatty.”
“I wouldn’t say she was chatty.”
“She hasn’t known you twelve hours and she’s already told you her mother passed. Round here, that’s considered at least third-date conversation.”
“Around here there wouldn’t be any need for the conversation, everyone would know about her mother’s passing almost as soon as it happened.”
John’s brows lifted. “Pretty smart, aren’t you?”
Bobby wasn’t sure if he should agree or disagree. Depended what kind of smart John was talking about—book smart, street smart, or smart-ass. Bobby would admit to being at least two out of three, but maybe not right here, or right now, or to John Larsen.
Instead, he took his dishes to the sink. “I might be in town another night. Is that all right?”
John brought his own dishes over. “I don’t have anyone waiting on your room.”
Did that mean he could stay or not? Bobby decided to assume that he could. It wasn’t as if there was anywhere else to go.
“You never answered my question last night.” John began to fill the sink with warm water, squirting in a healthy stream of dish soap. “Are you here because of the dead woman?”
Bobby nearly grabbed a dishtowel, then remembered he had an appointment.
“I am,” he agreed, and moved toward the door.
“You came a long way. Why?”
“I really can’t say.”
Bobby had no idea what folks in the town had seen, what information the chief had released. Bizarrely, people confessed to all sorts of things they hadn’t done for reasons beyond his understanding. Retaining a pertinent fact could prevent the wrong person from being convicted, no matter how much they might want to be.
“Did I get your back up last night with my question?”
“Which one?”
“About your people. Where you’re from. We ask that around here. Didn’t mean any insult by it.”
“If I had a dau—” Bobby’s voice cracked, and he discovered he couldn’t finish that sentence. At least not the way he’d planned to. “I can understand your concern.”
“I don’t think you do. I don’t care if you’re…” He waved his hand in the general direction of Bobby’s head.
“Black?” Bobby asked.
“You don’t look black to me. More … tan.”
“My people are French and Spanish.”
“Doucet.” John nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Also Haitian, with a little who knows thrown in.”
“Like Raye,” John said.
Bobby doubted Raye was Haitian, but then again—who knew?
“Well,” John went on as if they were talking about nothing more important than the weather, and maybe to him, they weren’t. “Good luck.”
Bobby paused with the door partway open. “Do I need a key?”
“I’ll be here. If I’m not, the door’s always open.”
Which made Bobby wonder if he should stow his duffel in the rental car. On the other hand, if someone wanted to steal his toothbrush and dirty socks, let them. However …
“Maybe you should start locking the place.”
“I’m not sure I have a key.”
“Does anyone lock their doors in town?”
“Not many.”
If Raye hadn’t, maybe someone had been in her apartment. Though it still didn’t explain where the man had gone, and so damn fast, leaving no trace behind.
*
I slept better than I expected. Probably because I’d stayed awake well past midnight hoping for a visit from my Puritan. But the only creature that stirred was the old lady in her chair—rocking, rocking, rocking. The creak of that chair eventually lulled me to sleep, and I did so without dreams—or at least any that I remembered.
As soon as I woke I dressed in the clothes I’d discarded on the floor, splashed water on my face, attempted to wake Jenn—twice—then hurried to my apartment, hoping I wouldn’t run into too many people who wanted to know why I looked like I was taking the run-walk of shame down First Street.
Another reason not to sleep with anyone from here. That run-walk could become legendary. Ask Jenn.
I was in the shower before I remembered the maniac; by then it was too late. If he threw back the curtain and started to hack away with his ghostly meat cleaver I could ignore him just as well naked as not. Or at least that’s what I told myself.
The memory of Bobby’s blue eyes had me choosing a slightly newer, tighter pair of jeans and a sweater instead of a sweatshirt.
Which meant someone would throw up on me. It was a given.
I reached my classroom with very little time to spare, but it was still better than yesterday. The children filed in, and Susan ran toward me with such fervor I figured the winner in the barfing competition would be her.
“Stafford has a new friend,” she said.