Chapter 21

Canada, Twenty-Eight Years Ago

After nearly two weeks, the boy, weak from hunger said, “Mommy, I’m tired. I can’t bang rocks and yell today. I wanna sleep.”

“Sleep, little one. Rest.”

When Noshi returned that evening again without game, Chepi said, “You’ve got to do something. We can’t lose our other child, this one to starvation. Please…”

Northern California, Present Time

Besides a Carl’s Jr., a Del Taco, and a Quizno’s Sub, there were five restaurants in all of Wicklow. A few weren’t open on weekends, which everyone thought crazy. “No wonder folks go down to the city and spend their money there instead of here. Nothin’ ever open on weekends,” people said. There was Martinez’ Mexican food, run by the same Thai couple who also owned the only Chinese restaurant in town, The Golden Pagoda. There was The Dandelion Café, a German deli, Otto’s, that served the best sausage with red cabbage salad on the planet, and there was Nito’s Italian Restaurant, which although short on atmosphere, served surprisingly good northern Italian cuisine and a decent house Chianti. That’s where Mingan told Maggie they were going on their first real date.

“Sure. Nito’s makes excellent homemade wild mushroom ravioli,” Maggie said.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

The latest twin killings, coupled with reading a sensational article printed by Mario Panetti in an Italian newspaper claiming that Il Mostro Americano is a “Demon from Hades with wings like a giant bat,” put Maggie in a dark place. She wasn’t up for a night out. She called Sally. “I have to break this date with Mingan. I’m not in a mood for it.”

“Go on. Get out for a few hours. Have a little pasta and a bit of wine. It wouldn’t hurt you to get laid, either.”

“Given what’s going on, I don’t feel much like partying.”

“Go anyway. You need a break now more than ever.”

*

Maggie spent hours getting ready. She’d seen Mingan once after their breakfast. They’d gone to Mama’s for coffee. In their hour together he’d kept his promise to refrain from proselytizing. She figured Sally might be right, that it wouldn’t hurt to get laid. Tonight, then. “What do you think, Samantha, my sexy skinny black jeans, and a white sweater, or a dress?” She pulled a dark blue knit dress over her head and examined herself. The dress fit like an upscale designer had custom made it for her, snug enough to show off her curves, and a few inches above her knees to show off her legs. “No,” she said. “I’ll save this one for another time.” She yanked it off and left it in a pile on the floor next to the bed. She pulled on her black jeans and sweater instead, and put on a pair of bright red Tony Lama’s she’d bought in Wyoming during an investigation years before. She’d worn them so seldom they looked brand new. She weaved tiny dried white flowers into her braid. “Oh no. I look like a hippie now,” she said to the cat, then she snatched the flowers out of the braid and tossed them on the blue dress. She applied a slick of apple red lipstick, brushed on a coat of black mascara, and announced to Chester and Samantha, “This is as good as it gets.”

Mingan knocked on the door, and when she opened it, he eyed her from her forehead to her toes, “You are so pretty tonight.”

“Thanks. You look great, too.” Maggie’s cheeks turned warm.

Nito’s was crowded, and as a hostess led them to a corner booth, Maggie felt certain every person in the restaurant had fixed their eyes on the two of them. She didn’t mind. In fact, she felt privileged to be seen in public on a date with the hunky Mingan Metchitehew. This might be fun.

By the time she had finished her second glass of Chianti, Maggie allowed herself to relax. Dinner was delightful. Old man Nito approached their table as they were finishing their veal and ravioli. He talked fast, not giving either an opportunity to respond. “It’s good to see you,” he said to Maggie. “It’s been a long while, and here you are with our banker?” he nodded to Mingan. “How are you this evening, Signore? I trust you both enjoyed your dinner?”

“It was delicious, Nito.” Maggie said.

“Please allow me the pleasure of serving you a homemade panna cotta for dessert and cappuccino on the house.”

Mingan reached across the table to stroke Maggie’s hand. This time, she didn’t pull back.

A few moments later, a busty waitress with her black hair in a thick bun and dewy eyes for Mingan, appeared with a pair of foamy cappuccinos and two Pana Cotta’s. Maggie picked a raspberry off her dessert with her fingers and popped it into her mouth. “Thanks for inviting me tonight. It’s been tough lately, and it’s nice to have dinner out for a change.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have dates every night. You really are an extraordinary woman.”

Maggie smiled. “I’m not as extraordinary as you think.”

“No, you are different, Maggie. Unique. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

Maggie wondered why he didn’t say something like “I find you intoxicatingly sexy,” or “You are drop-dead gorgeous,” but unique? Extraordinary? She refocused their conversation. “I don’t know if you’re up for this, but after dinner, The Ulster Boys are playing at The Silverado, no cover. We have to buy a couple of drinks, but that’s all. You do like traditional Irish music, don’t you?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never really listened to it. But, sure, we can stop by. Why not?”

*

After the Silverado, Maggie and Mingan took their time driving home. He avoided the main highway, detouring through a winding mountain pass. It was dark, but the sky smelled of fresh pumpkin pie and burning leaves. Autumn was Maggie’s favorite time of year. It was when she felt the most energized, the most alive. Mingan switched on the radio. It was set to a Christian station so quickly turned to an oldies station and Maggie found herself humming along to Joni Mitchell’s, “Court and Spark.” It was the first time in weeks she felt like singing. By the time they reached Maggie’s driveway, both Mingan and she were harmonizing on Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.”

“What did you think of The Ulster Boys?” Maggie asked.

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? Is that all you have to say? I love them, and if you are going to hang around me, you’ll have to get used to traditional Irish music. It’s part of my heritage, and it’s the only music I listen to with regularity.”

“Well, then, I suppose I should listen to it more and develop a keener appreciation.”

“I suppose so.”

Mingan pulled some kindling and a log from the bin on the rock hearth and lit a fire. Maggie retreated into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She brought out a tray with a bottle of Remy Martin, and two partially filled steaming mugs of coffee. They sat side-by-side on her overstuffed couch in front of the flame, mugs in hand, thighs touching, Samantha and Chester curled at their feet. The conversation was about much of nothing but before she knew it, Mingan took her mug and his, set them on the coffee table and kissed her. She snuggled into his arms and inhaled his scent, slightly spicy, musky, lovely. Maggie kissed him back and as they embraced, he reached under her sweater, sliding his hand over her rib cage to her chest to caress her breasts. When he worked a finger under her bra and touched her nipple she inhaled sharply. My God, it’s been a long time, such a long time. The glow of firelight and the feel of Mingan’s hand on her breast intoxicated her more than the wine, more than the brandy. She felt like a stupid, giddy teenager. She stood, smiled, and put out her hand with the intention of leading Mingan to her bedroom.

Mingan halted and pulled away from her. “Not now,” he said. “Not yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are lovely, and I want you, but like you said, let’s take it slow.”

“You kissed me. You…I don’t understand. Are you actually saying you don’t want to have sex with me?” Maggie stepped back, flushed with raw embarrassment. He’s been trying to move in since the day we met, and now he doesn’t want me? What the hell is his problem? This had never happened to her, never.

“Oh, I do. I want to make love to you in the worst way. But…not yet. I hope you understand but as deacon, I…”

Her face burned with the heat of rage. “This is about your damned religion? Fine.” She threw her hands into the air. “Thanks for dinner, but let’s call it a night. Go now, please.”

*

“Did you have fun on your date last night with Mingan,” Jake asked over coffee at Mama’s. “Or, did he just happen to stop by unexpectedly, and instead of making him eggs you decided to go out for Italian?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. And as long as it doesn’t interfere with the investigation, I don’t really care who you fuck.”

Maggie felt fire rising like magma from the base of her spine to her throat. “You don’t care who I fuck? In that case, fuck you, Jake.”