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“Don’t ma’am me. Have I gotten that old, or are you just past charming? Nothing wrong with calling a woman miss. Or ms., if you’re going to quote me. I don’t want my feminist card revoked. I’ve worked too damn hard.”
Tom blinked several times and followed her into her house and all the way through to a kitchen where the aroma of roasting meat overwhelmed him. Cast-iron pans hung from the ceiling along with dried braids of garlic and herbs that he’d never be able to name. Whatever they were, they smelled damn good.
“I have the perfect tea to warm you up, Tom.” She paused and turned purposefully toward him. “I’m Jill Washington.”
He shook her outstretched hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Washington.”
She flashed a smile at that, then got back to work making tea. Tom didn’t particularly like tea—he was a black-coffee kind of guy—but he’d do everything possible to keep her friendly. If he needed an ally in this non-neighborhood, she was clearly the prime candidate.
“I’m getting snow on your floor,” he said, reaching to take his boots off, but she shook her head.
“That’s why they’re stone. Hard on the back, but they absorb all manner of sins. Your boots are fine, so say what you came here to say.” She bustled around her kitchen as she spoke, getting cups and saucers and a tiny pitcher of cream.
As he took a seat, Tom gave her the same speech he’d given Isabelle West, though with a very different result. Jill was all concerned expressions and sympathetic tutting as he explained why he needed community support. The judge’s home was isolated, and the man refused to live in a hotel for the two weeks the trial was expected to last. “Everyone around here knows each other. You know better than I who belongs here and who doesn’t.”
“Well, it’ll be easy to spot strangers here on Spinster Row.”
He frowned as he accepted the cup of tea and waved off the cream. “Thank you. Spinster Row?”
She laughed, the sound natural and well used. “A joke. It’s just Isabelle and me on this part of the road. She’s unattached, and my relationship is complicated, starting with the fact that my girlfriend has been stationed in Guantánamo for two years and doesn’t seem inclined to come visit. But that’s more than you asked.”
But not more than he wanted to know. “I met Ms. West a few minutes ago. An artist of some kind?”
“A painter.”
Maybe she really was a free-spirited libertarian who didn’t like government types. “So it’s just you two up here? No kids or live-in companions I should know about?”
“It’s just us. I guess I shouldn’t tell a stranger that, even if he is a cop, but everyone else around here knows.”
“I promise I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need the information,” he assured her. “I live alone myself. I understand the safety issues.”
She laughed heartily at his wink.
“And what do you do for a living, Ms. Washington?”
“I’m a chef. Or I used to be, I suppose. Now I write c
ookbooks and while away my days here in my little place. It’s just me and the elk and a deep freezer full of test recipes. Oh! I’ve got just the thing for you. Beef Stroganoff. You look like a red-meat kind of boy, and you’re probably living off pizza on a job like this. Where are you from?” She hurried to the freezer and pulled out a paper-wrapped packet.
Tom knew the polite thing would be to say no, and he really wasn’t supposed to accept gifts, but his stomach tightened at the thought of giving up a good meal. He was sleeping on a cot in the judge’s basement, and despite it being a rather luxurious basement, it wasn’t home.
He gratefully took the frozen meal. “Thank you. That’s very generous. I’m over in Cheyenne.”
“Are you single? Four hundred and fifty miles might be considered long distance in most states, but here in Wyoming, Cheyenne’s practically within dating range of Jackson. I’m not asking for myself, of course.” She looked purposefully in the direction of Isabelle West’s house.
Tom smiled, hoping to charm her into giving up a little information about her neighbor. “Ms. West didn’t seem inclined to find out more about me.”
“Oh, God, that’s just Isabelle. If she was working when you knocked on her door, you’re lucky she didn’t throw her brush at you.”
Not exactly a recommendation for dating, but Tom didn’t mention that. “She did seem a bit antisocial.”
“Don’t let her fool you. She’s a lot of fun, but she does value her alone time. Like most people up here, really.”
“But not you?”
She laughed again, shaking her head. “I can talk to anyone. For hours.”
“Well, I’m afraid I have to move on before the sun sets.”
