“Hey, it looks like you’ve got enough leftovers for one hungry journalist.”
“Sure does,” I said. “Come on over.”
“Don’t have to invite me twice,” she said. “And you can tell me about your interesting day, and I’ll do the same.”
It only took a few minutes to warm up what was left of the dinner Diane and I had shared, and Paula dug in enthusiastically as I watched in awe as she ate. Paula always had the capability of putting away big meals without it showing up anywhere. “A long day but not much to show for it,” she said. “Besides the story about Maggie Branch, I also had to do a story on a proposal to expand the town hall, which is getting all the poor overwhelmed taxpayers in a snit.”
“What’s going on with the homicide?”
“The state police and its opioid task force are taking the lead in poor Maggie’s murder, and the Tyler police are grinning and trying to bear it. There’d be a time when the chief would have everyone’s back and put his booted foot down, but not with heroin everywhere. The Tyler selectmen are just as happy to have the state police come in.”
“Any more news on the case?”
“Depends. The news is the news, and they’re tracking down whatever leads they might have. And that latest lead is the odd one, finding that little packet of heroin in her shop. I mean, hey, just because heroin was found there, doesn’t mean it was left by the killer. It could have fallen out of someone’s pocket, a week ago or a month ago.”
“But budgets and resources have to be used where appropriated.”
She dabbed at a little drop of gravy on her chin. “My, aren’t we being the cynical one.”
“You started it,” I said.
The cleanup went faster this time, and we cuddled as best as we could on the couch, with me trying to avoid putting pressure on my bladders—such hot talk—and Paula tapping away on her laptop.
We watched a British comedy, one of those quirky little films that take place in a small English village, and it made us laugh so much that my sides ached, but not my back and shoulder, which was nice for a change.
As it got later we went upstairs and she pointed to the bathroom; I walked in without raising a fuss.
She got my bladders out, measured them, and shook her head as she emptied the measuring cup and washed it. “Sorry. Still on the high end. You’re still going to be tubed up like a Borg or something.”
“Without the skin condition, I hope.”
“That’s our next step.”
I got my clothes off and Paula ran some water into the tub. I stepped in and she did a good wash of me with a hand cloth, and then using a small plastic container, rinsed off the soapy water on my skin. It felt good to be washed, and it felt good to be touched by Paula.
When she dried me off she gave me a teasing look as she patted the towel in a sensitive place. “Nice to see part of you is still working.”
“Glad to see you noticed.”
She helped me into fresh clothes, and feeling pretty refreshed, even with the throbbing aches back there, she helped me into bed and said, “Feel like company?”
“Always,” I said. “But a lot of the time I get restless. You know that.”
Paula kissed me. “What, you’re warning me already that you’re going to toss me out of bed?”
“I just don’t want any surprises.”
“Lighten up,” she said. “I want some company, too, and if you get too restless, I’ll kick you out and you can go to the couch downstairs.”
“Deal.”
Paula turned on the television, lowered the volume, and switched it to one of those reality televisions shows featuring rich housewives who tend to travel in groups, eat at fine restaurants, and yell at each other a lot. It was one of Paula’s guilty pleasures, and who was I to tell her otherwise?
From the bathroom, water was used and flushed, and then she came back in, wearing an oversize Red Sox T-shirt. When she climbed in next to me, I saw she wasn’t wearing much else.
“Put your eyes back where they belong,” she said.
“I’m an invalid. Don’t you have any mercy?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
She slid under the blankets and picked up the remote, toggled it so that it would switch off in a half hour, and we kissed some. Then she sighed, stretched out behind me, and said, “Nice to be here with you.”
“It’ll be nicer when I’m in better shape.”
She patted my hip. “Slow down, cowboy. One day and then another.”
“Got it.”
So we settled in, and on the television screen one housewife was screaming at another for losing a historical piece of jewelry, and that triggered something. “Paula?” I said.
“You expecting Diane?”
“Just wanted to make sure you were awake.”
“For the next several minutes, so make it worth it.”
I said, “I called the Tyler Historical Society a couple of times today.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And nobody answered.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the voice-mail box was full, not accepting any messages.”
Paula yawned. “Well, what did you expect?”
“Sorry?”
“The Tyler Historical Society,” she said. “Maggie Branch was its president.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lots of questions just popped up in my head, like a herd of prairie dogs, but they could wait. Paula was drifting off and I didn’t want to wake her up. A few more minutes passed.
“Oh, Lewis?”
“Still here.”
“I think I left the lights on downstairs. You want me to go back down there and switch them off?”
I reached around and took her hand. “No. Don’t leave.”
“Okay. Thanks. Because if you had told me to go downstairs, I would have said no.”
“That’s my girl.”
She moved some and soon was slumbering behind me. Up on the television more overdressed and undereducated women were throwing drinks at each other.
I closed my eyes.
Tried to block out the sounds and memories.
Failed.
It had been a few years ago. The local news media was agog when news broke about Maggie Tyler Branch having discovered
