When I lived in Boston, my Sunday routine went like this: I’d wake up and walk three blocks to the neighborhood bagel bakery. Rain, shine, or blizzard. There, I’d buy a garlic bagel with lox, cream cheese, onions, tomato, and capers—two, if my boyfriend (now ex) was staying over. I always paid because he never had cash.
Then I’d stroll back home and make a pot of coffee. The rest of the day would be spent lounging and reading, catching up with the latest novel for my book club.
Since I’d only been back in Wahoo about a month and a half, I didn’t yet have a Sunday routine. This morning, Catsy snoozed on my bed. She’d woken me at four, clamoring for a bowl of wet kitten food, so I didn’t need to attend to her culinary needs just yet.
I pulled on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and some flip-flops, and shuffled into the kitchen. Crud. We were out of coffee. And it didn’t look like we had much in the way of breakfast either. My sister and I had to get into a routine for grocery shopping. We did have basic pancake supplies, but no syrup.
I dug around the cabinets and found a jar of instant coffee that had probably been knocking around since the Obama administration.
Vera wasn’t awake yet. I pondered whether I should pound on Jack’s door for some java, but after my cheek kiss, I hesitated. Probably shouldn’t feed my attraction or curiosity about him. That didn’t stop me from doing a quick Google search on his name while standing in the kitchen and boiling some hot water in a kettle so I could make instant coffee.
Catsy sauntered in. Whenever anyone was in the kitchen, she correctly assumed food was on the horizon.
“Whoa,” I whispered when I saw his CV. He’d published several articles about mass murderers and serial killers, and was the founding editor of a peer-reviewed journal calledHomicide Studies. I noted that he’d been an expert on several networks over the years, and had been quoted extensively in theNew York Timeswhen a serial killer had been arrested.
I stirred my instant coffee, reading a three-year-oldMiami Heraldprofile about Jack. It noted that he enjoyed long bicycle rides, hamburgers, and Cuban jazz. I skimmed the article, wondering how such an interesting human had landed in our backyard. Well, actually, that was a lie. I was thinking far dirtier thoughts.
Like riding him while listening to jazz, then eating burgers afterward.
Bianchi is married to another University of Miami professor, Dr. Lisette Garcia. She teaches Latin American literature.
I spat the instant coffee into the sink, partially because it tasted so horrible but mostly because I was so shocked.
Jack was married?
I slipped the phone in my back pocket. I’d made a point last night to check his ring finger, and it had been bare. Maybe he was divorced?
“Thought he was one of the good ones,” I grumbled to Catsy.
She looked up with frosty blue eyes. She didn’t give a crap. All she wanted was her Fin-Tastic Fish Bites.
I dumped the instant coffee into the sink. This was yet another reason why I should stay away from men. Like Vera, I never picked the right ones—although my poor choices were nowhere near as bad as hers.
It would be a lie to say I wasn’t disappointed. I grabbed my keys and purse, pushing Jack’s marital status to the corners of my brain. I needed to get on with life, and that could only happen if I was properly caffeinated.
Today I would surprise Vera with a box of donuts and fancy coffee. There was no way I could drink that instant dreck.
As I pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road, I thought back to the previous night. Something felt unfinished. The sleuthing, not the kiss. I approached the turn to Gene’s house.
I didn’t need Jack for this.
On a last-second whim, I took a sharp right down Gene’s street. It was nine in the morning, and some in town were probably preparing for church. Gene never struck me as the church type, so perhaps his wife, Barbie, wasn’t either. Plus, if their family was anything like mine, there would be folks gathered at the house, offering condolences for Gene’s passing.
Unlike last night, I didn’t cruise slowly by the house—I boldly pulled into the driveway like I belonged here. Today, there was an SUV parked by the garage, and I noted that it was a new-looking blue BMW. Shockingly, that was the only car. Maybe his truck had been impounded by the cops for evidence? That must be it.
But why wasn’t anyone else here?
Didn’t Gene have a large extended family? That’s what I recalled from my days in high school; I’d even been in class with a few of his nieces or cousins.
Perhaps they were all at Gene’s mother’s house. It seemed odd that his widow would be left alone to grieve, though. Poor woman.
I turned off the engine to my truck and climbed out. It was a gorgeous, sun-filled morning, with a brilliant blue Florida sky and a light breeze that rustled the palm trees flanking the walkway to the front door. The humidity was already thick, and I was in full sweat mode by the time I reached the porch. I rang the doorbell and heard the echo of a dog bark.
The door swung open. I expected it to be a woman, but instead it was a young man, probably in his early twenties. He was in a tank top and board shorts, and he looked like a male model with his muscular build and close-cropped hair.
When had the guys in Wahoo gotten so handsome? I didn’t recognize this person at all, and he was about my age. I knew Gene had a couple of nephews, but most sported mullets and frequented the crime blotter in the local newspaper. This guy looked like he should be in a toothpaste ad, his smile was so blindingly white.
“Hi there. Gosh, what a gorgeous day, isn’t it?” His tone was positively bubbly. Which was odd, since I expected anyone in this house to be somber over Gene’s recent death. A tawny brown dog raced into view, and he caught the animal by its collar.
