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Max didn’t tire easily but the visit with Breezy Carmichael had wiped her out. She was desperate for a cup of good strong Starbucks Sumatra Dark. Unfortunately, she’d have to settle for a lesser java instead; the residents of this backwater town were doing their utmost to ban all the most popular restaurant chains. There were cracks in the wall of protest though. Dunkin had recently opened. Max ducked into the local coffee shop, Kat’s something-or-other, and her nostrils were immediately filled with the aroma of warm coffee and freshly baked croissants. She ignored the grumble in her stomach and ordered an extra-large “death-by-coffee.” The aroma was intoxicating and even before sitting down, she put her lips to the take-out cup, threw back her head and gulped. The searing hot liquid hit the roof of her mouth like a burning coal and she sputtered, her hand jumping. Coffee burst down the front of her white shirt. She swore furiously, grabbed a handful of paper napkins, then slunk into a corner where she could sit and unobtrusively dab her chest. Her mom used to call her Little Miss Impatience and apparently some things never changed. How many times had she ruined a perfect java by drinking it when it was too hot?
It was because she wasn’t allowed to rush as a child that she did so as an adult. Max had envied kids like her best friend, Sandy, whose mom allowed her to stand by the fridge, gulping coke from a glass she held in her left hand, while the right one shoved a folded slice of pizza into her mouth. When Max came home from school ready to scarf down a snack before heading out to the softball field or the library, she was made to sit in the dining room while her mother placed a hand-crafted salad in front of her. Only when her bowl was empty would it be replaced by a plate of chicken or fish or some other food that demanded it be eaten with a knife and fork. A heap of steamed vegetables arranged carefully around the protein proved to the world that mom was the perfect Weight Watchers lifetime member. By the time she was in high school she vowed that once she left home she’d eat and drink at any damn speed she wanted to. Which was why today’s mouth-scalding wasn’t such an unusual occurrence.
As she gulped her now slightly cooler beverage, she listened in on a nearby couple in animated conversation. Eavesdropping was a habit she picked up as a child and since it served her well in her profession, she’d never tried to stop herself. Howard considered it rude but if people didn’t know she was doing it, what harm did it do?
“I just can’t believe Amber would leave like that.” The speaker, in her twenties or thirties, lifted a tattoo-laced arm and ran her hand through spiky, black hair. “She and Dustin always seemed like the ideal couple.”
“I know, right?” Her companion cradled a sleeping baby in her arms, rocking it gently back and forth.
“Dustin’s beyond devastated.”
Max scrubbed at her shirt, the brown environmentally correct napkin snagging on the buttons. She imagined what people would say if they heard that she and Howard had broken up. Not surprising, really. What took them so long? They’d probably be divided between, never understood why Howard put up with her crazy hours and snarling attitude and she certainly tried hard enough.
After what she had experienced with Breezy, she wouldn’t have blamed Ella for leaving, but why get involved with her in the first place? She highly doubted Breezy had been able to hide her personality from Ella. Max had known plenty of people who could do that, like her last case up north which had involved an abuser who, like so many others, wooed his girlfriend with flowers and gifts and came across as the perfect guy. The moment the girlfriend married him, Jekyll turned into Hyde, and three months later she was in the hospital on life support. But Breezy wasn’t one of those types. It was obvious she couldn’t hide who she was, or she’d have tried harder to impress Max. Something was off with her—she’d been evasive when questioned about whether Ella might be angry at her for example—but she was basically a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type. Like people described Max.
“Do you think Amber’s having an affair?” The tattooed woman at the next table lowered her voice slightly, but it was still loud enough for most of the café to hear.
“Amber? Never. She’s devoted to Dustin.”
“Hello? She left him. How devoted can she be?”
That was the thing with people—you never knew what lay beneath the surface. It was why she’d considered becoming a psychologist before she ended up in law enforcement. Her parents had been as much in favor of her becoming a therapist as they had been against her becoming a cop. When she broke the news that she’d applied to the Police Academy instead of grad school, her mom was horrified. When Max came home for Passover a week after telling them, her mother ambushed her. After the very successful Seder at which her mother had served 14 guests both salmon and brisket, and her father had served up overly long homilies on various aspects of the exodus from Egypt, they’d cornered her while she was washing dishes. Her mother was stacking the dirty dishes on the counter and emptying wine glasses. The kitchen air was pungent from the strong smell of left-over horseradish combined with the aroma of sweet red wine.
“We don’t want you to be a cop. It’s dangerous.”
“So is crossing the road,” Max said, being sure to place the dishes in the correct drainer on the proper side of the sink. Left for meat, right for dairy. Tonight, it was all on the left-hand side.
“It’s hard to get ahead if you’re a woman.”
“Not true. There are female police chiefs all across the country.”
“I thought you wanted to help people, not lock them up.” Her father picked up a large saucepan from the drainer and began wiping it dry.
“Come on, Dad. Cops help people.”
“If you have to do something legal, why not an attorney?” Her mother scraped half-eaten potatoes into the garbage with a ferocity that had nothing to do with the tubers.
“Why? So that you can boast to all your friends about my daughter, the lawyer? Will you be too embarrassed to talk about my daughter, the cop?”
Her mother had denied it, but Max knew it was true. In Conservative families like hers, parents wanted their kids to be pediatricians, accountants or lawyers. Being a teacher would have been okay, especially if she were a professor at a university. But what kind of nice Jewish girl became a cop?
The kind, thought Max, who liked being constantly on the go, and also enjoyed listening in on people’s conversations.
“Let’s call Amber now, while we’re here. See if we can get the scoop.”
The two women leaned in toward each other and it was clear to Max she wouldn’t be able to hear the rest of their conversation. No matter. She had her own mystery to deal with.
If you want my opinion, the person you need to talk to is Lucinda Johnson. She may have been the last person to see Ella. Breezy had thrown this in at the end of their interview when Max was gathering her notes up.
“The one Ella was meant to spend the evening with? What did she say when you talked to her?”
“We didn’t have a long conversation. Let’s just say, we’re not the best of friends.”
Max went to her cruiser and called Lucinda to ask if she could come over to see her.
“What’s this about?” Lucinda’s voice was low, and she sounded wary. “I’m at work.”
“Sorry. Can we talk now for a few minutes?”
“No. I take lunch from twelve to one. You can text or call me then.”
The line went dead. Max was shocked. Wasn’t Lucinda curious as to why she had called? Was she stalling for time?
Whatever the reason, Max would have to wait to talk to Ms. Johnson.