“Not ‘together’ together,” Ava put in hastily, and Mrs. Monahan looked slightly less appalled. “We just hung out. For hours. But we didn’t do anything else. Besides drinking. If you were … y’know. Worried.”
“Or you got him drunk so you could dump him and come back and do…” Her lip curled as she eyed the devastation. “This.”
“No one,” Ava replied dryly, “has to ‘get’ Dennis drunk.” She wasn’t sure if he was an alcoholic, but the boy liked his booze and no mistake. “Besides—” The total stranger I was throwing myself at can verify I’m telling the truth. Argh. There’s just no way to make that sound unslutty. Not that I owe this harpy an explanation. The cops, though …
“Ma! Is this why you told me to bring Ava?” Then he slapped his forehead. “Dumb question, of course that’s why.” He gave Ava an apologetic shrug.
“You were keeping things back ten years ago, and you’re withholding information right now, young lady!”
“I am not! And I’m pushing thirty, for God’s sake, so feel free to drop the always-condescending ‘young lady’ nonsense.”
Detective Springer had been watching the squabble with the air of a man watching a tennis match where the players hit each other instead of the ball. “Is there anything you can tell us, Captain Capp?”
“I didn’t even know about this until I drove Dennis here. Last night we hung out, then went to bed late.” If push came to shove, she’d bring Tom into it. Better that Mrs. Monahan think she was a hussy than a … what? Vandal? Upender of tables and spreader of ash? “That’s it.”
“Captain Capp has an alibi until 1:50 A.M.”
“Yeah, what he s—Tom?” She gaped—she’d almost used up her gape allowance for the month, but it was definitely warranted. There was her make-out buddy du nuit, freshly showered and shaved and wearing a crisp, white button-down with black slacks. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“And what were you doing to Ava until 1:50 A.M.?” From Dennis, who had a knack for making things worse.
“This is Dr. Tom Baker from the Ramsey County Medical Examiner’s Office,” the detective explained.
“But … there’s no body.”
Springer coughed. “Technically there is.”
“It’s nice to see you again, Ava,” Tom said with textbook-perfect politeness.
“Uh,” she replied, because what the hell?
Definitely should have read that card last night, she realized, bad lighting be damned.
Twelve
“Son of a buggering switch!”
Oh, good, Ava thought. My surreal weekend isn’t over yet.
She was in the small waiting area of the Ramsey County Medical Examiner’s Office, and wasn’t that macabre? She had no idea they had waiting rooms. For dentists, sure. For auto repair, of course. For morgues … huh. One of those things you never think of until you’re in it.
After giving her statement to Detective Springer, and further squabbling with Mrs. Monahan, she had seen the morgue truck pulling out and, before she consciously realized what she was doing, had hopped in her rental car and followed it to Saint Paul. Dennis could get a ride with his mom. Or a cop. Or thumb it. Or Uber it. Or live in the funeral home.
“Fuck!” she said aloud, because her thoughts hadn’t been enough; she needed sound and volume. She’d rarely felt more vulgar in her life. Everything was filthy and ruined. Again.
So she’d carpe’d the diem and followed the rolling morgue. It reminded her of when she was younger and the neighborhood kids would run into their houses for money
(“Wait for meeeeeee!”)
and then trot behind the ice cream truck while it blared “Pop Goes the Weasel,” occasionally stopping to hand out that holiest of holies, the ice cream sandwich.* The parallel was so ludicrous she started laughing, and somewhere between the exit for 494 and University Avenue, the giggles had turned to tears. And not the delicately beautiful ones, like Demi Moore’s perfect teardrops rolling down her perfect cheeks in Ghost. No, ugly, noisy sobs, the kind that required multiple Kleenexes and lots of nose blowing.
Now here she was, after walking through hallways and trying to wrap her brain around the fact that Danielle, who had been laid to rest, was never laid to rest. It all got churned up again, and what the hell did WRONG mean? Wrong girl? Wrong funeral home? Wrong Monahan?
A month after Danielle’s murder, she had told herself it was over. She did it again at the one year mark, the two year mark, five, eight, ten: years spent satisfactorily observing that everything was under control and it was definitely over.
Hokey as it was, she understood and was facing it now: it would never be over, no matter how far she flew.
WRONG.
She closed her eyes, but could still see the staggered, dirty-gray lettering on the wall, the accusation in Danielle’s ashes for everyone to see.
“Captain Capp?”
And there was Tom again, looking as delicious as he had last night, though he was absently rubbing his knee. She assumed that was why he’d yelled.
Now, as she had last night, she found him quite striking. Ever since she saw a buff Patrick Stewart in a tank top (Star Trek: First Contact—both her parents had been exuberant Trekkies), she’d equated bald with brainy/sexy. In particular, bald on purpose.
She realized she’d been staring at him without saying anything. “Oh, it’s Captain now?”
“It’s whatever you’d like,” he replied coolly.
“Why’d they call you?”
He smiled a little. “They know I like the odd ones.”
“Oh.”
“You followed me here.”
“Yes.” He didn’t seem alarmed or angry. He just looked at her and waited. And when she didn’t elaborate, he added, “You have some questions for me.”
“Actually, I think you probably have some questions for me.”
“Come with me,” he said, which should have been annoying—so perfunctory!—but really, it was comforting to have something to do. There were hierarchies everywhere, in particular her job (and perhaps his?) and sometimes knowing where everyone was supposed to be was … was nice. She didn’t know why.
She followed him out of the waiting room, down a hall bare of everything but nameplates and an exit sign, and into a surgically neat office, presumably Dr. Thomas Baker’s office, according to the sign.
“So.”
“Yeah.”
“You were a witness. Ten years ago, not last night.”
“A piss-poor one,” she admitted. “I never saw a thing. By the time I got back, she was—it was over.”
“It must have been difficult.”
Worst. Small talk. Ever. “I—yeah. Just a smidge. And then ten years roll by and suddenly it’s like it happened yesterday. Like it’s still fresh.”
“For someone, it is fresh.”
“Yeah.” Because he was right. Someone had been pissed about the murder. Or the memorial. Or both. Then, “Son of a buggering switch?”
Tom flushed red. Which shouldn’t have been adorable, but was. “Ah. I hit my knee when I heard you come in. I apologize. I’m trying not to use profanity around my niece.”