guilty or as if you’re somehow responsible.” He kissed her on the forehead and excused himself to continue studying.
Sasha nodded. “I hope that’s true. I hope it was all a terrible coincidence. Even that way, it’s hideous news.” She sighed, and finished her coffee, and we left it like that and did the dishes together.
You’d think after his gracious words to her she’d stop looking for his fatal flaws, especially given that she had almost no standards for the men in her life, but as soon as she was no longer thinking about Tom Severin, Sasha questioned my Mr. Right’s absence from washing-up detail. I explained our every-other-night kitchen arrangement and defended him as a fair partner, and then, having done with death and love, I felt the inevitable next topic approach.
“About the color scheme,” Sasha said, retrieving her ribbon bouquet.
My turn to sigh, too loudly. She looked hurt. I held up one hand to stop whatever she was going to say. “I know you all mean well, but I’m having a devil of a time with my mother’s color scheme dilemmas, and my mother-in-law isn’t helping given that she’s wearing a lovely number she made herself. It’s fuchsia and lime and guess how Mom feels about working that into the attendants’ outfits and the tablecloths and flowers? And when I tell them—everyone—to wear whatever they like, that’s not acceptable, either. So forgive me. My color-choosing nerves are frayed.”
I poured us both wine, and sat back down at the kitchen table, under the best light, to choose a ribbon.
“Not that I’m making suggestions,” Sasha said, “because I want this to be what you want—you and nobody else.”
That, by the way, is how everyone prefaces heavy-handed “suggestions.” Sasha included.
“However,” she continued, “if you like this one”—she pulled out a mossy green that would not have been my first or second choice— “I have a coffee service from England that would go perfectly and I think it would look pretty as part of the picture frame . . .”
The telephone rang, saving me from noting that she’d become precisely like my mother and sister. My choice—as long as it was her choice.
A pleasant male voice asked for Mackenzie. “He’s asked to not be disturbed,” I said. “Could I take a message?”
There was a moment’s silence, as the man on the other end of the phone seemed to decide whether he should trust me.
“This is his fiancée,” I said, and then, hearing myself, I had to control a fit of the giggles. Fiancée! I will never get used to that silly-sounding word, but it seemed to give me cred as a potential taker-of-messages.
“Oh, sure. Right. Amanda Pepper. We talked.”
Now I recognized the voice. “Correct, Detective Edwards.”
“You’re the one brought it in.”
He was brimful of information I already had. This must be a social call. Getting back in touch with Mackenzie. But “You’re the one brought it in” meant he had the cup of tea on his mind.
So perhaps not quite so purely social. Edwards was once again hesitating. I envisioned him staring at the receiver with that intense expression, then looking off to the side, deciding whether to tell me anything.
I hazarded a hunch. “Is this in response to Mackenzie’s phone call to you?”
He grunted agreement. My surmise had been correct. My fiancé had been doing end-runs, helping me behind my back. I couldn’t decide if I should be annoyed by this or not.
I opted for not. We were, after all, partners, in the kitchen and in crime detection. Now if he could also convince Edwards that I had not pushed Severin down the stairs . . .
Edwards obviously decided that no harm would be done if he trusted the messenger girl to transmit his words to the great sleuth himself. “Tell him he was right,” he said. “There’s a benzodiazepine in it.”
I had no idea what a benzodiazepine was. I needed a definition, but didn’t want to ask for one and allow Edwards
Sasha nodded. “I hope that’s true. I hope it was all a terrible coincidence. Even that way, it’s hideous news.” She sighed, and finished her coffee, and we left it like that and did the dishes together.
You’d think after his gracious words to her she’d stop looking for his fatal flaws, especially given that she had almost no standards for the men in her life, but as soon as she was no longer thinking about Tom Severin, Sasha questioned my Mr. Right’s absence from washing-up detail. I explained our every-other-night kitchen arrangement and defended him as a fair partner, and then, having done with death and love, I felt the inevitable next topic approach.
“About the color scheme,” Sasha said, retrieving her ribbon bouquet.
My turn to sigh, too loudly. She looked hurt. I held up one hand to stop whatever she was going to say. “I know you all mean well, but I’m having a devil of a time with my mother’s color scheme dilemmas, and my mother-in-law isn’t helping given that she’s wearing a lovely number she made herself. It’s fuchsia and lime and guess how Mom feels about working that into the attendants’ outfits and the tablecloths and flowers? And when I tell them—everyone—to wear whatever they like, that’s not acceptable, either. So forgive me. My color-choosing nerves are frayed.”
I poured us both wine, and sat back down at the kitchen table, under the best light, to choose a ribbon.
“Not that I’m making suggestions,” Sasha said, “because I want this to be what you want—you and nobody else.”
That, by the way, is how everyone prefaces heavy-handed “suggestions.” Sasha included.
“However,” she continued, “if you like this one”—she pulled out a mossy green that would not have been my first or second choice— “I have a coffee service from England that would go perfectly and I think it would look pretty as part of the picture frame . . .”
The telephone rang, saving me from noting that she’d become precisely like my mother and sister. My choice—as long as it was her choice.
A pleasant male voice asked for Mackenzie. “He’s asked to not be disturbed,” I said. “Could I take a message?”
There was a moment’s silence, as the man on the other end of the phone seemed to decide whether he should trust me.
“This is his fiancée,” I said, and then, hearing myself, I had to control a fit of the giggles. Fiancée! I will never get used to that silly-sounding word, but it seemed to give me cred as a potential taker-of-messages.
“Oh, sure. Right. Amanda Pepper. We talked.”
Now I recognized the voice. “Correct, Detective Edwards.”
“You’re the one brought it in.”
He was brimful of information I already had. This must be a social call. Getting back in touch with Mackenzie. But “You’re the one brought it in” meant he had the cup of tea on his mind.
So perhaps not quite so purely social. Edwards was once again hesitating. I envisioned him staring at the receiver with that intense expression, then looking off to the side, deciding whether to tell me anything.
I hazarded a hunch. “Is this in response to Mackenzie’s phone call to you?”
He grunted agreement. My surmise had been correct. My fiancé had been doing end-runs, helping me behind my back. I couldn’t decide if I should be annoyed by this or not.
I opted for not. We were, after all, partners, in the kitchen and in crime detection. Now if he could also convince Edwards that I had not pushed Severin down the stairs . . .
Edwards obviously decided that no harm would be done if he trusted the messenger girl to transmit his words to the great sleuth himself. “Tell him he was right,” he said. “There’s a benzodiazepine in it.”
I had no idea what a benzodiazepine was. I needed a definition, but didn’t want to ask for one and allow Edwards
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