A Cup of Jo (20 page)

'Sorry.' I was backing toward the door. 'I'd really like to, but I have to go see Brewster.'

'But you said you wanted to help,' Sarah protested.

'I lied.' I disappeared out the door.

As I made my way down the sidewalk, I could hear hammering, so I followed the direction of the sound.

As I rounded the corner bordering the train tracks, the hammering was joined by a power drill, its whine a little off-key.

Ragnar Norstaadt was working on the stage with the drill, backing out screws toward removing the plywood panels that formed the floor. I waited until he paused to pluck out the screws he'd just loosened.

'Ragnar,' I called.

'Good morning, Maggy Thorsen,' he said, standing up and brushing off his hands.

'Good morning.' It wasn't, of course, but no one wants to hear 'Crappy morning' or even 'So-so morning'.

'You look for Kevin?' Ragnar asked, approaching the edge of the stage. 'He must take a meeting this morning and cannot join us until after we lunch.'

'Assuming you're not already done by then.' I waved my hand toward a Williams Staging guy that I didn't know, who was dismantling the gallows where the cup and saucer had stood. Another worker was busy loading Ragnar's detached plywood panels into the back of a stenciled van. 'You're making great progress.'

'Ahh,' he said, hopping down so we were on the same level, 'it is what you call the optical illusion, yah? After the top decking is gone, our hard work begins.'

'But you'll be done today?'

'True, Maggy Thorsen. We will not be back.' His blue, blue eyes met and held mine.

Sigh.

Was it wrong of me – main squeeze in the slammer – to be sorry that Ragnar wouldn't be coming 'round my shop no more, no more'?

Of course it was. And I was deeply ashamed of myself. Though Pavlik's 'overlapping' of Wynona Counsel and me took away a bit of that guilty sting.

Two wrongs might not make a right, but they sure could feel good.

Or would. If I did.

But I wouldn't.

With an effort I pried my eyes away from Ragnar's and stuck out my hand. 'Well, thank you for everything.'

He pulled off his work gloves and took my hand, turning it palm up. 'I feel our life paths will cross again, Maggy Thorsen. Very soon, I think. '

He didn't let go.

All of a sudden, I had a devil on each shoulder, both of them leaning forward, hissing, 'Go for it, Maggy. What can you
possibly
have to lose??'

To my eternal credit, I shushed the evil – yet remarkably cogent – fiends.

'That sounds wonderful,' I said, giving Ragnar's hand a quick shake before I pulled mine away. 'But right now I need to go see my, ummm . . . boyfriend. The sheriff, you know.' I dug my toe into the dirt and twisted it.

'The Pavlik of Brookhills?' Ragnar drew himself up to full height. 'But he is jailed.'

I knew that. 'How did you find out?'

I was expecting Twitter or Facebook or some such thing. 'The news that is on my television this morning. I watch before I come to work.'

'Ragnar, what did the television reporters say?'

'Your sheriff and Mrs Kevin, they had . . .' He seemed to struggle for a polite phrase in English.

'Sex?' I was trying to put
Ragnar
at ease?

'No.' The mime-cum-construction stud looked shocked. 'No, no. An event, maybe?'

An 'affair,' maybe? But there was no need to correct him. Let Ragnar think that Pavlik and his boss's wife had thrown one great party.

'I'd best be going,' I said, starting to move away.

Ragnar touched me on the arm. I turned. I could see he was blushing. 'I do not like to ask, a time like this.'

Oh, dear. Apparently I had turned him down so obliquely, he hadn't registered it. 'That's all right, Ragnar. I'm very flattered, but I'm also not interested.'

Another lie. I was damn interested, but I wasn't going to do anything about it.

'This I understand now. But before you go –' he dug a white rectangle out of his jeans' pocket – 'you take this, yah?

A business card with his phone number and e-mail.

I started to object, but he waved me down. 'Please. You must take.'

He pressed the card into my hand, closing my fingers over it. 'Some day you see. You will want Ragnar.'

Oh, yeah, some days were like that. But. . .

'It is then you must call me,' he continued, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it. 'At any hour. '

I was afraid to open my mouth, not sure what might come out of it.

Ragnar held my gaze for a beat of three, four, five. Then, 'I will be good to you, Maggy Thorsen. Better than any other.'

I cleared my throat. Or tried to. Something seemed stuck. 'I'm sure you—'

'No, no. We do not speak of it.' He put his finger to my lips.

'But—'

'Ahh, but you must know more, yah? You are a wise woman. I can promise you,' a quick glance around, 'the ten. '

The ten? He couldn't possibly mean what I thought he meant.

This time I did manage to clear my throat. 'Umm, did you say ten? '

'That is not enough?' Ragnar looked surprised. 'You demand the fifteen?'

Only men truly believe bigger is better, at least in these increments. Ten? Fifteen?

Wait a second. 'Are you talking percentages? As in discounts?'

'Yah, but of course. What is it you believe that I am saying? '

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 'That's very generous of you, Ragnar, and I will certainly keep it in mind.'

Bidding the mime
adieu
, I beat a hasty retreat around the corner.

Well, if I had to make a fool of myself, at least I'd done it in the privacy of my own head, I thought as I unlocked the Escape.

But a lousy fifteen percent discount? Was that all I meant to the clown?

Settling into the driver's seat, I fished out my phone and flipped it open to 'Contacts'. I scrolled down, but found no Hampton, Anita
or
Brewster. That made the decision whether to call ahead or arrive unannounced a simple one. Of course, it also meant I couldn't ask for directions.

After their lavish wedding, Anita and Brewster had built a house about twenty miles beyond Poplar Creek, which forms the western boundary of the town of Brookhills. I'd been out there only once, but I should be able find it again. I hoped.

As I drove west, I switched on the radio to keep me company and caught a measured, male voice in mid-pronouncement '. . . theory is that the events woman—'

'
Affairs
woman,' I said to the dashboard.

'. . . was still alive when she was placed in the cup. JoLynne Penn-Williams' toothmarks were found on the inflatable, apparently made as the woman struggled to breathe. Someone – and law enforcement officials fear it may be one of their own – wanted just the opposite.'

I pushed 'CD' and was rewarded with smooth jazz. Great music for relaxing, though I wasn't sure anything was going to help this morning. After talking with Brewster, I'd drive straight to the jail. I needed badly to talk to Pavlik, to get his take on all this. The county must have Saturday visiting hours, right?

Twenty minutes later, I turned into a long, brick driveway. Not 'real' brick, but the kind etched into red-stained concrete to simulate the tonier treatment. At least until the concrete cracks, as it always does in Wisconsin, where the earth regularly freezes and thaws.

Still, it beat the rat-a-tat-tat of gravel pocking the undercarriage of the Escape as it rolled into the driveway of my place.

I left the car, hearing immediately the thwock of a tennis ball being struck by racquet strings. Curious, I circled the white mini-manse instead of going directly to its front door.

Wow. A backyard tennis court.

As a kid, I'd begged my dad endlessly to make one for me. Who needed grass and trees anyway? In my ten-year-old imagination, I'd teach myself to play tennis and beat Chris Evert on the way to a grand slam. Then, in the winter, I'd flood the court, learn to figure-skate and win a gold medal at the Olympics, like Dorothy Hamill. All three of us – Chrissy, Dor and me – we'd be best friends.

Oh, lay off the sarcasm, will you? I was ten.

Brewster and Anita Hampton were facing each other across the net on a bright green court. They both wore white, matching the gleaming lines. The whole set-up looked brand new.

As I watched from under a sugar-maple tree, Anita tossed the ball up for a serve, but, instead of swinging at it, she caught the ball. 'Damn wind,' she said.

The leaves on my tree indicated no discernible breeze.

She went to toss again, but this time let the ball fall. 'Bugs,' she complained, stomping and swiping at her legs.

Excuses, excuses. I wasn't being bothered in the least.

Anita set up to serve once more, this time taking a wild, awkward swing that sent the ball skittering my way.

I emerged from under the tree and retrieved her wild shot from the grass.

'Who wants it?' I called, holding the tennis ball up.

Anita jumped at the sound of my voice and pointed at Brewster. Apparently her last effort had double-faulted the game away.

I threw baseball-style to her husband and kept walking toward them.

'Thanks, Maggy,' Brewster said, his tone of voice pleasant, even welcoming. 'What a nice surprise.'

Anita didn't look pleasant, much less welcoming. Probably ticked at being caught by a former subordinate without make-up on her blotchy face. Her tennis dress hung unfashionably from her shoulders like a hand-me-down, and I could make out a stain near the hem.

But who gets dressed up to play in their own backyard? Polite guests, after all, call first.

'I'm sorry to just pop by,' I said, still relishing the fact that Anita wasn't quite as impressive without tailored work clothes or warpaint. And she downright sucked at tennis.

'Not at all, Maggy.' She pulled herself up straight to regain some of the ground lost by her appearance. 'Is something wrong? You heard me instruct Kevin to dismantle your staging today.'

After
she'd yanked his guys away to do Milwaukee's yesterday. How kind of her. Well, with luck, whatever mix-up she and Kevin spoke about yesterday was still giving her fits. 'No, nothing's wrong in Brookhills. They're breaking things down right now.'

'Is he there?' Anita seemed a bit anxious.

'Kevin? No,' I said. 'Why? Do you need to see him?'

Brewster's brow furrowed a bit.

'No, no,' Anita said hurriedly. 'Just wondering.'

'So what
is
wrong, Maggy?' her husband asked. 'You look worried.'

'I am. It's Pavlik.' Could the county exec
not
know his own chief law enforcer had been arrested for murder?

'Our sheriff?'

Well, that was a start. At least he knew Pavlik's name and title.

'Oh, that's right, Brew.' Anita flapped a hand at her husband. 'Maggy and your sheriff are . . . seeing each other.'

She said it like it was of no consequence to her, despite the fact she'd been acting mighty friendly toward Pavlik during the aborted dedication of the commuter-train.

I looked back and forth between them. 'You do know that he's been arrested.'

'We've been informed,' Anita said, fingernail worrying a spot on her cheek. 'In fact, he's being held in our jail.'

'I'd like to see him. Do you think that's possible?'

My question was directed to Brewster, but it was Anita who answered. 'Certainly, dear. Though only during regular visiting hours, of course.'

She seemed to feel that no special arrangements were warranted, despite the fact I knew where she lived.

This time I turned my back on Anita, so there could be no question of whom I was addressing. 'You don't honestly think Pavlik killed JoLynne Penn-Williams, do you?'

Brewster flushed, but once again it was his wife who did the talking. 'Maggy, he can't possibly answer that. You were in public relations, remember?'

Drained of patience, I wheeled on her. 'I'm not a reporter, Anita, and I sure don't work for you anymore, either. What I want to know, as a friend, is what steps Brewster and "our" county are taking to support and defend Pavlik.'

I didn't add, 'Because I'm getting the feeling that the only one who gives a rat's ass about the man is me.' But I sure thought it.

'Brookhills County will do everything appropriate . . .' Brewster started, as if he were reading a news release. One prepared by his loving wife.

'Oh, shut up, Brewster,' Anita said.

OK, make that his not-so-loving wife.

'Honey,' Brewster said, 'Maggy's right. She is a friend and deserves—'

'Fine,' Anita snapped. 'You two "friends" talk.' She was still messing with her zit, but just making it redder. The woman would need spackling a half-inch deep to cover the thing. 'I'm going inside.'

With that, she wheeled and stalked off.

Brewster and I watched Anita go. 'Sorry,' I said, when the back door slammed closed.

'Not your fault.' Brewster didn't quite have his usual 'boyish good looks' expression. 'She's been a little touchy the last few days.'

'Work stress?' I guessed, then remembered the tennis dress just hanging on her. 'I couldn't help but notice Anita's losing weight.'

'She is that,' he said, still looking toward the house. 'Even though she tries to hide it.'

'Could she have an eating disorder?' Maybe our barista Amy nailed it when she mentioned that Mrs County Exec looked almost anorexic.

'I don't think so. Anita's just not the same woman, though.'

'As before you were married?' I laughed lightly to put Brewster at ease. 'That's not uncommon, you know. We're all on our best behavior when we're dating.'

I, for example, had yet to fart in Pavlik's presence. I figured Frank's chronic flatulence was already enough of a deal-breaker from my side of the relationship.

But Mr County Exec was shaking his head. 'That's not what I meant. It's my—' He broke off.

'Your what?' I asked. After all, Brewster had brought it up.

He turned and eyed me, as though approaching a decision. 'Your question to me a few minutes ago?'