Last to Know: A Novel(27)

“Must be useful in the Boston snow,” she said.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, thawing a little.

“Ah … well … it’s kind of complicated…”

“I thought it would be.” He met her wide gaze across the table, just as Doris arrived bearing a foaming glass of Miller Lite for the girl.

Harry glanced suspiciously from Doris to the woman and then back again. She had not ordered the beer, yet Doris had known what to bring her. He said, “Why do I get the feeling this is a setup?”

“Because you’re right,” Doris agreed. “This is my niece, Jemima Forester. She’s an investigative reporter. Right up your alley, I thought.”

“A would-be investigative reporter, more of a blogger really,” Jemima said.

At least the girl had the grace to look embarrassed.

Harry took a long drink. The beer turned his throat to ice. It was a wonderful feeling. He watched Jemima lift her glass to him then also take a long drink. Despite himself, Harry was interested.

“Later on, we could go to the Mexican down the street,” Jemima suggested. “Do tequila shots.”

“And then who would drive you home?”

“Moi?” She gave him a mischievous smile that, cliché though it was, Harry thought really lit up her face. Her skin was the color of alabaster, her lips as ruby as Ruby’s curtains. She took a card from her cavernous black handbag and tossed it across the table at him.

“A good taxi service, should you ever need one, though I guess cops can always call on their own to pick them up, see them safely to their beds.”

“Then you think wrong.”

Doris arrived with his burger and a wire basket of still-sizzling fries.

“God, how great, I’m starving.” Jemima’s hand hovered for a second or two over the fries then she pulled it back, biting her lower lip, embarrassed. “Shit, I’ve done it again. My dad always said I was too impetuous.”

“Your dad got it wrong. I’d call you ‘pushy.’” Harry shoveled fries onto a side plate and passed it over to her, along with the ketchup bottle. “And since you’re eating my dinner shouldn’t I at least know why you chose my table to sit at tonight?”

“You looked lonely.” She paused. “Well, that’s not exactly the reason, though it is true. Actually … well, the fact is … I know you are working on the mystery of the fire at Evening Lake, the one where the mother burned to a crisp … and the girl escaped. Her name is Bea, I saw her on the evening news.”

“Jesus!” Harry stared at his burger, suddenly unhungry.

“Ohh, sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to put you off, I mean, aren’t you supposed to be used to that kind of thing? The cops on TV always are.”

Harry pushed his plate aside, put his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Shut up,” he said, “and then think about exactly what you want to tell me.”

Mortified, Jemima Forester sank back against the quilted red vinyl. Eyes lowered, she seemed to be considering what he had just said.

“I earned that, I guess,” she said.

“You have the nerve, Jemima Puddleduck, to intrude on my dinner, on my space.” Harry was getting really angry now. “Without any explanation. And then you question me about a current case that I would never talk to you about, even if I could. I am not a TV cop,” he added. “Don’t ever forget that.”

He finished his beer, pushed away his food, and clipped the lead onto the dog’s collar. It got to its feet, looking expectantly at the door, anticipating the biscuit treat he would get on the way out.

“I was always called that at school,” Jemima said. “Puddleduck. The Beatrix Potter nursery rhyme character. Sometimes I feel like her.”

“Then try not to behave like her.”

Jemima sat up straight. Her pale eyes were not merry now, her look was deadly serious.

“I know where Divon is,” she said.

Harry thought of all the things Jemima might have said this was the most unexpected. He sat back down and called Doris over.

“Two Cokes, please, Doris,” he said. “And plenty of ice.”

“I didn’t know I’d gotten you that hot,” Jemima said.

Harry wondered if she was flirting with him. Shit, she was smiling at him with that mischievous look that made him wary of her. He also wondered how much she really knew and how much she was trying to find out.

“So,” he said, as Doris came back with the drinks. “How do you know Divon anyway?”

“I went to high school with him. Same class. We all worried about him even then because he knew such shady characters. We liked him, he was a nice guy, always polite, always helpful, never gave the teachers attitude … I mean he was a regular kid like all of us. Apart from the trouble he’d get into.”

She clasped her hands around the icy glass of cola, staring thoughtfully into its depths, as though, Harry thought, she was conjuring up a scene, or a story. He did not trust her.

Jemima said, “Divon’s father murdered his mother. Stabbed her to death. She was in the bathtub at the time.” She shrugged in an effort, Harry thought, to appear nonchalant. “Made the cleanup easier, her being in the bath, I guess. But Divon was never the same. The father disappeared and Divon had to go and live with some relatives, an aunt I think, yes in fact now I remember it was the mother’s sister. His mother’s name was, unbelievably, Fairy Formentor. That was fifteen years ago, probably before your time on the force,” she added, giving Harry a long look, as though checking to see if he believed her.