just such easy pickings.' And cheap.
'That's no excuse.' With a stern look, Amy returned to her espresso machine.
I hadn't seen Sarah since we'd walked in together, but she was my next customer.
'What are you doing in line?' I asked.
'Getting a coffee.'
'You own the place.'
'I know, but if I go behind the counter, you'll make me work.'
Damn right, I would. Trained or not.
'What did you do, jump the line?' The queue had been practically out the door when we came in. There was no way Sarah should be this close to ordering already.
'Christy let me in.' She slid sideways to let me see Christy Wrigley. Christy taught piano in a small house-cum-studio directly across the road. A germ-a-phobic, she wore yellow rubberized gloves and cleaned compulsively, her keyboard and anything else within reach of her sturdy, laminated hands. Eccentric as a loony bird, but Christy seemed like a good person.
OK, a good crazy person.
'Were you away?' I asked her. 'You look like you have a tan.'
Christy smiled self-consciously. 'Does it look all right?'
'Great,' I said. The tan took her from bony, pale, carrot-topped territory to bony, tanned and carrot-topped. I'd defy anybody to say it wasn't an improvement.
'Sarah was telling me about JoLynne. What a tragedy.' Christy's wrinkled-up nose indicated that it was probably a messy, smelly event she was glad to have missed.
And our germ-a-phobic was right as rain on that point. Death – violent or peaceful, homicidal or natural – is always a real stinker.
'You weren't here?' I asked. Admittedly, I hadn't seen Christy in the crowd, but she was a person easily overlooked.
'No, I wasn't.' Christy's voice dropped to a whisper. 'I was in jail.'
Pouring Sarah's cup of coffee, I paused in midstream.
'Christy went to see my Cousin Ronny,' Sarah explained.
'I didn't know Ronny and you were . . . close,' I told Christy. At least close enough for Ms Clean to brave a place as predictably filthy as a jail.
Ronny Eisvogel was the son of Sarah's aunt's second husband. Convoluted, I know, but it made him a step-cousin of my partner. I wasn't sure what, if anything, old Ronny could be to Christy.
'He's being detained pretrial without bail, sharing a cell with this career drug dealer,' Christy said, holding her chin – minimalist at best – high. 'But Ronny's innocent, and I'm going to help him prove it. I've been on the computer all morning, Googling "surviving prison" and "innocence projects", and just a boodle of other fascinating stuff.'
Ahh, mystery solved. Ronny was Christy's new hobby.
I looked at Sarah. 'You have tried to talk some sense into this young woman?'
'Please,' Sarah said, transforming the word into a defeated groan. 'Just look at her. She's probably already learned how to saw through iron bars and tie non-slip knots into sheets.'
'Don't be silly,' Christy said. 'Even a helicopter escape is nearly impossible nowadays.'
Nearly. Even tanned and classifiable as a 'good crazy', our neighbor was an odd duck. Hair pulled back tightly, fresh-scrubbed face with no make-up at all, laser green eyes, but eyelashes and brows so light they didn't accent her one outstanding attribute. And then there were the gloves. Christy was rubbing antibacterial cleaner from a small vial into them.
'Helicopter?' I asked.
'Shh,' Sarah hissed. 'Do not ask. The woman is probably building one from a kit in her garage.'
'But why Ronny?' I whispered back to Sarah.
'Birds of a feather,' she whispered back. 'Or hypo-allergenic down-substitute. Are you going to finish pouring my coffee?'
I did and slid the cup toward her.
'What can I get you?' I asked Christy.
'Decaf, please. In a to-go cup.'
'Don't trust our dishwasher?' Sarah asked.
'I don't trust anybody's dishwasher,' Christy confirmed. She was pulling a small orange canister from her bag. I assumed it was some sort of artificial sweetener until she popped the top and removed what looked like the strips I'd used to test the chemical levels in
'That's no excuse.' With a stern look, Amy returned to her espresso machine.
I hadn't seen Sarah since we'd walked in together, but she was my next customer.
'What are you doing in line?' I asked.
'Getting a coffee.'
'You own the place.'
'I know, but if I go behind the counter, you'll make me work.'
Damn right, I would. Trained or not.
'What did you do, jump the line?' The queue had been practically out the door when we came in. There was no way Sarah should be this close to ordering already.
'Christy let me in.' She slid sideways to let me see Christy Wrigley. Christy taught piano in a small house-cum-studio directly across the road. A germ-a-phobic, she wore yellow rubberized gloves and cleaned compulsively, her keyboard and anything else within reach of her sturdy, laminated hands. Eccentric as a loony bird, but Christy seemed like a good person.
OK, a good crazy person.
'Were you away?' I asked her. 'You look like you have a tan.'
Christy smiled self-consciously. 'Does it look all right?'
'Great,' I said. The tan took her from bony, pale, carrot-topped territory to bony, tanned and carrot-topped. I'd defy anybody to say it wasn't an improvement.
'Sarah was telling me about JoLynne. What a tragedy.' Christy's wrinkled-up nose indicated that it was probably a messy, smelly event she was glad to have missed.
And our germ-a-phobic was right as rain on that point. Death – violent or peaceful, homicidal or natural – is always a real stinker.
'You weren't here?' I asked. Admittedly, I hadn't seen Christy in the crowd, but she was a person easily overlooked.
'No, I wasn't.' Christy's voice dropped to a whisper. 'I was in jail.'
Pouring Sarah's cup of coffee, I paused in midstream.
'Christy went to see my Cousin Ronny,' Sarah explained.
'I didn't know Ronny and you were . . . close,' I told Christy. At least close enough for Ms Clean to brave a place as predictably filthy as a jail.
Ronny Eisvogel was the son of Sarah's aunt's second husband. Convoluted, I know, but it made him a step-cousin of my partner. I wasn't sure what, if anything, old Ronny could be to Christy.
'He's being detained pretrial without bail, sharing a cell with this career drug dealer,' Christy said, holding her chin – minimalist at best – high. 'But Ronny's innocent, and I'm going to help him prove it. I've been on the computer all morning, Googling "surviving prison" and "innocence projects", and just a boodle of other fascinating stuff.'
Ahh, mystery solved. Ronny was Christy's new hobby.
I looked at Sarah. 'You have tried to talk some sense into this young woman?'
'Please,' Sarah said, transforming the word into a defeated groan. 'Just look at her. She's probably already learned how to saw through iron bars and tie non-slip knots into sheets.'
'Don't be silly,' Christy said. 'Even a helicopter escape is nearly impossible nowadays.'
Nearly. Even tanned and classifiable as a 'good crazy', our neighbor was an odd duck. Hair pulled back tightly, fresh-scrubbed face with no make-up at all, laser green eyes, but eyelashes and brows so light they didn't accent her one outstanding attribute. And then there were the gloves. Christy was rubbing antibacterial cleaner from a small vial into them.
'Helicopter?' I asked.
'Shh,' Sarah hissed. 'Do not ask. The woman is probably building one from a kit in her garage.'
'But why Ronny?' I whispered back to Sarah.
'Birds of a feather,' she whispered back. 'Or hypo-allergenic down-substitute. Are you going to finish pouring my coffee?'
I did and slid the cup toward her.
'What can I get you?' I asked Christy.
'Decaf, please. In a to-go cup.'
'Don't trust our dishwasher?' Sarah asked.
'I don't trust anybody's dishwasher,' Christy confirmed. She was pulling a small orange canister from her bag. I assumed it was some sort of artificial sweetener until she popped the top and removed what looked like the strips I'd used to test the chemical levels in
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