sixteen

Stress makes me hungry for things I don’t want most of the time, and although finding Ray’s body had made me skip lunch, by the time Tom and Goldie finished their pale ales, I was ravenous. The problem was compounded because I’m not much of a cook, or shopper. Tom is, but he hadn’t moved in yet, so there weren’t many raw ingredients in the fridge or cupboards to assemble into a meal. If I had been alone, I might have settled for the stuff I did find—crackers with peanut butter, a freckled banana, some chocolate chips, and popcorn. Goldie’s a great cook, and she offered to thaw some homemade soup from her freezer, but Tom nixed that idea.

“How about Indian?” he asked. “All three of us. My treat.”

He didn’t need to ask twice. I shut Pixel and Leo into my guest room, checked the litterbox, ran a brush through my hair, and we were out the door.

“Should I lock Totem up when I leave him?” Goldie asked as Tom cleared his backseat.

“Not if he can’t get hurt,” I said. “I just don’t like to leave a baby loose with the dogs. They’d never hurt her on purpose, but play can get out of hand.” Face it, you’re over-protective. “I won’t lock Pixel up once she’s bigger.”

“Jerk.”

For half a second I thought she meant me, but Goldie was looking past me. I turned, and there he was, the new neighbor. He had a point-and-shoot camera hanging against his chest and a notebook and pen in his hand, and he seemed to be examining the exterior of his house inch by inch. That seemed a little tardy, since he’d already moved in. It also seemed an odd time for photos since it was almost dark out. Then again, he was an insurance agent. What do I know?

“No time like the present,” I said.

Goldie clucked and got into Tom’s van, and I crossed the stretch of lawn between me and Mr. Martin and said, “Hi there. I’m Janet MacPhail. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“You live right there,” he said, gesturing toward my house with his chin. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t tell me his name.

And that pushed my pushy button. I held out my hand to force the issue, and said, “Yes, right there.”

He was tall, close to six feet, and had a long, jowly face. He slowly shifted his writing tools to his left hand and offered me his limp right one. “Phil Martin,” he said. His voice seemed familiar, but of course it would. He was in the news from time to time.

My skin was in contact with his for only a second, but that was enough. His hand was cold and clammy and shot me straight back to those god-awful square dancing sessions in fifth-grade gym class. With boys. And I always seemed to get matched with Herbie MacFadden. He had limp, clammy hands like that.

“We’re just on our way out, but I hope we’ll have a chance to chat soon.”

I was turning away when he said, “Understand you have a lot of pets.”

“A dog and two indoor cats,” I said.

Martin shoved his clammy hands into his pockets, rocked his shoulders back and his belt buckle forward, and narrowed his eyes at me. “I saw two dogs out there just a little bit ago.”

I almost answered, but a little voice whispered that I didn’t have to defend myself or our dogs to him. Actually, the little voice wasn’t that polite, but I decided to keep what I really wanted to say to myself. I found a smile somewhere in my over-taxed resources, pasted it on, and said, “We’ll talk soon.” I rejoined Tom and Goldie.

Tom winked at me and drawled, “That looked right friendly, pardner.”

“Nice crotch thrust.” Goldie patted my shoulder. “Good for you not to engage.”

I cranked my head around to look at Goldie and echoed her opinion of Phil Martin. “He’s a jerk.”

“Unfortunately,” said Tom, backing out of the driveway, “he’s a jerk with some juice, so proceed with caution.”