'CAUTION' but instead, an ominous 'POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS'.
The officer, though not the one I'd seen earlier, looked equally bored. There must be an awful lot of standing and waiting in cop-dom. Maybe that's where the expression 'flatfoot' comes from.
About to turn back, my attention was drawn to a truck coming down Junction Road, the two-lane street in front of the depot.
From a distance, it looked like Kevin's vehicle, the one that had been parked adjacent to the stage and that I figured Christy had seen heading downtown.
If it was Kevin, did he know about JoLynne? And if not, should I be the one to tell him?
Before I had a chance to answer those questions, the truck braked and turned in next to our building. I left my window and went out the front door and down the steps.
When I reached the truck, I crouched down to get a look at the driver through the tinted passenger side glass. Tall, but not as broad as Kevin.
The silhouetted figure inside the truck saw me looking. I waved. He gave a finger-wave back, vaguely familiar.
I gestured for him to come out.
He pointed to himself, as if saying, 'Who, me?'
'Yes, you,' I called back. The guy and I must have met, given the grief he was handing me.
But when the door finally swung open, out came a Nordic-looking blonde stranger.
'Hello,' I said, walking around the truck to him. 'Do you work for Williams Staging?'
'Yah. I am Ragnar Norstaadt. I come to do pick up. And you are?'
Charmed is what I was. My grandparents had been born in Norway, making all Scandinavian accents subliminally attractive to me.
'Maggy Thorsen,' I said, extending my hand. 'I own Uncommon Grounds, inside. But I don't think I saw you here earlier.'
'It is good to meet you, Maggy Thorsen,' said Ragnar, taking my hand in his. He had a smidge of white shaving cream clinging just south of his right ear.
I was dying to wipe it off. Or run my fingers through the curly blonde hair springing out from under the 'Williams Staging' cap. I settled for the more universal greeting and shook.
'Kevin ask me to tell you that he is very sorry,' Ragnar continued as we walked up to the depot's front porch, 'but he will not today return here. He is . . . detained.'
Detained? 'By the police?'
'Please?' Ragnar looked puzzled.
'You said that Kevin wouldn't be here? That he is . . .'
'Detained.' Seeing that I didn't understand, Ragnar seemed to search for an alternate word. 'Busy is better, maybe?'
'Yes,' I said, feeling silly for jumping to conclusions.
Detained. I had been hanging around cops and coroners way too much. Though that did remind me. 'I assume Kevin knows about his wife?'
'That she is late?' Ragnar asked.
Late. Who knew that so many perfectly serviceable English words could result in such ambiguities?
'Late?' I repeated, feeling my way. 'You mean as in . . .'
'Dead,' he said solemnly. 'Mrs Kevin, she is dead.'
'Yes. I am so sorry,' I said. 'Have they told Kevin how JoLynne died?'
Ragnar seemed surprised. 'It is here.' We'd reached the porch.
'Around back, but—'
'She was in the, how you say . . .' Ragnar held out his left hand, palm up, to form a bowl, then used the right hand to indicate holding a handle.
I could feel my eyes narrow. The pinky sticking out. The loose-fingered wave. The blonde curls that could be pulled back into a braid. It finally came together.
'Cup,' I supplied. I reached over and swiped at the 'shaving cream' on his neck. 'Face paint,' I said, holding up my finger for him to see. 'You're the mime.'
'But, yes.' Ragnar looked so innocent. 'You did not know?'
'No, I did not.' I was still ticked about his spitting out my imaginary coffee, but given the circumstances, it would have been pretty petty of me to bring it up.
'I am very sorry,' Ragnar said. 'But I must remain on character when performing.'
'In character.' But I got the point. Mickey Mouse and Cinderella couldn't very well go out drinking together after a hard day's work in the theme park.
'So, are
The officer, though not the one I'd seen earlier, looked equally bored. There must be an awful lot of standing and waiting in cop-dom. Maybe that's where the expression 'flatfoot' comes from.
About to turn back, my attention was drawn to a truck coming down Junction Road, the two-lane street in front of the depot.
From a distance, it looked like Kevin's vehicle, the one that had been parked adjacent to the stage and that I figured Christy had seen heading downtown.
If it was Kevin, did he know about JoLynne? And if not, should I be the one to tell him?
Before I had a chance to answer those questions, the truck braked and turned in next to our building. I left my window and went out the front door and down the steps.
When I reached the truck, I crouched down to get a look at the driver through the tinted passenger side glass. Tall, but not as broad as Kevin.
The silhouetted figure inside the truck saw me looking. I waved. He gave a finger-wave back, vaguely familiar.
I gestured for him to come out.
He pointed to himself, as if saying, 'Who, me?'
'Yes, you,' I called back. The guy and I must have met, given the grief he was handing me.
But when the door finally swung open, out came a Nordic-looking blonde stranger.
'Hello,' I said, walking around the truck to him. 'Do you work for Williams Staging?'
'Yah. I am Ragnar Norstaadt. I come to do pick up. And you are?'
Charmed is what I was. My grandparents had been born in Norway, making all Scandinavian accents subliminally attractive to me.
'Maggy Thorsen,' I said, extending my hand. 'I own Uncommon Grounds, inside. But I don't think I saw you here earlier.'
'It is good to meet you, Maggy Thorsen,' said Ragnar, taking my hand in his. He had a smidge of white shaving cream clinging just south of his right ear.
I was dying to wipe it off. Or run my fingers through the curly blonde hair springing out from under the 'Williams Staging' cap. I settled for the more universal greeting and shook.
'Kevin ask me to tell you that he is very sorry,' Ragnar continued as we walked up to the depot's front porch, 'but he will not today return here. He is . . . detained.'
Detained? 'By the police?'
'Please?' Ragnar looked puzzled.
'You said that Kevin wouldn't be here? That he is . . .'
'Detained.' Seeing that I didn't understand, Ragnar seemed to search for an alternate word. 'Busy is better, maybe?'
'Yes,' I said, feeling silly for jumping to conclusions.
Detained. I had been hanging around cops and coroners way too much. Though that did remind me. 'I assume Kevin knows about his wife?'
'That she is late?' Ragnar asked.
Late. Who knew that so many perfectly serviceable English words could result in such ambiguities?
'Late?' I repeated, feeling my way. 'You mean as in . . .'
'Dead,' he said solemnly. 'Mrs Kevin, she is dead.'
'Yes. I am so sorry,' I said. 'Have they told Kevin how JoLynne died?'
Ragnar seemed surprised. 'It is here.' We'd reached the porch.
'Around back, but—'
'She was in the, how you say . . .' Ragnar held out his left hand, palm up, to form a bowl, then used the right hand to indicate holding a handle.
I could feel my eyes narrow. The pinky sticking out. The loose-fingered wave. The blonde curls that could be pulled back into a braid. It finally came together.
'Cup,' I supplied. I reached over and swiped at the 'shaving cream' on his neck. 'Face paint,' I said, holding up my finger for him to see. 'You're the mime.'
'But, yes.' Ragnar looked so innocent. 'You did not know?'
'No, I did not.' I was still ticked about his spitting out my imaginary coffee, but given the circumstances, it would have been pretty petty of me to bring it up.
'I am very sorry,' Ragnar said. 'But I must remain on character when performing.'
'In character.' But I got the point. Mickey Mouse and Cinderella couldn't very well go out drinking together after a hard day's work in the theme park.
'So, are
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