shit.
He wanted a change, then I’d give him a change. I took Myrtle with me and headed out of town, going south, not north toward home, to the high-end salon where my sister liked to take me for mani-pedis.
They knew me there, though I didn’t frequent the place very often. I mean, you know, my hair is long and, aside from the odd trim, it doesn’t need much fussing. Still, they knew me, and I’d brought Myrtle along before. Never a problem.
So we sailed in through the front door, and everyone stopped what they were doing and looked our way. I swept the room, but wasn’t really looking at anyone. Instead I was using my inner radar to give each individual a brief read before I settled on the cute male stylist with the gel-stiff Mohawk and the to-die-for eyelashes, and said, “I need a change.”
“Oh, baby, you’ve come to the right place,” he said, and he patted his chair.
* * *
Mason didn’t know what to make of Rachel stomping off, so he let her go. Then he put in a call to Rosie, left a message on his voice mail and headed back to the house, along with a big container of spiedie chicken (aka chicken breast in bite-size pieces, marinated in Binghamton’s famous spiedie sauce) for the boys for lunch. He was a little bit pissed at Rachel. He’d wanted to talk to her about the boys and Josh missing Myrtle so much, and the puppy idea, and Jeremy’s impending graduation and...well, he’d just wanted to talk to her.
But she was in a snit, and he figured he’d done something, though he wasn’t sure what. He hoped to hell this wasn’t the beginning of the end. Hell, he’d better fix this. He didn’t want to lose her. But he was damned if he knew what to do because he wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong.
Rosie called him back before he made it home. “Hey, partner. How’s the rest and relaxation goin’?”
Mason said, “Right. Listen, I talked to Peter Rouse this morning, and—”
“You did what?”
“You heard me, Rosie. Now listen, he says he was sleeping with a woman who went all Fatal Attraction on him when he tried to dump her. He says he thinks she’s the one who set the fire, then planted the hacksaw in his truck to frame him.”
“Mason, you’re supposed to be staying away from this case.”
“Will you quit changing the subject? The forensics report on the hacksaw said ‘incomplete’ when I read it before. Have they found anything else since?”
Rosie sighed. “I’m gonna call Rachel on your white ass.”
“Rachel’s pissed at my white ass right now, so it wouldn’t help. Now, will you tell me what Forensics says about the hacksaw?”
“Cantone will have my ass if—”
“Rosie, how long have we been partners?”
Silence stretched out, and then Rosie finally sighed into the phone. “A few metal fibers not inconsistent with the pipe that was cut at the crime scene, but you already knew that. There was also a human hair on the handle. No DNA. It broke off too far from the root, but it was long, curly and brunette. Rebecca Rouse was a redhead.”
“That fits. Rouse said the other woman was a brunette,” Mason said.
“That story sounds like something a guy caught red-handed would make up to cover his ass, Mace.”
“I know. I know it does. But listen, all the guy’s other tools are Snap-on, Rosie. The hacksaw was a Craftsman.”
“That’s not exactly proof of innocence, but...you’re sayin’ you believe him?”
Mason sighed. Rosie didn’t even change his own oil. He wouldn’t get it any more than Rachel had at first. But he had something his partner would understand. “Rachel thinks he was telling the truth.”
“She was with you, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“But she’s not there now?”
“Nope.”
“So what did you do to piss her off?”
“Damned if I know, bro.”
“You thank her?”
“For...?”
“Shit, Mason, you really have to ask? She came to that hospital every day. Brought her work with her. Took in your boys. You telling me you haven’t thanked her?”
“Well, of course I thanked her.”
“You buy her a present? Flowers? Anything?”
“Jeez, Rosie, I’ve only been home a day.”
“Gwen says you oughtta pin a medal on her. But flowers would be just as good. Or somethin’ sweet. Maybe take her out. She’s been workin’ hard for you and those boys, partner.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll try that.”
“Not today, though. Your first day home, you better damn well be getting some rest so you can get back to work. Just let her know it’s coming. You read me?”
“Loud and clear, partner. Loud and clear.”
* * *
I stared in the mirror at my brand-new bangs for a solid half hour. Myrtle kept bumping me in the calves with her head. She wanted her dinner. She wanted a walk. She wanted my attention. But instead of attending to her needs as I normally would, many and endless though they were, I was standing still, and she probably couldn’t fathom why.
She bumped me again, harder.
“All right, all right. Let me just—” I tweaked the bangs with my fingers, trying to decide if I loved them or hated them, and still couldn’t make up my mind. They changed my entire face, that was for sure.
Bump!
“Okay, Myrt.” I turned away from my apparently hypnotic reflection, bent low and rubbed her face with both hands. “I’m sorry I was ignoring you. You only just lost your best friend, and I should be showering you with affection, not primping in the mirror. If I were you, I’d bite me.”
But she was too busy closing her eyes tight and letting me rub her wrinkly face.
“Come on, dinnertime.”
She raced down the stairs at the word dinner, stopping at the bottom to turn and bark up at me in a high-pitched yip that was more suited to a toy poodle than an overweight bulldog.
I hurried to catch up and get her meal in front of her. Then I stood staring into the fridge the same way I’d been staring into the mirror. Myrt was wolfing her meal. But nothing looked good to me.
The phone rang. Sighing, I closed the fridge and picked up the call. “Yeah?”
“Well, that sounds morose,” Mason said.
