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As I pushed forward into a cold wall of wind, I second-guessed every decision I’d made so far on the Caddy Girl case, worried that I was letting everyone down, including myself.
Martha was oblivious to my problems. She loped blithely ahead of me, often doubling back to bark at my feet, which is what border collies are born to do.
I panted, “Cut it out, Boo,” but I couldn’t stop my dog from dogging me. I was a lagging lamb, and she was my shepherd.
Twenty minutes later, I was home sweet home, showered, and smelling of chamomile shampoo.
I stepped into my favorite blue flannel pj’s, put the Reverend Al Green on the CD player, and cracked open a beer. I took a long, frosty slug from the amber bottle of Anchor Steam. Yum.
My favorite one-pot pasta meal was simmering on the stove, and I was starting to feel seminormal for the first time that day when the doorbell rang.
Damn.
I shouted, “Whoo-izit?” into the intercom, and a friendly voice shouted back.
“Lindseeee, it’s meeeeeee. May I please come up?”
I buzzed Yuki in, and as she made the climb, I set the table for two and took out glasses for the beer.
A minute later, Yuki blew into my apartment huffing and blowing like a small storm.
“Ooh, I like that,” I said, examining her platinum-streaked forelock. It had been magenta a few days ago.
“That’s two yes votes,” she said, throwing herself into an armchair. “My mom said, ‘That hair make you look like air hostess.’” Yuki laughed. “Hey, that’s her one unrealized dream. So, what smells so good, Lindsay?”
“It’s pot-au-feu, Boxer-style,” I said. “Don’t argue. I’ve made plenty for two.”
“Argue? You obviously don’t know how carefully I timed this impromptu drop-in.”
I laughed; we clinked glass mugs and said, “Cheers, dears” in unison. And then I dished up the meal. I almost told Yuki what had been bothering me, but I couldn’t find a trace of funk to whine about.
Over Edy’s heavenly chocolate chip ice cream and brewed decaf, Yuki brought me up to date on her mother’s condition.
“Her doctors were concerned because she’s really young to get a TIA,” Yuki told me. “But now she’s passed a whole battery of tests, and they’ve moved her out of the ICU into a private room!”
“So when are you bringing her home?”
“Tomorrow morning. Right after her personal savior, Dr. Pierce, checks her out. Then I’m going to take her for a weeklong cruise on this monster ship, the Pacific Princess.
“I know, I know, it sounds corny,” Yuki said, hands in constant motion as she talked, “but a floating hotel with a casino and a spa is just what the doctor ordered. And frankly, I need the time off, too.”
“Gee, I’m jealous,” I said, putting down my spoon and beaming into Yuki’s face.
I meant every word.
I imagined myself on a ship at sea. A pile of good books, a comfy deck chair, and the gentle roll of the waves putting me to sleep at night. Plus Joe, of course.
No meetings. No unsolved homicides. No stress.
“Lucky you,” I said. “And your lucky mom.”
Chapter 31
YUKI WAS ON HER WAY HOME from Lindsay’s, on Eighteenth Street just merging into I-280, when her cell phone’s fluting melody sang out from the depths of her handbag, which was now lying in the passenger-side footwell.
“Shoot. Wouldn’t you know it.”
She set an angled course toward the right lane of the highway, and while holding the wheel with her left hand, she fished below eye level for her handbag.
