“We’re a small town, Abigail. A small resort town, full of New Agers and old hippies, second-generation hippies, artists. We’re friendly.”
“I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s rude, but it’s fact. I’m not a friendly person, and I moved here for the quiet, the solitude. When you came to the house so soon after the market, it made me nervous, and angry. I have my reasons for carrying the pistol. I’m not obligated to share those reasons. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I like my property, and the land around it. I like this town. I feel comfortable here. I just want to be left alone.”
“What Sylbie said about curiosity’s true. It’s a natural thing. The more mysterious you are, the more people wonder.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“You’re a walking mystery.” He rose, came around the desk. As he did, he saw her brace, stay on alert, even when he leaned back against the front of the desk.
He wanted to ask her who’d hurt her, who she was afraid of. But he’d lose her if he did.
“You’re a really attractive woman who lives alone—with a big, muscular dog—outside of the town proper. Nobody knows for sure where you came from, why you came here, what you do for a living. And since this is the South, nobody knows who your people are. You’re a Yankee, so people will give you a certain latitude. We like eccentrics around here, it fits right in with the community. If people decide you’re eccentric, they’ll stop wondering.”
“By certain standards I am eccentric. I can be more so if that would satisfy everyone.”
He grinned at her, just couldn’t help it. “You’re definitely different. What do you do for a living, Abigail? If it’s not a mystery, or a matter of national security, you should be able to tell me. And that would be a simple conversation.”
“I’m a freelance computer programmer and software designer. I also design security systems, and improve or redesign existing systems, primarily for corporations.”
“Interesting. And not so hard to talk about.”
“Much of my work is highly sensitive. All of it is confidential.”
“Understood. You must be pretty smart.”
“I’m very smart.”
“Where’d you study?”
She stared at him, cool, calm, contained. “You see, when you ask all these questions, it doesn’t feel like conversation. It feels like interrogation.”
“Fair enough. Ask me a question.”
She frowned at him, eyes level. “I don’t have a question.”
“If you’re so smart, you can think of one.” He pushed off the desk, went to a dorm-sized refrigerator and took out two Cokes. He handed her one, popped the top on the second. “Something wrong?” he asked, when she just stared at the can in her hand.
“No. No. All right, a question. Why did you go into law enforcement?”
“See, that’s a good one.” He pointed at her in approval, then leaned against the desk again, the hills at his back in view out the window. “I like to solve problems. I believe in a lot of things. Don’t believe in a lot, too, but one of the things I believe in is there’s right and there’s wrong. Now, not everybody figures right and wrong exactly the same. It can be a subjective sort of thing. When you’re a cop, sometimes it is black and white, and sometimes you have to decide—in this situation, with these people, is it wrong, or just something that needs handling?”
“That seems very confusing.”
“Not really. It’s solving problems, and the only real way to solve them is to use your head. And your gut.”
“The intellect is a more accurate gauge than emotion. The intellect deals with facts. Emotions are variable and unreliable.”
“And human. What good are laws if they’re not human?”
He set his Coke down to take hers. He opened it for her, handed it back. “You need a glass?”
“Oh. No. Thank you.” She took a small sip. “Chief Gleason.”
“Brooks. Aren’t you going to ask me how I got a name like Brooks?”
“I assume it’s a family name.”
He pointed at her again. “You’d assume wrong. Now, aren’t you curious?”
“I … Yes, a little.”
“Brooks Robinson.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was afraid of that. Baseball, Abigail. Brooks was one of the best third basemen to ever guard the hot corner. My mother came from Baltimore, where he played. My mama, she’s a fiend for baseball. Even when she drifted here, back toward the tail end of the seventies, she followed baseball, and worshipped the Baltimore Orioles. According to her, when she watched Brooks win MVP in the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, she vowed when she had a son, she’d name him Brooks.”
“She must be very serious about baseball.”
“Oh, she is. Where’d Abigail come from?”
“It’s just a name.”
“I like Abigail. Old-fashioned class.”
“Thank you.” She rose. “I need to go. I still have work to finish today. I apologize if I seemed rude this morning, and I hope I’ve cleared things up.”
“I appreciate you coming in. What I said this morning stands. If you need anything, call.”
“I won’t, but thank you for the Coke and the conversation.” She handed the can back to him. “Good- bye.”
When she left, he studied the can. What did it say about him, he wondered, that he was actively thinking of sending it off for DNA and prints?
Didn’t seem right, on several levels, he decided. But he took the can to the restroom, poured the contents down the sink. Back in his office, he slipped the empty can into an evidence bag, and stored it in his bottom drawer.
Just in case.
The entire day left Brooks feeling restless, and it wasn’t his usual state of mind. He didn’t want his own company, and since he’d told Sylbie he had to work instead of just saying no, thanks, he couldn’t justify dropping by McGrew’s Pub for a beer, a game of pool, some conversation.
Instead of heading home, he drove to the end of Shop Street, hung a left and pulled into the rambling, never-quite-finished house behind his mother’s Prius.
Scaffolding clung to the side, where he could follow the progress on her current mural. Sexy fairies, he noted, with flowing hair, delicate wings. Under the roofline on the front, burnished-skinned, leanly muscled men and women rode dragons with iridescent scales of ruby or emerald or sapphire.
It was impressive work, he thought. Maybe a little strange for house and home, but no one could miss the O’Hara-Gleason place.
He stepped onto the cherry-red porch to the door flanked by pointy-eared elves.
And stepped inside music and scent and color. Clutter and comfort reigned, dominated by his mother’s art, cheered by the flowers his father brought home at least twice a week.
Tulips to celebrate the coming spring, Brooks decided. Every color of the rainbow and tucked into vases, bowls, pots scattered around the room. The black cat his father named Chuck curled on the sofa and barely slitted his eyes open to acknowledge Brooks.
“No, don’t get up,” Brooks said under the blast of Fergie filling the house.
He wandered back, past his father’s office, the tiny, crowded library, and into the hub—the kitchen.
The biggest room in the house, it mixed the thoroughly modern in sleek appliances—the cooktop with indoor grill, the glass-fronted wine cabinet—with the charm of lush pots of herbs, a thriving Meyer lemon tree blooming away. Crystal drops in varying shapes winked in the windows, catching the sun. More sun poured through the skylight in the lofted ceiling, over the bounty of flowers and vines and fruit his mother had painted over the soft
