The Last of the Moon Girls(35)

Lizzy replayed the conversation in her head on the drive home, not that it had been much of a conversation. She hadn’t learned anything she didn’t already know. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Gilman’s rancor than met the eye. He clearly didn’t want her dredging up the past, and especially not with his ex-wife.

She’s got nothing to say.

Maybe that was true—and maybe it wasn’t. Was it possible Gilman had something to hide? She shuddered at the possibilities, but it happened, didn’t it? You heard about it on the news, saw it in the papers. Parents capable of the unthinkable.

Lizzy brought herself up short. She was grasping at straws now, concocting a plot that felt like it had been lifted from an airport novel, and on nothing more than speculation. She knew better than most the wreckage wrought by false accusations. She needed to rein in her imagination, to follow the facts rather than her emotions. But where did that leave her? Roger had been swift to point out that there was a reason the obvious suspect was typically the obvious suspect. But what if there were no obvious suspects? No obvious motive, no clear-cut opportunity? You had to start looking at the not-so-obvious suspects, didn’t you?

Lizzy was surprised to find herself back home so quickly. She’d been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d made most of the drive on autopilot. She spotted Andrew’s truck in his driveway as she drove past. Maybe a male perspective was what she needed.

She got out of the car, cut across the yard, and knocked. Andrew answered moments later, sporting loose-fitting sweatpants and a damp towel draped around bare shoulders. The mingled scents of amber and smoke came off him in waves.

“Hey. I thought I heard a knock. What’s up?”

Lizzy’s gaze slid down his bare torso, then shot back to his face. “I just got home and saw your truck. Is it a bad time?”

“It’s a great time, actually. I was just about to fix some supper.”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll come back if you’re cooking.”

“Who said anything about cooking?”

“I thought you did.”

Andrew motioned for her to follow him to the kitchen. “I can boil water, scramble eggs, and butter toast. Beyond that, I’m pretty much a ready-to-eat kind of guy. Plus, the stove’s not hooked up yet.” He paused, opening the fridge door with a flourish. “Which is why I hit the market this afternoon. I was thinking of having a little picnic.”

Lizzy eyed the collection of deli containers and what appeared to be a rotisserie chicken. “Looks like quite a feast.”

“Join me?”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to intrude. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Stay. There’s plenty. I’ll warn you, though, this isn’t New York City. The fare isn’t exactly trendy, and we’ll be sitting on the floor.”

He shot her a grin. Lizzy found herself grinning back, wondering why she hadn’t noticed his dimples before now. “Personally, I’ve always thought chairs were overrated.”

“Great. Give me a minute to throw on a shirt. You can go ahead and pull that stuff out of the fridge if you want. Paper plates are in the cabinet next to the sink.”

He reappeared a short time later wearing torn jeans and a faded Patriots T-shirt. “Never let it be said that I forced you to dine with a savage.”

While Lizzy busied herself with the food containers, Andrew spread a paint-spattered drop cloth on the floor of what she assumed was the breakfast room. When the food was ready, they settled down to their makeshift picnic, sitting opposite one another with their paper plates and plastic utensils.

Lizzy watched with mixed emotions as Andrew struggled to dissect the chicken with a plastic knife, wondering when the best time might be to mention that she was a vegetarian. “Not to criticize, but a real knife might come in handy.”

Andrew grimaced, still wrestling with the chicken. “Don’t have one.” Another few minutes and the drumstick came free. He offered it to Lizzy.

She waved it off with a shake of her head. “No meat for me.”

“Sorry. Didn’t know that.”

“No reason you should. Why don’t you have a knife?”

“Most of the downstairs stuff’s in storage. I wasn’t thinking when I packed up the kitchen. I just wanted everything out. It’s a hassle, but it’s easier in the long run. You’re not tripping over things, worrying about protecting the furniture, moving stuff from room to room. I’ve got a bed and a dresser upstairs. And my drafting table. That’ll do until it’s finished.”

Lizzy took in the room, the empty walls and bare floor. “When will that be?”

Andrew shrugged as he reached for a carrot stick. “Depends. Spring, maybe. I’m fitting it in between clients, so it could be a while. And it’s just me, so there’s no rush. You’re the first person to see it, by the way. I don’t entertain much. Come to think of it, why did you drop by?”

Lizzy spooned a blob of potato salad onto her plate and handed him the container. “I went to see Fred Gilman today. You were right. He all but slammed the door in my face.”

“You can’t be surprised.”

“No, but I can’t help wondering . . . How well do you know him?”

“Gilman? Not well. He was a customer of my father’s. Why?”