“My mom died when I was in my twenties, and then twelve months later, my dad did, too. I had planned to write the book while I was still working, but after my father’s death, I bagged my job and threw myself into the research. My perspective changed, and writing the book became my passion and priority. I loved interviewing people and writing up their stories. I think having the time to do that made all the difference for me personally—and also for the book.”
“Is this something you’d feel comfortable talking to the kids about it? Because life really does come down to playing the cards you’ve been dealt.”
“Sure, I’d be willing to share whatever you think would be of help to them. But if possible, I’d appreciate doing it in a couple of weeks. I’ve been a little under the weather lately, and I want to be sure I can give it a hundred percent.”
Derek goes quiet for a moment, his eyes lingering on mine.
“I read about the accident,” he says. “I wasn’t being nosy, but when you agreed to lunch, I did my research. What you went through this year must have been harrowing.”
“I’m trying to finally put it behind me. I mean, it happened three months ago.” To my surprise, my voice falters.
“That’s not very long in the scheme of things. I’m sure there are plenty of days when it still troubles you.”
His comment catches me off guard. “Yes. Yes, it does.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, but I appreciate your asking.” And I do. It’s as if he’s granted me permission to feel as lousy as I still do. “Enough about me. Tell me about your novel—if you feel comfortable, that is.”
He smiles. “This will probably come as a big shock, but it’s about a guy in his late thirties, licking his wounds near the town of Saratoga Springs.”
“Has he been hoodwinked by a rotisserie chicken?” I ask, grinning.
“Ha, no. It’s 1777 in the book, and the main character has just survived the Battle of Saratoga.”
“Oh, fabulous. It’s historical then.”
“Yup. I really related to what you said a minute ago about research. It’s what I loved as a journalist, and it’s not only a great stress reliever for me but a total turn-on.”
“How nice to have someone besides me confess that. I always feel a little nerdy admitting that.”
I ask more about his novel-writing process, and Derek shares some of the research he undertook. Listening to him is not only engaging but also relaxing, and it’s only over coffee that I think to check my watch. To my shock I see that it’s twenty minutes after two.
Once Derek learns I need to be somewhere else shortly, he flags down the waitress for the bill. I try to split the check with him, but he insists that the college will pick it up. Our parting is more hurried than I would like, but we agree to be in touch by email about the class.
I set out on foot for the police station. It’s at the back end of city hall, a redbrick building that runs the length of a short block. I swing open a glass door and step into a nondescript foyer. Behind a glass partition there’s a bunch of crammed-together desks occupied by uniformed cops, all male. It takes about a minute for one of them to acknowledge me and saunter over to the partition.
I explain my presence, and he asks that I wait. I park myself on the wooden bench in the foyer. Hopefully this will be a chance for me not only to assist the cops but also to secure information myself and assess how vulnerable Guy and I might be. What if one of the waiters really did commit the murder? And what if he’s still at large? That would explain the need for me to look at photos. I realize that I never heard back from Guy, which only adds to the tension I’m experiencing.
At least ten minutes pass before Detective Corcoran emerges from behind the cheap plywood door and leads me through a labyrinth of desks to the one that belongs to her. There’s a silo-sized plastic container of what looks like iced coffee in front of her, and she takes a sip through the straw as I settle into a seat.
“How are you doing today?” she asks, setting down the cup. “You feeling any better?”
“A little, yes. Thank you.”
Corcoran picks up a notepad, thumbs back through a couple of pages, and, pursing her lips, peers intently at what she’s written.
“As I mentioned on the phone,” she says, “I want to review a few of the details you provided. Just to recap, you visited Ms. Blazer on Friday and told her that a hundred and sixty dollars was stolen from your home on Thursday night?”
So this is about the money.
“That’s right.”
“You thought one or both of the waiters might have taken it?
“Yes, but I didn’t know for sure.” Of course, I suspected Eve, too, but I let that lie. “Did you want me to look at photos?”
“Photos?”
“On the phone you said you might want me to look at photos.”
“That won’t be necessary after all. And then, let me see, you received a call the next morning from a woman. What did you say her name was?”
“As I told you, I don’t think she mentioned it.”
“But she said she worked for Ms. Blazer?”
It seems so odd to hear her called that. She didn’t seem like a Ms. Blazer. She seemed like an Eve.