Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (cool books to read txt) 📗

Winken remained seated. Maybe she was nailed to her chair. Maybe she was hammered.

“I came across a medical report among my mother’s things. Could you review it, confidentially of course, and tell me what it means, before I turn it over to our lawyer?”

“Your mother’s doctor and lawyer should handle this, if it’s germane to the case.”

“She’s given me power of attorney to handle her affairs while she’s unavailable,” I lied. “I’m trying to sort out what’s important. Anyway, it’s from some time ago.”

He went still for a fraction of a second, then recovered so quickly that I wondered if I’d imagined it. “Make an appointment with my secretary.” He extracted a card from his wallet and handed it to me.

“Darling?” He extended his hand to his wife. She grabbed at it and pulled herself up, knocking the table again and making an orchestra of the glasses one last time.

People turned to look, and she went from pale to bright red. She started to breathe in short, panicky breaths. I grabbed her arm to steady her, but she pulled back. “Get away,” she hissed. “Get away.”

Gary shook his head. “She’ll be all right. I’ll just take her home. Too many martinis after a long, empty day.” He smiled sadly. “Come along, dear.”

I watched him navigate her through the room and out toward the lobby. It seemed kind and loving, except for his iron grip on her arm and the fierceness with which he kept her on course. I wondered if she would have bruises tomorrow. I wondered why he was suddenly so tight and controlled, and why Winken was so frightened. What had I said?

I collected my wine and headed back to the bar to confer with Bret. The Red Sea parted for me all the way across the room, and, shortly after that, Bret and I had the place to ourselves as they all made their way into dinner.

“You’re as good as the threat of the anthrax virus,” he said. “You’d better be a really good tipper to make up for it.”

“You don’t get tips at the club.”

He leaned over the bar, bringing his grinning face close to mine. “I don’t turn them down, either.”

I left a really big tip.

I only had a half-hour before I had to meet Pete Samuels. I didn’t even have time to process the Hankins’ reactions. Had something I’d said frightened Winken? Was her husband abusive and controlling or was gripping her arm like that how he showed his fear? Was it simply that they thought it unseemly to talk about Mother while she was in jail?

The rest of the room had pressed its irritated community lips together. I would have to take Hankin up on his offer of an appointment, see what came of it. Maybe he would help me after all.

I sped home to change into something more decorous. I didn’t want to give Pete Samuels the wrong idea, so I chose a long, straight wool skirt with riding boots, and a thick hand-knit sweater over a silk tee shirt. I didn’t even know why I was going out with him. Some part of me kept insisting I shouldn’t trust him—even though I hoped he would tell me about the investigation into my mother. I was a walking bundle of contradictions.

Pete arrived promptly, wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket over a brilliant blue shirt that highlighted his eyes. He shook his long dark bangs from his eyes, like a small boy getting ready to pitch a baseball, and gestured toward the car, a new-looking Range Rover. I wondered how could he afford that on a cop’s salary?

“Been saving for it for six years,” he said. “Drove a clunker the chief kept telling me to get rid of, because he was never sure if I was going to make it to work or not.” He grinned, opened the door for me. The interior still smelled of new leather.

We made small talk for the twenty minutes it took to drive to the restaurant and get a table. Despite the lateness of the hour on a weeknight, the place was packed with people who hadn’t yet figured out that they lived in the suburbs. The maître d’ put us near the fireplace. I shrugged out of the sweater, too warm in the close room.

We ordered salads, beef bourguignon, and a bottle of wine—a cozy late dinner. Pete settled back in his chair, and I noticed how his shoulders muscled out the seams on that blue shirt, even if his eyes were cold. “So Clara. Tell me about you. I only know what I’ve read in the police reports.”

That was unsettling. “What do you already know? I wouldn’t want to repeat anything.”

“It’s more interesting hearing it from you.”

I decided to go all intellectual on him. “Pierre Bonnard, the artist, said that the precision of naming takes away from the uniqueness of seeing.”

“Pierre who?”

“Bonnard. He did glorious impressionist paintings, many of them with garden elements.”

“Ah, that’s the connection. Do you have favorites?”

“Artists?”

“If you wish. I meant gardens.”

I nodded and raved about the plum trees at the Kairakuen garden in Japan and the formal Drummond Castle Gardens in Scotland through the salad course. He let me do it, and I could feel the letting, like he was feeding out rope.

After the waiter served the main course, he took my hand. “I’m more interested in the real you. Like for instance, if you’re going to listen to the warning that guy gave you the other night.”

He ran his thumb slowly up and down the back of my hand. My inner voice yelled loudly. I gently pulled away. In the next moment, I got a sharp pain in my arm, as if I’d twisted it.

“The real me wants to know why you all think my mother is a murderer.”

“You all? You mean all us cops? Or our new King of the Jungle?”

I looked at him, slightly shocked. He raised his eyebrows at me. “Oh don’t get