And from Jimmy’s description of his wife, Peter knew Dinah wouldn’t take the help unless he showed up at her doorstep and got to work.
Peter had known women like her all his life. Women who worked long, hard days. Women for whom, even when there was no extra money, even with bills left unpaid, charity was what you did for others.
For yourself, you worked harder. You made do.
But maybe he was wrong. There were new facts to be considered.
A suitcase full of money, for example.
He wouldn’t mention the four pale plastic-wrapped rectangles. For the moment, he’d tucked them under the seat of his truck.
Peter hadn’t quite made up his mind about Dinah Johnson, either.
—
When she returned to the kitchen and began to rummage in the cabinets, Peter picked up the little suitcase and set it on the table. The static was rising, and he could feel the muscles starting to clamp up in his shoulders. He didn’t know how much time he had before he’d need to go back outside.
“I found this under the porch,” he said. “It might have some use left, if you want it. Or maybe you know someone who wants it.”
She swiveled the suitcase this way and that, half smiling. “I can scrub that mildew right off.” She turned to Peter, her face open and curious. “How is it on the inside?”
Nobody could be that good a liar.
She’d never seen that suitcase before in her life.
“You’ll never believe it,” said Peter.
Dinah popped the latch and her eyes grew wide. The hundred-dollar bills were crisp and new. She covered her mouth with her hand. Then reached out and slammed the lid shut. Glaring at Peter, she said, “You take that out of here right now.”
That wasn’t what Peter had expected.
“You’re telling me this isn’t your money?” he said.
Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Lieutenant, do you think my home would be in this condition if it was? You think I’d keep that in a suitcase under my porch?”
“Maybe you’re holding it for somebody,” said Peter.
She shook her head, those clear blue eyes locked on his face. “No.”
“You know whose it is?”
“No,” she said again, but her eyes went sliding off to the side. “I haven’t the slightest idea.” Abruptly she stood up and began to take things out of the refrigerator. “I really haven’t.”
She hadn’t been lying before, about not having seen the suitcase.
But she was definitely lying now.
—
She stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled wonderful. Peter’s shoulders were clamping up in the small kitchen, sweat beginning to pop on the back of his neck. The fact that three dark doorways opened to unseen parts of the house didn’t help. The static turning into sparks. His breath felt trapped in his chest.
This was Jimmy’s house, he told himself, breathing deep. Jimmy’s kitchen. The long, slow breaths helped stall the static as he watched Dinah’s graceful dance from fridge to sink to stove, and it calmed him. Bought him a few minutes, anyway.
He said, “You could do a lot of good with that money, ma’am.”
She wore her dark hair short and simple. No makeup that he could see. But there was something formal about her, a guarded perimeter that did not invite intimacy. Maybe it was her grief. Maybe it was something else. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to call her Dinah.
She didn’t call him Peter, either.
“Lieutenant Ash, I don’t want that money. And I don’t wish to talk about it. Have you eaten supper?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Please let me feed you before you go,” she said. “I don’t keep alcohol in the house, but would you care for a glass of milk?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
He didn’t mention the four plastic-wrapped rectangles under the seat of his truck.
She set down a tall glass of milk and a big china plate loaded with eggs scrambled with onions and peppers and cheese, buttered wheat toast and spicy refried beans on the side, then carried out two more loaded plates to the bedroom for Charlie and Miles. The smell of the food was like a drug. The static subsided, just a little.
She served herself and sat at the table.
“This was James’s favorite meal. I hope you like it. I made it every Sunday night when we first got married. When he was home on leave, he wanted it every day for a week. That man surely could eat.”
Peter took a bite of the eggs. They were rich and spicy. He took another bite, with some of the beans on the fork, too. It was easy to see why this would be anybody’s favorite meal. “It’s delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”
But Dinah hadn’t taken a bite yet. She said, “Tell me something I don’t know about my husband.”
Peter set down his fork and thought for a minute. “He was good at his job—”
“You mean killing people.” Her stare was bleak.
“No, ma’am,” said Peter softly.