Forty-three
“What kind of money?” I said, once Mimi had left Mrs. Dorsey’s room and I’d taken a few swallows of the tea she’d insisted on serving me, and we were both seated side by side on the plastic-covered couch.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“You said ‘that kind of money’ when we were talking about your daughter’s income,” I said. “As far as I know, it came from writing romance novels.”
She sipped her tea and set it back down on the flowery china saucer. “Not always,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?”
Mimi shook her head. “I’m just speculating. What do I know?” She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. Keeping herself together. “Nothing,” she said. “That’s what I know.”
I decided to take a few steps back from the topic. I took another sip of tea and gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “It seems to me like you know a lot,” I said.
“Like what? You’ve just met me.”
“I know,” I said. “And since I met you, I’ve seen you calm down a three-year-old in seconds. There are entire books written about what you just did.”
“Tommy? He’s easy.”
“He didn’t seem easy when he was with Leila yesterday,” I said.
She said nothing for several moments.
“We went to see Leila yesterday. My client and I. We had an IP address for someone who had posted a terrible review of Melanie Joan’s memoir. It turned out to be Leila.”
“And that’s why that cop believes your client shot my daughter?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well…that’s a theory, I suppose.”
“Anyway, Tommy was acting up. And Leila was having trouble getting him to settle down.”
“She’s normally pretty good with him,” Mimi said. “Was, I mean. Was. My daughterwaspretty good with her son. When she was alive.” She closed her eyes again.
I put a hand on hers. “I’m sure she was,” I said. “And I’m not saying this out of disrespect for Leila. I’m just saying that in order for a kid to trust you the way Tommy does, you need to understand him.” I took a breath. “I think you understand people.”
She opened her mouth as if to say something, then reconsidered. “Thank you,” she said.
We sat quietly for a few moments, the kids’ show chirping out of the blue monitor, the pink monitor silent, save the hum of an air conditioner.
At last, Mimi spoke. “Leila and I were never close.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“I loved her, of course, but we didn’t have much to talk about. Ever. She was a real daddy’s girl.”
“I get that.”
“You have one of those?”
I smiled. “I am one of those.”
“Yeah, well. Give your mom some grace. She’s trying.”
“She’s trying, all right,” I said.
