Loving Time

“The hell you aren’t. I met your parents. I met your cousin Mei Mei—”

“Judy. Her name is Judy.”

“Her name is Mei Mei. Only Judy for show.” He mimicked Skinny Dragon Mother.

Oh, now he was into the race thing. An angry retort rose to her lips and stuck in her mouth like a fat trickster dumpling from a low-class dumpling house—two inches of thick, crusty, tasty-looking dough that turns to glue in the mouth and has only the tiniest hint of filling. Mike wanted to fight April felt the possibility of saying some things no high-quality person would say. The appropriate thing would be to say nothing and show Mike that he was a fool. But the nasty four-letter words she was forbidden to say struggled around inside of her, eager to jump out and make her a true American.

“Slut” was the best she could do.

“Judy?” Mike said in surprise.

“No. The one you devoured with your eyes. Gave you her home number.” April pursed her lips in disgust.

“Devoured with what—Who …? I never even noticed her.”

“Impossible not to notice.”

“Ha!” Mike exclaimed, taking the exit. “You don’t want to meet my Mami because you don’t like Latinas.”

“Come on, Mike. You know that’s not true.”

“You think you’re high-class and we’re low-class people.”

“I don’t want to hear this. Turn right here.” They were almost there. April rolled up her window.

“You said Maria Elena was a slut.”

“You saw her.”

“Sounds politically incorrect to me.”

“You saw her. How would you describe her dress and actions, Sergeant? Would you say the lady was altogether professional, or was she offering something more than hospital services?”

Mike sucked on his mustache. “I’d say most women go both ways on that. Liking guys is not a cultural thing.”

It was a cultural thing, though. Where April came from, women were not supposed to go both ways on that. She was absolutely certain that if a person went the wrong way, only bad things—no good things—could happen. She could cite a hundred—no, a thousand—cases of disaster brought on by going the wrong way on this monkey-business issue.

“You know what I’d say?” Mike said.

No point in saying she didn’t want to hear it. April was silent as they drove through a neighborhood of big houses with big front lawns that were free of dead leaves and still deep green in color. She hoped he wouldn’t tell her and thought she might be spared when he pulled up fast and close to the curb in front of a white stucco place with a red-tiled roof, then cut the Camaro’s engine.

He turned to her, his features serious as if he’d moved into another compartment in his mind, was about to be arrogant and advise her on how to do the interview with Dickey’s wife. Unfortunately, there was no other compartment in his mind at the moment.

“I’d say you’re prejudiced about Latinos because we’re so sexy and you’re pissed off about missing out.… Maybe you’re afraid you can’t compete.”

Asshole. April smiled benignly, wishing him dead, and grabbed her bag. “That must be it.”

She saw his chest puff out under the leather jacket with the certainty that he’d nailed her, so now she’d have to relent and meet his mother. This victory freed him up to move into a different compartment in his mind. He noticed his surroundings were not like Queens or the Bronx and got out of the car, shaking out his pant legs and breathing in the air of wealth.

“Nice,” he murmured. “Be nice to live in a place like this. What do you say, querida?”

April shrugged and headed up the walk.

forty-two

Sally Ann Dickey looked like an aged Doris Day. Her eyes were cornflower blue, her cheeks pink, her hair a shade that used to be called strawberry. It was exactly the color of Doris Day’s hair in the fifties. She wore a pearl-gray wool dress and served tea to the two detectives as if it were a social occasion. If they didn’t exactly fit in in her fussy Westchester living room, Mrs. Dickey was the last person to let them know. She patted the pillow on the settee with its back to the window and cocked her head at them politely.

She had placed April and Mike in the delicate chairs that faced her and the very few cars that passed on the street. April cleared her throat. “Thank you for taking the time to see us,” she murmured. “We know this must be difficult for you.”

“Not at all.” Sally Ann Dickey poured tea and turned to Mike. “Sugar?”

“Ah, yes, please.”

“Milk?”

He glanced at April. She was too busy watching Mrs. Dickey’s pouring technique to help him. He shrugged. “Sure.”

Mrs. Dickey put the silver strainer in its silver holder, set down the teapot, picked up a silver creamer, clouded the tea, and handed Mike his porcelain cup.

“Thank you,” he said.

Then Mrs. Dickey picked up the teapot again.

“It’s a delicate situation …” April began.

“So I understand. Sugar?”

“No. Thank you. Plain is fine.” April took the cup and set it on the table in front of her without tasting it.

The new widow had fine white skin meshed with a thousand tiny wrinkles. Her hard blue eyes held April in an unblinking stare until April understood she was expected to sample the tea. She took a sip. As she did so, she was distracted by the sight of a dark blue Ford that looked a lot like some agency’s unit passing slowly in front of the house. Nah. Lots of people drove Fords.

“I’m sorry we’re going to have to ask you some difficult questions,” April said softly.

Mrs. Dickey bent her torso graciously toward Mike. “More tea, Sergeant?”

“Not yet, thank you.”

April could feel some tension developing in Mike. She followed his gaze to the street, where the dark blue Ford cruised by in the opposite direction. Now his antennae were up.

“What would you like to know?” Mrs. Dickey inquired.

“Was your husband taking any kind of medication?”

“Oh, my, what kind of question is that?”

“It’s a background question only someone who knew your husband very well could answer. We need to establish what kinds of medication he normally took.”

The blue eyes regarded her. “Harold was a healthy man. I’m not aware of any.”

Not aware of any. Interesting way to put it. April inhaled. “If it would make you more comfortable, why don’t you tell us in your own words a little about your husband and his habits the last few weeks?”

“Harold was a great doctor, a great teacher, a wonderful man.” Mrs. Dickey poured herself some more tea.

“What about his personality? His moods?”

“Oh. Well. Of course he was preoccupied. He was always preoccupied.”

“Would you say he was depressed?” Mike threw in.

“Depressed? My husband? Never. He had too much to do. More tea?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” Mike smiled at April. Be direct and let’s get the hell out of here.

All right, all right. April nodded. “Mrs. Dickey, did your husband take antidepressants?”

“Of course not. Harold didn’t take anything, wouldn’t even touch an aspirin.”