Deadly Dues by Linda Kupecek Page A

from Sally. He should play it a little more cool. No, maybe not, I decided. What’s wrong with letting people know you need them?
    â€œYes?” he said, and the yearning in his voice made me ache inside for him.
    â€œHey, Pete,” I said.
    There was a short silence. Then he managed a cheerful, “Oh, hi, Lu. What’s up?”
    Another silence. How could I phrase this?
    â€œI thought I should let you and the gang know that some guy the size of a grizzly bear tried to kill me tonight, and mysteriously died on top of me, and the police just might think I did it,” I said.
    â€œNot funny,” he said.
    â€œDefinitely not funny,” I said.
    There was another pause, punctuated by static as I drove through an underpass, where two people of the opposite sex (or maybe the same, hard to tell) were engaging in a drunken rendezvous. They both looked young enough to be tucked into beds by their mothers at this hour.
    â€œYou’re kidding, right?” he said tentatively.
    I let that one sit for an effective minute.
    â€œYou’re not kidding,” he said.

Baking Therapy
    Twenty minutes later, after aimless circling of several blocks in search of Horatio, I was in Pete’s kitchen, sitting at his pine table, surrounded by mixing bowls and empty egg cartons, with Etta James moaning softly on the stereo. Some people drink when they are upset. Others gamble. Pete bakes. His saskatoon berry pie is a work of art.
    â€œGet out,” he said, peeking into the oven. “I don’t believe it.” It was three in the morning, and he was wearing a dark green T-shirt that had seen better days, flour-dusted jeans and a long apron that said “Actors Do It Twice and On the Mark.” He had a night shadow. His greying hair was rumpled into chicken feathers, and his bleary eyes made me wonder if he had been crying or just reading the small print in too many recipes.
    Pete’s bungalow was like a doll’s house, small and compact, sort of like him, although he had a nice heterosexual, muscled presence that made the house seem very . . . well . . . masculine. Sally’s touches were everywhere. The Fiestaware plates that she had left behind, the vintage dishtowels embroidered with cozy little sayings like “Home Is Where the Heart Is.” Pete still lived there, but it was if he were living with Sally’s ghost. I wondered how she was, and how she could have left a sweet, macho hunk like Pete. Stan had poisoned their relationship with his hints of Pete’s infidelity (and why, I wondered, would Stan do that?) and Sally had believed him. My heart gave a little twinge as I wondered once again why Sally had believed Stan instead of Pete. Anybody who knew Pete understood that he was loyal and trustworthy, and totally devoted to Sally. Yet another reason for not wearing a tasteful black veil in memory of Stan.
    I glanced into one of Pete’s shining pots and shuddered at my reflection. I looked like hell. Who wouldn’t, after drinking all night, being scared once, terrified once, discovering not one but two dead bodies, hefting a garden gnome, throwing up into a jardinière and knowing all your neighbours had watched a body bag being carted out of your home? And worse, my very best friend was out on the streets, alone. Oh, Horatio, you disloyal mutt. Please remember to look both ways before you cross the street. And don’t slurp on strangers.
    I moped into my coffee, which was one of Pete’s consistent talents— delivering dark, rich, not-for-pipsqueaks coffee at all hours. The oven door groaned as Pete closed it.
    He ran a hand through his hair, which gave him a nice little flour dusting of white, and collapsed into the chair opposite me.
    He flexed his fingers and winced.
    â€œDamn it,” he said quietly. “My hands have never been the same since that Alaska shoot. Too many hours in the snow. Just can’t get a grip on the dough the way I used