Broken Vows Mystery 03-In Sickness and in Death Read Free Page A

like driving back to the shop, but I knew he expected me to eat lunch with him today. And I could run into the bakery down the street for a dessert. I would have much rather taken a nap.
    But I soldiered on, picking up the pizza and returning to the shop in time to catch a phone call from Ray.
    “How’s your day going?”
    “Okay. I shopped. We’re having lasagna for dinner.”
    “Excellent. Can you set one more place?”
    “I’ll have to set two extra. I invited Erica.”
    His silence unnerved me.
    “Is Erica a problem, Ray?”
    “No, but I have someone I want you to meet.”
    “I don’t need a psychiatrist, Ray. I’m doing everything you asked me to do.” Not with any enjoyment or enthusiasm, but I was doing it.
    “He’s not a doctor, Darlin’.”
    “Who is he?”
    “His name is Danny Phillips. He’s twelve.”
    “Twelve? Where did you meet him?”
    “His father was arrested this morning for grand theft auto.”
    “Not good.”
    “It gets worse. He’s Danny’s only parent, and he’s not going to make bail. When he’s proven guilty, he may be incarcerated for a while.”
    I noticed Ray said “when” not “if.” The Sheriff’s Department must have an airtight case. “So why do you want me to meet him?”
    “We’re his new foster parents.”

Erica arrived at our home before Ray. I was in the kitchen talking to myself, or, rather, talking to Ray, saying all the things I wouldn’t have the courage or stamina to say to his face. Nor would I voice them in front of this twelve-year-old boy, who needed a loving home. Too bad I didn’t feel capable of loving him. I wasn’t even sure I would like him.
    “What are we having?”
    “Lasagna.”
    Erica plopped onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “Great, I wore a white blouse. I’ll probably get sauce all over it and look like someone stabbed me.”
    I stopped slicing the bread, holding the knife in midair. “You’re very graphic today and not in a good way.”
    “Nobody wants me anymore. I’m fat and used up.”
    “You don’t look so bad to me.” Her hair could use styling. She could button up her blouse a couple more buttons. Okay, maybe she had a slight roll at the waistline, but nothing crisis-mode. On a good day, she could still give Kate Hudson a run for her money with her sparkling blue eyes and natural blonde ringlets.
    “My thighs rub together.” She yanked on the blouse. “This is size eight. I’m an elephant.” Her eyes raked over my body. “You stole my figure and gave me yours in return.”
    I resumed slicing so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn the knife on her.
    “Can I have a beer?” Erica slid off the stool and helped herself to a Corona.
    “You shouldn’t drink with your medication.”
    She took a long swing. “I’m not taking it anymore. Mom said I’m cured.”
    I nicked my finger with the knife. Thankfully, no blood oozed out to ruin the bread.
    Erica claimed our dead mother gave her advice all the time. I didn’t know exactly how these exchanges occurred since Erica never even visited Mom’s grave, but I did know from experience that their supposed conversations tended to precede disaster. “When did you take your last pill?”
    Her shoulders hunched. “I don’t remember.”
    “What does Dr. Albert say about it?”
    “I haven’t seen him lately.” She headed toward the living room. “I’m going to watch the news.”
    Erica had stopped taking her medicine before, claiming to be cured. Her bipolar disorder would never be cured, just tempered to a dull roar. Tomorrow morning I would drag her to Dr. Albert’s office and force her to start taking her medication again. She’d come so far in the last year. I didn’t want to see her backslide. I rolled my shoulders and my neck. I’d need to go to bed early tonight to have enough energy to win that battle.
    When I set the breadbasket on the table, Erica was watching a talk show. Two women were attacking each other on a stage, pulling hair and screaming