a lot about Carrie. The cops, too." She left to serve someone else, and I finished my lunch. Every bit of it, including the garlic pickle. There's nothing like a brisk walk and a bit of alcohol to stimulate the appetite. And require a trip to the ladies' room.
Years ago, I was in a restaurant in Vermont that had a chalkboard on the wall for people who can't resist writing when they're in the john. I thought it was a brilliant idea. Someone had written, "You don't buy beer in this place, you just rent it." Which was true. I returned the rented Sam Adams to the establishment and went back to my sofa.
The tall waitress, Lorna, was waiting with my check. "Meg says that you're Carrie's sister." Her gray eyes were angry. "Can you prove it?"
I was used to dealing with defensive people. Suzanne and I often had to interview admissions directors and other staff people who were afraid or resentful because the administration had brought in outside consultants. There I knew why they were angry. I didn't have a clue what was going on with Lorna, but I didn't mind humoring her. Maybe it was just what my waitress had suggested—too many people asking questions. I fished around in my bag, pulled out my wallet, and handed her the battered family picture taken when David and I were married. She snatched it out of my hand and studied it. "That's you," she said, "and that's Carrie."
I stood and peered over her shoulder. "And that's our parents. And our brother, Michael. And my husband, David."
She shot a look at my left hand. "You aren't wearing a wedding ring."
"No, I'm not," I said. "I'm a widow."
"Widows are old," she said, coldly. "You're young."
I took back the picture, and the check, which she was still holding. I put the photo back in my wallet, and gave Lorna the check and twenty dollars. I'd done my best. If she still didn't believe me, that was her problem. "I don't know what you're so angry about," I said, "and I'm not waiting around for you to tell me. But I'll tell you what I'm angry about—the job the police are doing finding Carrie's killer. I'd hate to see whoever it was get away with something like this, wouldn't you? I thought maybe her friends might know something that might help. Something I might understand was a clue, even if the police don't, since I knew her so well. But if you're any example, I guess that was a crazy idea. Give the change to Meg." I shut my purse with a snap and headed for the door.
"Carrie said you were tough," Lorna said, coming after me. "I see what she meant. You staying at her place?" I nodded. "I get off at eight. I'll come by then."
Chapter 9
I walked back to Carrie's apartment and went to bed. This time there were no dreams. No one, living or dead, came and asked me to do anything. I slept like a log until someone pounded on the door. I stumbled sleepily downstairs to let Lorna in, excused myself, and went back upstairs to wash my face. When I came down, she was in the kitchen making coffee. She was about my height, and about as thin. There the similarities ended. I like to work hard, and I enjoy being alone, but I also like people and have a generally upbeat attitude. Lorna must have been born angry. Her face was tight and fierce, and she moved things around in the kitchen like even the pans and dishes were her enemies.
"There's no milk," I said.
"I like it black," she said. "There's maybe some of that coffee lightener in the freezer."
"Black is fine," I said, which was a lie. I drink coffee because I'm addicted to the caffeine, but I like it tan and sweet. Right now, though, I didn't want to dwell on coffee; I wanted to get down to business. Lorna wasn't going to be a fun person to spend time with. We carried our cups to the table and sat down, eyeing each other warily. "So, why did you come?" I asked.
"I thought you wanted to talk to me," she said. "That's what Meg told me."
"She told me that you were Carrie's friend," I said. "Were you?"
She shot me an angry look. For a
Years ago, I was in a restaurant in Vermont that had a chalkboard on the wall for people who can't resist writing when they're in the john. I thought it was a brilliant idea. Someone had written, "You don't buy beer in this place, you just rent it." Which was true. I returned the rented Sam Adams to the establishment and went back to my sofa.
The tall waitress, Lorna, was waiting with my check. "Meg says that you're Carrie's sister." Her gray eyes were angry. "Can you prove it?"
I was used to dealing with defensive people. Suzanne and I often had to interview admissions directors and other staff people who were afraid or resentful because the administration had brought in outside consultants. There I knew why they were angry. I didn't have a clue what was going on with Lorna, but I didn't mind humoring her. Maybe it was just what my waitress had suggested—too many people asking questions. I fished around in my bag, pulled out my wallet, and handed her the battered family picture taken when David and I were married. She snatched it out of my hand and studied it. "That's you," she said, "and that's Carrie."
I stood and peered over her shoulder. "And that's our parents. And our brother, Michael. And my husband, David."
She shot a look at my left hand. "You aren't wearing a wedding ring."
"No, I'm not," I said. "I'm a widow."
"Widows are old," she said, coldly. "You're young."
I took back the picture, and the check, which she was still holding. I put the photo back in my wallet, and gave Lorna the check and twenty dollars. I'd done my best. If she still didn't believe me, that was her problem. "I don't know what you're so angry about," I said, "and I'm not waiting around for you to tell me. But I'll tell you what I'm angry about—the job the police are doing finding Carrie's killer. I'd hate to see whoever it was get away with something like this, wouldn't you? I thought maybe her friends might know something that might help. Something I might understand was a clue, even if the police don't, since I knew her so well. But if you're any example, I guess that was a crazy idea. Give the change to Meg." I shut my purse with a snap and headed for the door.
"Carrie said you were tough," Lorna said, coming after me. "I see what she meant. You staying at her place?" I nodded. "I get off at eight. I'll come by then."
Chapter 9
I walked back to Carrie's apartment and went to bed. This time there were no dreams. No one, living or dead, came and asked me to do anything. I slept like a log until someone pounded on the door. I stumbled sleepily downstairs to let Lorna in, excused myself, and went back upstairs to wash my face. When I came down, she was in the kitchen making coffee. She was about my height, and about as thin. There the similarities ended. I like to work hard, and I enjoy being alone, but I also like people and have a generally upbeat attitude. Lorna must have been born angry. Her face was tight and fierce, and she moved things around in the kitchen like even the pans and dishes were her enemies.
"There's no milk," I said.
"I like it black," she said. "There's maybe some of that coffee lightener in the freezer."
"Black is fine," I said, which was a lie. I drink coffee because I'm addicted to the caffeine, but I like it tan and sweet. Right now, though, I didn't want to dwell on coffee; I wanted to get down to business. Lorna wasn't going to be a fun person to spend time with. We carried our cups to the table and sat down, eyeing each other warily. "So, why did you come?" I asked.
"I thought you wanted to talk to me," she said. "That's what Meg told me."
"She told me that you were Carrie's friend," I said. "Were you?"
She shot me an angry look. For a
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