Passion to Die For. Marilyn Pappano
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called a confidential informant for a reason. Besides, you wouldn’t like the places he hangs out.”
“Tommy—”
He pulled to a stop in front of the Copper Lake Police Department and waited pointedly for her to get out of the car. When she didn’t move, he said, “Go inside, Kiki. Do your nails or fix your hair or something. I’ll swing back after I’m done.”
With a scowl, she climbed out, muttering something about macho jerks and pissants. Grinning, he pulled out of the parking lot and headed back downtown. He did intend to go looking for his informant, but not until he’d gotten something to eat, along with a strong cup of coffee.
He circled halfway around the square before finding a parking space near A Cuppa Joe. As he got out of the Charger, a figure crossing the street caught his attention. She wore a long coat that was too big, the hood pulled up over gray hair and a lined face, and trudged through the crosswalk with a plastic shopping bag clutched in each hand.
It was the woman Ellie had been talking to on the porch last night, the out-of-towner who wanted something from her. Ellie hadn’t been happy to see her or to talk about her with him in the square…though these days she wasn’t happy talking about anything with him.
On impulse, he met the woman as she stepped onto the curb. “Can I help you with your bags?”
She drew up short and fixed a suspicious stare on him. “Do I look like I need help?”
“No, ma’am. I just thought—”
“Who are you?”
“Tommy Maricci.” He gestured to the gold shield clipped onto his belt, and her gaze dropped, then returned to his face.
“I haven’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“I didn’t say you had. I just thought you might like some help. Maybe a ride to get out of this rain.” A blast of wind kicked up behind her, bringing with it the smell of stale smoke and liquor.
Shifting the bags to one hand, she raised the other to tug her hood back enough to see him better. “You always offer innocent strangers rides?”
“More often than you’d think.”
“Huh. All right. I’ll take your ride.” She handed both bags to him, then shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “It is a bit chilly for this time of year. And I’m not going far. Just to the Jasmine.”
Her blue eyes narrowed, clearly expecting some response from him, but he was good at hiding surprise. The Jasmine was a restored three-storied brick-and-plaster post-Civil War beauty on two prime acres east of downtown. Now a bed-and-breakfast, it was by far the most expensive place to stay in Copper Lake. Not what he would have expected for this woman.
Though his job had taught him to expect the unexpected.
“My car’s over there.” He gestured toward the Charger, and they’d walked a few yards when she inhaled deeply.
“Nothing smells as good on a chilly day as a cup of strong coffee.”
Especially with a little something extra in it to help warm a body, he thought, catching another whiff of alcohol. “I was just heading for a cup. Do you have time?”
Her laughter was throaty and grating. “I have nothin’ but time. Are you treating?”
“Sure.”
“Well, then, why don’t you put them bags up and I’ll wait inside out of the cold?” Without pausing for his agreement, she pivoted and walked into A Cuppa Joe.
Tommy unlocked the car door and set the bags in the back. As the plastic sides sagged, he saw two cartons of cigarettes, a six-pack of beer, chips and three large bags of candy. Tucked between the beer and the Enquirer was a slim brown bag, the kind used at the local liquor stores. Booze, chocolate and a gossip rag…the basic requirements of life.
After closing and locking the door, he strode down the sidewalk and into the coffee shop. The woman was standing at the counter, head tilted back, studying the menu on the wall. She’d pushed the hood off her head, leaving her hair sticking out like tufts of straw, and, like the night before, she gave off an air of watchfulness. “Does that offer go for plain coffee or the grande-mocha-latte-chino good stuff?”
“Whatever you want.”
A twenty-something girl with bottled black hair and deep purple lips waited idly for their order, tapping an orange fingernail on the counter. A person could be forgiven for thinking she was already in the Halloween spirit, but she looked like that every day of the year. After the woman ordered a caramel-hazelnut something-or-other, Tommy asked for his usual—high-octane Brazilian blend with a slice of cream-cheese-filled pumpkin bread.
“Make that two slices,” the woman said with a sly smile. “I’ll find a table.”
Midafternoon, with only a couple of other customers, that was no hardship. She chose one near the front window but away from the draft of the door. By the time Tommy set down the tray with their food, she’d removed her coat and sat, legs crossed, hands clasped on the tabletop. Her fingers were short, stubby and nicotine stained, her nails blunt and unpolished. The skin on her hands, like on her face, was weathered and worn. Not by work, he suspected. She didn’t strike him as a woman who indulged in hard work.
And she didn’t strike him as a woman who would have even the vaguest connection to Ellie. Ellie was so elegant and polished and…just different.
“I didn’t get your name,” he said as he set a tall foamy cup and a saucer with bread in front of her.
“I didn’t offer it.” She swiped a finger in the whipped cream that topped her drink, licked it clean, then shrugged. “Martha Dempsey.”
“Are you here on vacation? Visiting friends? Just passing through?”
Picking up her fork, she wagged it in his direction. “That’s the bad thing about cops. They’re always asking questions.”
“We’re just curious people.” And he wasn’t asking even a fraction of the questions running through his mind. Who are you? Why are you here? How do you know Ellie? What do you want from her?
“I seen you last night. At the restaurant down the street. With that pregnant black girl. Is she your girl?” There was an undertone of something—disapproval, bigotry—that made her voice coarse, ugly.
“I like to think she could have been if my buddy hadn’t met her first.” He’d liked Anamaria from the first time they’d met, but Robbie, she insisted, had been her destiny. God knows, she’d certainly turned him around. The shallow Calloway brother, the irresponsible one, had taken to marriage and impending fatherhood as well as or better than any of his more responsible brothers.
“She’s not your kind,” Martha said dismissively.
Before he could ask just how she meant that, she shifted her gaze outside to a temporary sign in the square, announcing the date and time of the annual Halloween celebration. “This isn’t a bad little town. I’m thinking I could live out my last days here.”
And what would Ellie think of that? “I’ve lived all my days here, except for four years in college. I like it.” He stirred sugar into his coffee, then took a careful sip before asking, “Where do you live now?”
“Atlanta. Big place. You can stay twenty years in the same house and still not know your neighbor’s name.” She gave him another of those sly looks. “I bet you know pretty much everything about everyone in town. Or, at least, you think you do.”
“I’m not sure you can ever know everything about a person.” He was probably the only one in town who didn’t have much in the way of secrets. The only major events in his life—his mother’s alcoholism, her leaving when he was five and abandoning him, his falling in love with Ellie and her not loving him back—were common knowledge. He had nothing to hide.