plastic bottle of store-brand mouthwash.
Serrano shut the cabinet, and we headed into the living room. There were a few framed photographs scattered around, including one of a much younger Cyril with a rugby team.
Martha picked it up and ran her fingers over the edge of the frame. “Detective Serrano, sir, I wish to file a missing persons report,” she murmured.
“Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit?” he said.
Martha shuddered, and I gave Serrano the most chiding look I could muster.
“Okay, okay. Well, we’re gonna need some more recent photos than this. Do you have any?”
“Oh, I have a million. From the Walnut Street Theatre, the Horticultural Society luncheon, the Pennsylvania Ballet, the fashion show fund-raiser. And that’s just from last week.”
“Cyril Mackey went to
all
of those events?” Serrano asked faintly.
Again, I gave him the hairy eyeball.
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure he’s not just lying low for a bit, Martha? Didn’t you say it’s customary for him not to answer calls?”
She bit her lip.
I’d been in this trailer before when Cyril let the phone ring, not even bothering to see who was calling. Cyril was his own man, and as much as Martha bossed around her friends and anyone else she came in contact with, she’d never really been able to do the same with him.
“When I find that man, I am going to commit grievous bodily harm to his person for worrying me like this.” Her words were harsh, but I could hear the catch of tears in her throat.
“You know, sometimes guys just need to get away,” Serrano said. “It’s nothing personal. They don’t think about the consequences or who’s at home worrying about them.”
I had to agree. Even though I had been married for thirty-four years, men were still a mystery to me. I appreciated the fact that Serrano was downplaying things for Martha’s sake. Sometimes there was a real kindness that glimmered through the tightly controlled persona. He was even convincing me until I glanced toward the kitchen and the cat’s bowl.
As much as Cyril might be feeling suffocated by his high society schedule, he wouldn’t have left without asking me to take care of His Nibs.
“I’m sure there’s a very good explanation,” I said firmly.
Serrano followed my gaze, never missing a thing. “Will the cat be all right here by himself, Daisy?”
“It’s warm enough inside this trailer, and he can come and go as he pleases through the cat flap.” The little feline was an independent spirit, just like his owner. “I’ll come by every day and make sure he has food and fresh water.”
The detective walked through to the kitchen and I followed, leaving Martha still gazing at the rugby photo. I moved closer and grabbed his sleeve. “What the hell’s going on, Serrano?” I hissed. Up close, I could finally read the concern in his eyes.
“I don’t know, Daisy,” he murmured, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole situation.”
* * *
T hat night, there was a Board of Supervisors’ meeting where one of the topics on the agenda would be the proposed zoning change that Beau Cassell would require to develop the land for his townhomes.
Before the meeting, and what promised to be a contentious public hearing, Martha, Eleanor, and I went over to see Ruth. I picked them up in my old Subaru, because for one thing, Eleanor didn’t own a car, only a red Vespa, and for another, Martha was the worst driver in the world, and I was an even worse passenger.
But when we got there, Kathleen Brown said that Ruth was not up to seeing anyone. We reluctantly handed over our chicken enchilada casserole, green salad, and bottle of wine.
“Isn’t that rather strange?” Martha whispered to me as we got back in the car. “Shivah is supposed to be where you have people come over all the time, right?”
I shrugged. “Yes, I thought so. Traditionally it lasts a week. Ruth must really not be feeling
Serrano shut the cabinet, and we headed into the living room. There were a few framed photographs scattered around, including one of a much younger Cyril with a rugby team.
Martha picked it up and ran her fingers over the edge of the frame. “Detective Serrano, sir, I wish to file a missing persons report,” she murmured.
“Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit?” he said.
Martha shuddered, and I gave Serrano the most chiding look I could muster.
“Okay, okay. Well, we’re gonna need some more recent photos than this. Do you have any?”
“Oh, I have a million. From the Walnut Street Theatre, the Horticultural Society luncheon, the Pennsylvania Ballet, the fashion show fund-raiser. And that’s just from last week.”
“Cyril Mackey went to
all
of those events?” Serrano asked faintly.
Again, I gave him the hairy eyeball.
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure he’s not just lying low for a bit, Martha? Didn’t you say it’s customary for him not to answer calls?”
She bit her lip.
I’d been in this trailer before when Cyril let the phone ring, not even bothering to see who was calling. Cyril was his own man, and as much as Martha bossed around her friends and anyone else she came in contact with, she’d never really been able to do the same with him.
“When I find that man, I am going to commit grievous bodily harm to his person for worrying me like this.” Her words were harsh, but I could hear the catch of tears in her throat.
“You know, sometimes guys just need to get away,” Serrano said. “It’s nothing personal. They don’t think about the consequences or who’s at home worrying about them.”
I had to agree. Even though I had been married for thirty-four years, men were still a mystery to me. I appreciated the fact that Serrano was downplaying things for Martha’s sake. Sometimes there was a real kindness that glimmered through the tightly controlled persona. He was even convincing me until I glanced toward the kitchen and the cat’s bowl.
As much as Cyril might be feeling suffocated by his high society schedule, he wouldn’t have left without asking me to take care of His Nibs.
“I’m sure there’s a very good explanation,” I said firmly.
Serrano followed my gaze, never missing a thing. “Will the cat be all right here by himself, Daisy?”
“It’s warm enough inside this trailer, and he can come and go as he pleases through the cat flap.” The little feline was an independent spirit, just like his owner. “I’ll come by every day and make sure he has food and fresh water.”
The detective walked through to the kitchen and I followed, leaving Martha still gazing at the rugby photo. I moved closer and grabbed his sleeve. “What the hell’s going on, Serrano?” I hissed. Up close, I could finally read the concern in his eyes.
“I don’t know, Daisy,” he murmured, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole situation.”
* * *
T hat night, there was a Board of Supervisors’ meeting where one of the topics on the agenda would be the proposed zoning change that Beau Cassell would require to develop the land for his townhomes.
Before the meeting, and what promised to be a contentious public hearing, Martha, Eleanor, and I went over to see Ruth. I picked them up in my old Subaru, because for one thing, Eleanor didn’t own a car, only a red Vespa, and for another, Martha was the worst driver in the world, and I was an even worse passenger.
But when we got there, Kathleen Brown said that Ruth was not up to seeing anyone. We reluctantly handed over our chicken enchilada casserole, green salad, and bottle of wine.
“Isn’t that rather strange?” Martha whispered to me as we got back in the car. “Shivah is supposed to be where you have people come over all the time, right?”
I shrugged. “Yes, I thought so. Traditionally it lasts a week. Ruth must really not be feeling
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