Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(78)
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, man. There’s a concert at the MAC Thursday night. This dopey boy band called ’Round Here. Barb and her friend Hilda and a couple of their other friends are insane to see them, although they’re as vanilla pudding as can be.”
“How old’s your sister?” Janey asks.
“Nine. Going on ten.”
“Vanilla pudding’s what girls that age like. Take it from a former eleven-year-old who was crazy about the Bay City Rollers.” Jerome looks puzzled, and she laughs. “If you knew who they were, I’d lose all respect for you.”
“Anyway, none of them have ever been to a live show, right? I mean, other than Barney or Sesame Street on Ice or something. So they pestered and pestered—they even pestered me—and finally the moms got together and decided that since it was an early show, the girls could go even if it was a school night, as long as one of them did the chaperone thing. They literally drew straws, and my mom lost.”
He shakes his head. His face is solemn but his eyes are sparkling. “My mom at the MAC with three or four thousand screaming girls between the ages of eight and fourteen. Do I have to explain any more about why I’m keeping out of her way?”
“I bet she has a great time,” Janey says. “She probably screamed for Marvin Gaye or Al Green not so long ago.”
Jerome hops into his Wrangler, gives them a final wave, and pulls out onto Lowbriar. That leaves Hodges and Janey standing beside Hodges’s car, in an almost-summer night. A quarter moon has risen above the underpass that separates the more affluent part of the city from Lowtown.
“He’s a good guy,” Janey says. “You’re lucky to have him.”
“Yeah,” Hodges says. “I am.”
She takes the fedora off his head and puts it on her own, giving it a small but provocative tilt. “What’s next, Detective? Your place?”
“Do you mean what I hope you mean?”
“I don’t want to sleep alone.” She stands on tiptoe to return his hat. “If I must surrender my body to make sure that doesn’t happen, I suppose I must.”
Hodges pushes the button that unlocks his car and says, “Never let it be said I failed to take advantage of a lady in distress.”
“You are no gentleman, sir,” she says, then adds, “Thank God. Let’s go.”
3
It’s better this time because they know each other a little. Anxiety has been replaced by eagerness. When the lovemaking is done, she slips into one of his shirts (it’s so big her br**sts disappear completely and the tails hang down to the backs of her knees) and explores his small house. He trails her a bit anxiously.
She renders her verdict after they’ve returned to the bedroom. “Not bad for a bachelor pad. No dirty dishes in the sink, no hair in the bathtub, no p**n videos on top of the TV. I even spied a green vegetable or two in the crisper, which earns you bonus points.”
She’s filched two cans of beer from the fridge and touches hers to his.
“I never expected to be here with another woman,” Hodges says. “Except maybe for my daughter. We talk on the phone and email, but Allie hasn’t actually visited in a couple of years.”
“Did she take your ex’s side in the divorce?”
“I suppose she did.” Hodges has never thought about it in exactly those terms. “If so, she was probably right to.”
“You might be too hard on yourself.”
Hodges sips his beer. It tastes pretty good. As he sips again, a thought occurs to him.
“Does Aunt Charlotte have this number, Janey?”
“No way. That’s not the reason I wanted to come here instead of going back to the condo, but I’d be a liar if I said it never crossed my mind.” She looks at him gravely. “Will you come to the memorial service on Wednesday? Say you will. Please. I need a friend.”
“Of course. I’ll be at the viewing on Tuesday as well.”
She looks surprised, but happily so. “That seems above and beyond.”
Not to Hodges, it doesn’t. He’s in full investigative mode now, and attending the funeral of someone involved in a murder case—even peripherally—is standard police procedure. He doesn’t really believe Mr. Mercedes will turn up at either the viewing or the service on Wednesday, but it’s not out of the question. Hodges hasn’t seen today’s paper, but some alert reporter might well have linked Mrs. Wharton and Olivia Trelawney, the daughter who committed suicide after her car was used as a murder weapon. Such a connection is hardly news, but you could say the same about Lindsay Lohan’s adventures with drugs and alcohol. Hodges thinks there might at least have been a sidebar.
“I want to be there,” he says. “What’s the deal with the ashes?”
“The mortician called them the cremains,” she says, and wrinkles her nose the way she does when she mocks his yeah. “Is that gross or what? It sounds like something you’d pour in your coffee. On the upside, I’m pretty sure I won’t have to fight Aunt Charlotte or Uncle Henry for them.”
“No, you won’t have to do that. Is there going to be a reception?”
Janey sighs. “Auntie C insists. So the service at ten, followed by a luncheon at the house in Sugar Heights. While we’re eating catered sandwiches and telling our favorite Elizabeth Wharton stories, the funeral home people will take care of the cremation. I’ll decide what to do with the ashes after the three of them leave on Thursday. They’ll never even have to look at the urn.”