Despite what I had told Polly, I’d planned to drive up to Minneapolis alone but made the mistake of calling Nathan before I left.
“I can’t get away from the office today but—”
“Come on, Nathan, I can make a twenty-minute drive by myself.”
“Polly told me all about the bank statements and Stacey’s mother. She said she suggested you take Brock along with you.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard. And please stop treating me like I’m helpless.”
“If you think that I think you’re helpless, you’re nuts. But in the few years you’ve been retired, a lot has changed, Kathy. If you look sideways at someone now, they’re liable to pull a gun.”
“Unless Brock’s Superman, I don’t think he can stop a bullet—”
“Kathy! Please . . . for me. All you have to do is feed the big guy. He’ll sit in the car and mind his own business. But if you need help—”
“All right . . . all right. Where should I pick him up?”
***
“Hey, Mrs. Sullivan.” Brock opened the door and climbed into the Cherokee. As he fastened his seat belt, I noticed how much room he took up in the vehicle.
“I thought I told you to call me Katherine.” I smiled.
“You got it.”
“I guess Nathan told you why I’m going to Minneapolis?” I asked.
“No. He just said you might need some . . . help.”
Brock stared straight ahead, no expression on his face. Because it was a warm day, he’d worn a short sleeve polo shirt, which accentuated his muscles. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his arms were covered with tattoos: animals, random words, numbers, and initials. His brown hair had been buzzed, his skin was tan, and I’d describe him as a handsome man.
We drove in silence. He looked out his side window now and then. I concentrated on the road ahead. But after I’d merged onto 100N, the silence in the jeep was making me uncomfortable.
Strong silent types have always made me work extra hard at a conversation.
Finally I thought of something sure to engage him. “Nathan said I had to feed you when we finish up at Stacey’s.” I laughed. “Anything special you’d like for lunch?”
“Well there’s this new place—I wrote down the address.” He actually seemed excited.
“What’s it called?”
He pulled a piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s called Bouillabaisse. Chef Roberts, he’s from France, opened it a month ago. I hear nice things.”
It’s the little surprises that make life so much fun. “Bouillabaisse—that’s the French name for a fish stew. You like French cooking?”
“Love it. The things they know about sauces are unbelievable.”
“Do you cook?” I asked.
“I take classes here and there. But don’t tell the crew. They’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“Our secret . . . promise.”
“My dad owned a greasy spoon in St. Paul. I helped out every chance I could. Weekends, holidays, summer vacation. When he died, I helped my mother run the place . . . until she died. My brother never had no interest, so we sold it and split the cash. He bought a house with his share; I put my half in the bank.”
“Very sensible,” I said. “But you have to spend some of it on yourself—have some fun.”
“Oh, I take out a bunch when I want to travel. I been to New York, Vegas last year, and I’m goin’ to New Orleans this year. I can hardly wait to see what’s goin’ on in NOLA. That’s Emeril’s place in the Quarter.” He stopped. “Am I boring you with all this stuff?”
“Not at all. It’s fun finding new places and foods.”
“It’s what life’s all about, ain’t it?”
“So would I be surprised to see what’s in your kitchen?”
“For sure. Next time I make up a batch of dad’s barbeque sauce, you’ll come over for ribs.”
Who would have thought that Brock and I would have cooking in common?
The turnoff for Olson Memorial Highway came up much too soon.
But all the fun came to a screeching halt when I parked in front of Stacey’s small house.
“I assumed she lived in an apartment and that I’d talk the manager into letting us in, but now . . .”
“You know, most people really do keep a spare key under a welcome mat or flower pot. Even those phony plastic rocks. Like they’re really foolin’ someone. Let’s go have a look.”
“It’s worth a try,” I said. “But act as though we belong here. If you look confident, you can get away with a whole lot.”
We got out of the jeep and calmly walked toward the house. I’d learned that Mondays and Tuesdays are always the best days of the week to do anything. Stores are empty after the weekend rush, and there’s less traffic because drivers are at work, school, or home. Stacey’s neighborhood was no exception. There was not one person as far as I could see, on either side of the street.
Brock led the way up the two steps to the porch and twisted the doorknob, checking to see if it was unlocked. No such luck.
I bent down and lifted the monogrammed mat. No key there.
A large plant in a stone planter sat by the front door. Before I could ask, Brock picked it up. If I couldn’t lift the pot, I doubted Stacey could have.
The key was there.
Seeing my surprise, Brock said, “It ain’t as heavy as it looks.”
We unlocked the door and walked inside.