4th of July (Women's Murder Club 4)

THE WANING SUN WAS streaking the sky as Joe, Martha, and I had our dinner out on the deck facing the bay. I’d used my mom’s barbecue sauce recipe on the chicken, and we followed it up with a pint each of Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey.

We sat nestled together for hours, listening to the crickets and music on the radio, watching the candle flames do the mambo in the soft, sultry breeze.

Later, we slept in snatches, waking up to reach for each other, to laugh together, to make love. We ate chocolate-chip cookies, swapped memories of our dreams, and fell back to sleep, our limbs entwined.

At dawn, Joe’s cell phone brought the rest of the world crashing back. Joe said, “Yes, sir. Will do,” and snapped the phone shut.

He opened his arms and folded me back in. I reached up and kissed his neck.

“So. When is the car coming for you?”

“Couple of minutes.”

Joe didn’t exaggerate. I had 120 seconds to watch him dress in the dark room, one lone ray of light slipping beneath the window shades to show me how sad he looked as he left me.

“Don’t get up,” Joe said as I pushed back the covers. He drew them up to my chin. He kissed me about eleven times: my lips, cheeks, eyes.

“By the way, I got my three wishes.”

“Which were?”

“Not telling, but one of them was the Cherry Garcia.”

I laughed. I kissed him.

“Love you, Lindsay.”

“Love you, too, Joe.”

“I’ll call you.”

I didn’t ask when.

Chapter 37

THE THREE OF THEM gathered at the Coffee Bean early that morning, settling into deck chairs on the stone terrace, a wall of fog obscuring their view of the bay. They were alone out there, conversing intensely, discussing murder.

The one called the Truth, wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans, turned to the others and said, “Okay. Run it by me again.”

The Watcher studiously read from his notebook, citing the times, the habits, his conclusions about the O’Malleys.

The Seeker didn’t need to be sold. The family was his discovery and he was glad the Watcher’s investigation had confirmed his instincts. He began to whistle the old blues standard “Crossroads”—until the Truth shot him a look.

The Truth had a slight build but a weighty presence.

“You make good points,” said the Truth. “But I’m not convinced.”

The Watcher became agitated. He pulled at the collar of his crewneck sweater, riffled through the photographs. He stabbed the close-ups with his finger, circled details with his pen.

“It’s a good beginning,” said the Seeker, coming to the Watcher’s defense.

The Truth waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. “Don’t jerk me around. Get me the goods.” Then, “Let’s order.”

The waitress named Maddie pranced out onto the terrace in skinny hip-huggers and a tank top that exposed a smooth expanse of tummy.

“That’s what I call a belly-blinker,” said the Seeker, his charm overshadowed by the hunger in his eyes.

Maddie gave him a wan smile before refilling their coffee mugs. Then she pulled out her order pad and took the Truth’s order: scrambled eggs, bacon, and a freshly baked cinnamon bun.