“And nothing unusual happened during the memorial itself.”
“Well, I couldn’t find any booze on the premises, but that might just be my definition of ‘unusual.’”
He could feel himself blinking faster. Impossible to tell if she was teasing or being serious. “And afterward?”
“Awkward small talk.”
He grimaced in sympathy; he’d sailed through medical school but could still get tripped up trying to discuss the weather with an acquaintance. What, precisely, was there to discuss? It is sunny out. Perhaps there will be precipitation later. But perhaps not. So what brings you to the morgue?
“So you didn’t want to be there and didn’t enjoy the socializing, but didn’t leave right away.”
“Dennis wanted to catch up. So I talked to his mom while I waited for him to finish up.”
“And Mrs. Monahan never left your line of sight.”
“Oh, if only,” she groaned. “Ugh, that’s awful. The poor thing’s still mourning. I shouldn’t still be annoyed by her passive-aggressive small talk. But I was. Am.”
“Many mothers have lost daughters.”
Ava, who had just taken another bite of her scramble, chewed, swallowed, and asked, “Are you saying that as a general observation—”
“People don’t always like it when I make general observations.”
“—or is it specific to this case?”
“The latter.” She was remarkably unfazed; often at this point in the conversation, the other participant was, to use Tom’s ex-girlfriend’s words, “weirded out by all your weird weirdness.” “I think the killer might have been at that memorial service.”
Their waitress, a harried-yet-cheerful brunette in her forties, returned with his bagel and—excellent—his own pitcher of coffee, pouring him a cup before dashing off to deliver more food. He heavily sugared the brew. An all-nighter was nothing new for him, but his blood sugar was ridiculously low. It was the only explanation for how he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The bounce of her curls was mesmerizing. Which was ridiculous. It’s hair, for God’s sake.
Meanwhile, Ava was staring at him with wide eyes. To his annoyance, this made her more attractive; her gaze was penetrating.
“You think the killer was there, and … what? Saw me and made a point of coming back after hours to throw an ashes tantrum?”
“If they even left the funeral home.”
“Wait, so the killer spotted me, lurked like a creep, and when the place was empty he went on a table-tossing ash-spreading binge? That’s what you think?” She’d paled, the fork dangling in her fingers ready to drop and make a clatter.
“I think the killer finally realized that he or she killed the wrong girl.”
“Killed the wrong—” Now Ava did drop her fork, and it hit the plate. The café was noisy—cheerfully noisy, he supposed some would say, though the racket set his teeth on edge—so this brought no attention to them. Excellent. “Are you talking about me?”
That depends. Are you asking if I think you were the target, or if I think you were the killer? Because I myself don’t yet know. “I think it’s a strong possibility.”
“A strong possibility,” she reiterated, and for a second he wondered if she was hard of hearing. No—it’s shock. Or perfectly feigned shock. “But why wait ten years? Why would someone have wanted to kill me all those years ago, somehow screw it up and kill Danielle by mistake, hibernate for a decade, then see me last night and get pissed off all over again? Because that would mean—poor Danielle—she went through that, and it was a mistake?”
He opened his mouth, but before he could answer, she gagged, dry-heaved over her salmon scramble, then lurched to her feet and rushed past him to the exit, leaving her purse, tea, and scramble in her dash for the door.
He’d been left behind, too, but that was nothing new. He had been on actual dates that hadn’t gone so well. “Don’t worry,” he told the waitress, who had returned to tend to them and was staring after Ava. “It’s probably the murder, not the salmon. May I have the check?”
Fourteen
THE LIST: THINGS I LOATHE ABOUT MN
The winters
The springs
The weather
The way I regress to a dim teenager whenever I’m here
The way someone I care about got murdered here
The lack of edible bibimbap
The fucking weather
“A mistake?” she cried as Dr. Tom Baker hurried into the alley behind the restaurant. For a moment, she was sure he was going to bang his hip on the dumpster—could almost hear the thud—but he avoided it at the last second. “This psycho fuckmuppet didn’t just kill my friend, he missed? And then came back years later? And might want to fix his mistake? Because he didn’t think he was enough of a gutless monster? His murder bingo card still has some slots left?”
“Yes,” he said, handing her a doggy bag and her purse.
“Jesus!” She snatched her purse and started rooting through it. She knew she had a small packet of Kleenex, but by the Law of Purses, she wouldn’t be able to immediately find it. “And before you say anything, I didn’t almost barf like some wimpy dolt.”
“That’s correct. It was a dry heave.”
“It was the dill in my salmon scramble! It threw me off.”
“Dill: the most diabolical herb.”
She jerked her head up to stare at him and smiled in spite of herself. “No, that’d be cilantro. Who was the idiot who ate leaves that tasted like dish soap and declared, ‘You know what we oughta do? Put this in a bunch of food!’? Ha! Got you, you little sucker.” She grabbed a Kleenex and scrubbed her lips, then began what she suspected would be a vain search for Chapstick. “I hate this.”
“A simple organizational system would make your handbag more manageable.”
“No, I hate Minnesota.”
“To be fair, killers operate everywhere.”
“If you’re trying to cheer me up, it isn’t working.”
“I am not trying to cheer you up.”
“And if you’re trying to talk up Minnesota it also isn’t working.” No Chapstick, but she did have a small dirty pot of Carmex, Satan’s moisturizer, which she applied, then resisted the urge to scrub off. “Okay, you gotta tell me everything,” she said, almost gagging at the taste of Carmex. “Beginning to end. Starting with how you knew about Danielle—I know I didn’t talk about her last night.”
“No, when I got home after our, ah, time together, I looked you up. I had recognized you from the Captain Bellyflopper stories—”
“Argh.”
“—but didn’t know you’d been involved in a murder when you were seventeen.”
“Involved isn’t the right word, I think, but whatever. Can we get out of here?”
“I believe we have,” he said, gesturing to the alley.
“No, I mean leave the restaurant—”
“But we have left—”
“—and go somewhere else and you can give me the scoop?”