Quinn said, “Apart from Erica, was there anyone else in your life who you wish had never been born?”
“Oh heavens,” said Kathy. “What a horrible question to ask!”
“Just hypothetically.”
“Well, I hate to speak ill of the dead,” she said, “but did you see that media circus about Monica Childers a few weeks ago?”
Quinn nodded. “Did you know her?”
“She was my step-daughter. She made my life a living hell.”
After helping Kathy achieve a peaceful demise, Quinn placed her into a shallow grave in the North Georgia woods, went back to the mall, and waited for Erica to leave her station. The store wasn’t busy, but there were people milling around. Quinn waited until the area around the jewelry counter was vacant. He placed a small package by the cash register and walked out of the store.
Erica finished up in the bathroom, walked back to her station, and checked the area to make sure the fill-in girl hadn’t left any paperwork for her. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the small gift-wrapped package with her name on it. There was a note: “Please accept this with all my love. I’m filing for divorce today. Love, Brad.”
Erica let out a squeal of delight. This was her dream come true, what she’d been working for all these months. Working the jewelry counter at Neiman’s, she was tired of watching other women casually make purchases that eclipsed her annual salary. Her friends chided her for always dating married men. She couldn’t wait to show them the fruits of her labor!
She carefully unwrapped the package, slowly lifted the lid.
And days later, cleanup crews were still finding remnants of her flesh in the strangest places.
CHAPTER 53
I woke up first, so I went into the kitchen and set the oven to four hundred. While it preheated, I filled a blender with milk, flour, eggs, butter, salt, and vanilla and almond extract. I let that churn on high a full minute, found Kathleen’s muffin pan, and sprayed it with nonfat cooking spray. I poured the batter into the muffin slots, popped them in the oven, and set the timer for twenty-seven minutes. Th en I placed some butter on a plate to soften and headed back to Kathleen’s bedroom, where I belonged.
“What was all that racket?” she asked.
“I’m making us popovers for breakfast.”
“You can’t make popovers at home. They always fall before you take them out,” she said.
“Not mine.”
“Only fancy restaurants can make popovers that stay puffed up.”
“Only fancy restaurants and me,” I said.
“If you’re wrong and I’m right, will you take me somewhere fancy for breakfast sometime?”
“Do you have a place in mind?” I said.
“I’d like to have breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she said.
“Actually, I think Tiffany’s is a jewelry store, not a restaurant.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’ve never seen the movie. I just always assumed …”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “My popovers won’t fall. We won’t have to eat somewhere fancy.”
“Darn,” she said.
Somebody famous once said that you can kiss your friends and family good-bye and put a lot of miles between you, but you’ll always be with them because you’re not just a part of the world; the world is a part of you.
Or something like that.
The point is, I never missed anyone the way I missed Kathleen this last trip. When I found my way back to her modest duplex with the faded green siding, half attic, and half basement, and she jumped into my arms and wrapped her legs around me and squealed with joy—well, I knew this must be what all the poets make such a fuss about.
“How long do we have before the popovers fall?” she asked.
“Forever, because they never will. I have it down to a science.”
“So what you’re saying, you’re a chef scientist.”
“We all have a specialty,” I said.
“My specialty is math,” she said.
“Math?”
She gave me a sly smile. “That’s right. As in, how many times can one thing … go into another.” She arched an eyebrow seductively.
“Before a cooking timer goes off ?” I asked.
“Hypothetically,” she said.
“I’m not certain, but I’m willing to expend a great deal of effort toward helping you solve that equation.”
