“Do you have something else to do?”
In all honesty, I did not have anything to do. I just didn’t want to spend the afternoon with a bunch of old ladies, one of whom would be doing her best not to start crying. Apparently, I had no choice.
Sue Langtree lived on Murdock, which was a block from St. Pete’s where Barbara lived and two blocks from Main Street in downtown Masons Bay. The house was one of the oldest on the street and on the outside looked kind of like the house onCharmed. Inside, though, it was anything but charming. What it was, was fussy. Every piece of furniture had fringe or ruffles, doilies, runners, draped blankets and artfully puffed pillows. The windows were covered with sheer curtains and thick satin drapes that matched the busy wallpaper. When we walked into Sue’s living room, I nearly took a step back from the shock. My grandmother took it in stride, not noticing anything, intent on using her cane.
There were little collections everywhere; figurines, matching vases, a grouping of antique dolls on a shelf, paperweights on a table in front of the picture window, and silverplated spoons in acase. The room was full of people I didn’t know. The only people I did know, or at least sort of knew, had squeezed themselves onto the over-pillowed sofa: Bekah Springer, a woman who looked enough like Bekah to be her mother—so I figured she was—and Reverend Wilkie.
Sue fluttered into the room after we let ourselves in.
“Emma, thank you for coming.”
“I made my broccoli surprise,” my Nana Cole said, nodding her head at me. I was holding the warm casserole in both hands. On the way, she’d explained that it was a combination of frozen broccoli, mushroom soup and Velveeta. My stomach turned at the mention of broccoli.
“Wonderful,” Sue said. “Barbara is in the kitchen with the girls.”
I followed them into the kitchen, only to find that it was even more crowded than the living room. Nana Cole made a beeline for Barbara and her friends sitting at the dining table, while I hugged the wall.
Barbara looked up at my grandmother, saying, “It was supposed to be over in a few weeks. They were supposed to run into the streets to welcome us. Josh was afraid he would get there and it would be over.”
“We really shouldn’t talk politics,” Jan said. “It’s never turns out well.”
“Josh was a good boy,” Nana Cole said. “He was a soldier, and he did his duty.”
Thankfully, if I’d tried to do my duty, I’d have been booted out for being gay. I don’t know why some guys think getting shot and killed in some dinky foreign country is a civil right we should worry about. I mean, there has to be some benefit to being gay, right?
I started feeling anxious. I can be a little uncomfortable in crowds. I know that might seem odd for me to say, sinceI’ve spent more than my fair share of time on Santa Monica Boulevard flitting between this bar and that, but it’s true. I get nervous in crowds.
The only reason I don’t get nervous at Rage or Revolver is that I understand the currency. I’m a young, reasonably attractive guy. I’m what everyone there wants. All I need to do is spend the evening politely saying, “No, thank you, I’ll pass.” Or, occasionally, “Absolutely.” But here, in an old lady’s kitchen, I didn’t know what the currency was. I didn’t really know what people wanted from me. Even if I did know, I wouldn’t know how to be that.
Suddenly, Bekah Springer was standing next to me. “I saw you come in.”
“Hi, how are you?” I asked.
“I’m okay, I guess. It’s been a weird year.”
I wanted to say, ‘Yeah, rape and murder will do that to you,’ but I said, “Yeah,” instead. Then I asked her, “Do you know where your grandmother was when Reverend Hessel was killed?”
“Oh gosh, that was a while ago.”
“I know but try to think. It was a Thursday.”
“Thursday? Oh, well, I think she was with me. We watchDawson’s Creektogether.”
“You and your grandmother watchDawson’s Creektogether?” I asked doubtfully.
“My grandmother’s cool. Cooler than my mother. My mother’s a librarian. All she ever does is read. That’s why my dad divorced her. He likes to say he’s not sure she actually even noticed the divorce.”
“Oh, wow.”
“She did notice, though. That’s when she started reading Russian novels. You know, the ones where someone kills themselves at the end.”
Wanting to get away from her, I said, “I should mingle. Make sure to have the broccoli surprise. My grandmother made it.”
“Oh, that sounds good.”
I made my way into the living room, figuring I could kill a half an hour staring at one of the collections: figurines or paperweights. Except the living room turned out to be a mistake. Reverend Wilkie saw me and came right over, like he actuallywantedto talk to me.
“There’s a rumor going around that you’re asking a lot of questions about Chris Hessel’s murder.”
