They small-talked restaurants, movies, and weather - “it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” they agreed - then the woman asked about Emily’s hair. “I really like your cut,” she enthused. “Feminine and professional. That’s hard to pull off. Your stylist is terrific.”
“Thanks,” Emily said. “I was lucky to find her.”
“I’ll say. You and I have the same length and color. I’ll bet she can do mine just as great.”
“Want her name?”
“Would you mind?”
“Not a bit,” Emily said. Only because Paula wouldn’t bump her for a new client. She’d rather lose a tooth than a stylist she trusted so completely she nodded off during the cut and feather. She reeled off Paula’s number. The woman repeated it twice. “Thanks.”
“Glad to help,” Emily said. “You know, I run the Riverwalk every morning. Haven’t seen you till just recently. New in town?”
“We just moved here from Denver,” the woman said. “We’re in The Cathedrals of Rivermist. Do you know it?”
Emily nodded. Chicagoans identified themselves by neighborhoods or, if Catholic like her, parishes. Napervillians identified by subdivisions. In this case, a fancy-schmancy on the city’s Southwest Side. Cops couldn’t afford a garage there, let alone a house.
“Hubby got transferred so the kids and I did, too,” the woman continued. “I started coming here as soon as I unpacked my shoes.”
“It’s one of the best paths in the country,” Emily said. “Smooth and well maintained, beautiful views with the river and trees. You’ll like the city, too. Lots of friendly people.”
“I’ve already met some neighbors. They do seem nice. They already invited me and my husband to join the subdivision’s volleyball team.”
Emily bit her lip not to laugh. Should she explain what that really meant? Nah, she decided. Let her see how wild suburban life could get.
The woman glanced Emily top to bottom, looked at her bare fingers.
“Are you single?” she asked. “My brother’s looking.”
“Widowed,” Emily said.
“Oh! I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too. He was a good guy.” She made a little shrug. “But it was a decade ago and, well, time heals.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
I don’t know anymore, Emily thought. She nodded anyway, because it was easier than explaining. “But how about you?” she parried. “Do you work?”
“Stay-at-home mom. You?”
“I’m a detective,” Emily said.
“Ooh!” the woman said, clapping her hands. “How exciting! Just like the A is for Alibi gal! You know, Kinsey what’s-her-name?”
Good thing she didn’t say Miss Marple! “I’m not a private eye,” Emily said. “I’m a police detective. In Naperville.”
“Oh,” the woman said, clearly disappointed. “You know, I got a parking ticket the other day. Can you do anything about that?”
Emily rolled her eyes. Off-duty cops rarely told strangers what they did because of questions like that. Even worse was, “How many people have you killed?” She wished she’d used her standard, “Uh, I’m between jobs right now.”
“Sorry, no,” Emily said. “We don’t fix tickets. It’s a firing offense.”
“Really? We never had to pay in New Jersey.”
Emily made a face.
“What’s wrong with New Jersey?” the woman demanded.
“It’s fine,” Emily said, veering off the pavers. “I’m wincing because I’ve got a cramp.”
“Those are awful, aren’t they?” the woman sympathized, stopping to jog in place. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Thanks for the offer, but no, I’m fine,” Emily assured, shooing her back on course. “Don’t lose your momentum. I’ll stretch a few minutes and catch up.”
“Please do,” the woman said. “I want all the dirt on this town!”
Emily watched till she disappeared around the bend, then plopped to the grass to work her calf. A tiny part of her wished Marty was here to do it for her.
Marty stared at his TV while he ate yet another bachelor breakfast - gas-station doughnuts and grape juice from the carton. He knew how to cook. Just didn’t feel like it. One of the morning show hostesses - he had no idea which, he couldn’t tell one News Perky from the next - was gabbing on about “my brand-new designer boobs.” From what he could gather, she’d thought her 34-Bs “too small to keep my man interested,” so she inflated them to 38-DD while he was on a business trip. The boob-job version of This Old House, he supposed.