* I'm posting two chapters today, since I didn't want to leave you hanging in the middle of a scene! Thanks so much for reading along.
Chapter 9 — This is off the record.
The little bell above the new shop door jangled as someone came in. "Be with you in a moment!" Nancy called from the back room where she'd been making a list of supplies to be ordered. If she didn't want to go broke, she needed to shove all mysteries out of her mind and focus on what was in front of her. The new door had been horribly expensive, and the few days of chaos surrounding Marisol had put her behind. Today was the first quiet day she'd had to take care of things. The degreaser was almost gone. Hangers and bags were low, and the dryer door needed a new gasket. Shoving the paper in her pocket and sticking the pen behind her ear, she went out front. "How can I help y—" Her voice trailed off. Frank stood there with one of her purple emblazoned laundry bags slung over his shoulder. "Detective Hardy," she finished warily.
"Just a laundry drop off," he said, setting the bag down and holding up his hands placatingly.
Nancy pushed her hair out of her face with a weary sigh. She didn't want to feel anxious every time the man showed up. Before this whole mess she'd looked forward to seeing him every Monday and Thursday, regular as clockwork. Sometimes his eyes were tired on Mondays, and she'd guess that he'd had a case that took up his whole weekend. She'd even caught herself once or twice reading the newspaper and wondering which, if any, of the stories were cases he'd solved. But now, she'd practically lied to him about knowing a victim in a murder investigation. Not just knowing, she'd actually had a very good motive to want the girl dead. And here he was standing there looking handsome and apologetic and not at all like he had the power to lock her up. Darn him.
She went over to the computer and pulled up his account, entering a new ticket. "How many pieces?"
"Six shirts, four pairs of slacks, one jacket. How are you holding up?" he asked, stepping close to the counter.
Really? She kept her gaze fixed on the computer screen. "Other than being dragged in for questioning, the last couple days have been pretty quiet," she replied dryly.
"Nancy, why didn't you tell me you knew Marisol?" he asked in a gentle voice.
"I think my lawyer would advise me not to answer any questions," she said, the screen blurring for a moment. She'd meant it to come out sharp, but even to her her voice sounded tired and sad.
"I wasn't really asking as a cop."
She finally looked up at him and then wished she hadn't. He was just so…so irritating. Why did he have to have those honest brown eyes and that determined jaw line? She wanted to trust him…really, really wanted to sit down and tell him everything and talk through her questions about the murder and the body dump. She wanted to know all the things he knew about the case. Where was the primary crime scene? Had Marisol still been involved with Micah Fernandez? Was it some sort of drug deal gone wrong? Did he realize with Marisol dead that all the blame for Ned's death now came down to rest solely on herself? Frank's face blurred and she looked away, feeling a tear drip down her cheek.
Anger fought with pain for the upper hand. Anger won. She slammed her hands down on the keyboard and walked away into the break room. She grabbed the tea kettle and filled it, banging it back down and flipping the switch. She banged a few more cupboard doors getting a cup and tea bag, and then kicked the table leg for good measure. And then she stood there staring at the kettle, willing it to heat faster. That was the thing about tea. You couldn't hurry it along. It forced you to slow down and wait for it. Wait for the water to boil. Wait for the tea to steep. Wait for it to cool down enough to drink. Nancy closed her eyes and made herself take three slow, deep breaths, the one thing that counselor had recommended that actually did some good.
The bell on the door jangled slightly. Good. He'd left. Darn that Frank Hardy for being so…so, ugh, so much like Ned. She'd known to be on guard with his brother, his attempts at charm were obvious. But the warm, gentle tone of Frank's voice…she hadn't been expecting that. Ned always used a tone like that with her when she didn't want to open up and discuss things with him, like when she'd been fired from that case with the racehorses, when her dad had a heart attack and things were so touch and go, when she'd had a miscarriage just as they'd decided it was time to think about having a baby. Somehow he knew how to say things to cut through the barriers she put up. Probably why Ned was a lawyer and Frank a cop, darn them both. Their jobs were to get people to talk.
The tea kettle finished with a loud ding, and Nancy was thankfully saved from her brain feeding her any more painfully tender memories or unhelpful analyses. She cleared her throat, forcing back the tears that it would have been so easy to let fall. She watched the clock over the small sink tick past three minutes, making herself count the seconds rather than think about anything else. She tossed out the tea bag, added a splash of milk and went back out front…only to find herself still face to face with Frank.
"I thought you'd left. I mean…I heard the bell," she said, feeling her face pull into a disapproving frown. He'd poured himself a cup of coffee from the little station and was sitting casually in one of the chairs in the waiting area.
"Ah, well, I did take the liberty of locking the door and turning the open sign off. The little card that you put in the window sometimes that says you're closed for lunch, I put that out. Look, Nancy, I don't think you did this, and you're right, you should not answer any questions without a lawyer. But, I'm a little concerned about you, and so whatever you say now is off the record, just between us."
"I did your job, remember?" she said dryly. "You can say 'off the record' all you want, but words and information stick in our heads and influence our decisions. We can't help it."
He sat back more comfortably in the chair and took a sip of coffee. She watched him closely to see if the movement was to cover a condescending smile, but his face was blank. His brown eyes watched her over the rim of the cup, just as kind and trustworthy as they'd ever seemed. "Ugh, fine," she sighed, dropping gracelessly into another chair. "I may be a bitter, workaholic widow, but I am not a murderer. What do you want to know?"
"How do you take your tea?" he asked unexpectedly, nodded towards the cup in her hands. "I clearly didn't do it correctly the other night, even though you made yourself drink it, and you didn't even touch whatever Joe made you at the station. So how do you like it?"
Nancy laughed, surprising even herself. "I figured you were watching that interview behind the mirror," she said, shaking her head. "If you must know, you made chamomile tea that night. I don't like it, I think it tastes like medicine. But then you also added a ridiculous amount of sugar, which I also don't like, but figured hot, sweet tea was supposed to be good for shock, so I drank it. Your brother brought me a hibiscus green tea, which I also can't stand. Luckily I saw the tag floating in the water and was saved from even tasting it."
It was Frank's turn to laugh, a warm, deep chuckle. Nancy looked away. The man had helped board up her door, recommended a lawyer, and paid attention to how she drank tea. Add in those darn eyes and smile… She sighed, sipping her tea and letting the familiarity of the heat and malty flavor reassure her. Here goes. "I didn't tell you about my connection to Marisol right away because I didn't want it to be her. I'd hoped it was a mistake. I've spent so long blaming her for everything…" her voice faltered. "Now I only have myself to blame. It was my case, and that night…we'd driven into the city for some lawyer gala. Ned received a special recognition for his work with a legal charity. He'd convinced several of the big firms to contribute, not just money, but free legal counsel and internships for kids that could never normally have gotten a foot in the door." She felt her chest tighten and her eyes burn. "I couldn't even let him have one night," she whispered. "I think I talked about my case the whole time we were driving in, and then as soon as it was over insisted we go try to talk to Marisol one more time. If I had just let him have his night…"
She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath, grateful she hadn't given into tears. She wanted to be honest with him, but she didn't want to fall apart like some damsel in a melodrama. She heard him stand up and then the chair beside her creaked. "I'm so sorry, Nancy," he said softly.
And that was all he said, no assurances that Ned wouldn't blame her, no pep talk about needing to move on with her life. It was honestly the most wonderful thing he could have done. Nothing.