Home for the Haunting(37)

“We’re working today, Cookie. That involves dusty, muddy jobsites. If you were wearing something appropriate to construction, you wouldn’t be worrying about a little dog hair.”

“Look who’s talking. How come you get to wear party dresses to jobsites?”

She had me there. I tossed her a clean towel from a supply I kept in the back. She arranged it over the seat, tucking the ends in carefully, and finally climbed in.

“Now, isn’t this nice?” said Cookie as I headed for the freeway. “The Turner sisters, out for a day on the town!”

“We’re working,” I reminded her.

“Oh, I know. Two career girls, out for a day on the town! Where should we go to lunch?”





Chapter Ten




Caffe Trieste is on a corner just off the famous strip of the Italian part of town. At this hour on a Tuesday, the hordes of tourists that crowd the streets looking for really great lasagna and music and strip shows were still sleeping off last night’s fun, so I found a parking spot within a couple of blocks.

“Mel!” said Stephen, and we hugged over the counter. “How are you? What a surprise! You hardly ever come in, you—” His eyes flicked over to where Inspector Crawford sat at a small table toward the back, already nursing a latte and making notes in her ever-present notebook. “Oh. Are you here for . . . ?” He gave an exaggerated gesture with his head in the inspector’s direction, in a move that was much less subtle than if he had merely said her name aloud.

I nodded. “Stephen, this is my sister, Cookie. Cookie, Stephen.”

“I’m sorry; you want a cookie?” asked Stephen as he shook her hand.

“No, I’m the Cookie!” she said with a delighted laugh. “I get that all the time.”

“Oh . . . nice to meet you. I like your outfit.”

“Thank you! How sweet of you to say,” she said, casting a significant glance my way.

“How about me?” I demanded. “You designed this dress.”

“Yes, but . . . to tell you the truth, it’s looking a little out-of-date at this point. It still looks great on you, of course, but—I don’t know—maybe the spangles are a little early two thousands, if you know what I mean.”

He stood back, cocked his head, and assessed me. Cookie followed suit.

“I think she might benefit from a slightly different style given her . . . curves,” suggested Cookie. “I’m not so sure the bugle beads are doing her any favors.”

Stephen nodded and stroked his whiskerless chin. “Yes, I see what you mean. I think a plainer fabric might be just the ticket.”

“Could I get a double cappuccino, please? Full fat.” I’d be damned if I ordered my usual skim milk after a comment like that. “Come on, Cookie, I’ll set you up over here.”

I chose a table for Cookie near the entrance, out of hearing range of Inspector Crawford. I set up my laptop, on which I’d bookmarked several home renovation sites, as well as an industry glossary and a builders’ chat room.

“Study these sites so you have a sense of what’s going on with the business. I’m going to chat with someone for a few minutes. You stay here and be good,” I told her, as though she were a child.

As I approached Inspector Crawford at long last, she looked over at Stephen and Cookie, then raised her eyebrow at me.

“What? You felt a need for backup? This isn’t an official inquiry. I merely asked you to coffee.”

“Well, you know me. I like to travel with an entourage. And there’s no way you ‘merely asked me to coffee.’”

An imperious lift of an eyebrow was her only response.

I shrugged. “Plus, I get a little nervous around cops.”

“I’ve noticed. Why is that? You don’t have a police record.”

“You investigated me?”

“In the course of two murder investigations, yes, I have had occasion to type your name into the computer. I’m a cop; I like to do that sort of thing. Check into suspects’ backgrounds.”

“Are you saying I’m suspect?”

“Not this time.”

“Mmm,” I mumbled. I guess it made sense the authorities would look into the backgrounds of all the key players. And I had, after all, been at more murder scenes than the average innocent person. But it still felt unsettling to think that someone was snooping around my life.

“Don’t worry; the background check didn’t turn up anything interesting.”

“Oh, good. Or should I be insulted?”

She shrugged. “Why so nervous around cops?”

“My father tells me I have an inborn problem with authority figures.”