Don't Cry Over Killed Milk Read Free

Jack thought he was holed up in the basement eating canned food and making homemade weapons. I told Jack he was being ridiculous: Jeremiah was just grieving.”
    “Rebecca said he may have sought psychological counseling,” Damon said.
    “It’s possible. But he lives close to Mrs. Chenworth, and the old bird kept an eye on the Milk house. She said she never saw anyone going in or out.”
    “Well, he seems to be doing all right now,” Damon said. “He spent fifteen minutes this afternoon complaining to me about his gardening.”
    “I’m glad to hear that. I know he returned to his duties at the park the summer after Kathryn and Samuel died.”
    After dinner, Damon insisted that his mother relax while he washed dishes. Lynne followed him from the dining room to the kitchen and sat at a small table covered in scrapbooking paraphernalia.
    “Can I tell you what happened to me last night?” Lynne asked.
    Damon, standing in front of the sink, twisted his neck to look back at her. “Something good?”
    “Not exactly. A taxi driver put his hand on my thigh.”
    Damon dropped a plate into the sink. Soapy water splashed over his wrists. “What?”
    “My taxi driver hit on me. He was pretty aggressive.”
    “I’ll say. Did you call the police?”
    “No, Damon, I didn’t. It was partially my fault. I sat in the front seat.”
    “Mother, it’s not one bit your fault if you didn’t invite it.”
    “I didn’t,” she said softly. “I was coming back from meeting a friend for dinner in Dupont Circle. I had taken the metro downtown because I planned to have a couple of glasses of wine, and I didn’t want to drive. After dinner, I decided to catch a cab home.”
    “You were by yourself?”
    “Yes. Sherry lives near the restaurant, and I walked her home. We flagged a taxi from her front stoop. The backseat was crammed with old suitcases.”
    Damon looked at the disarray in his mother’s home. “That should have made you feel right at home.”
    Lynne smiled. “Touche , Damon. The taxi driver said he hadn’t intended to pick up any more customers for the night but saw us waving. He offered to put the suitcases in the trunk. I told him not to bother, I could just sit in front.”
    “Do you think he planned it in advance?’
    “To lure a naive fifty-three-year-old woman into his passenger’s seat? I don’t think so.”
    “So what happened?” Damon dried his hands on a dish towel.
    “I made some mild conversation as he started the drive. My skirt had ridden up a bit from the way I was sitting. Just after we crossed over the Key Bridge into Arlington, he clamped a sweaty paw down on my left thigh. It felt like a wet jellyfish. He didn’t say anything or even look over.”
    “Mother, that’s molestation.”
    “It was more like loutish flirtation. I just grabbed his shirtsleeve, picked up his arm, and shunted it back to his side of the console.” She grinned. “Don’t look so dismayed, Damon. I can handle myself and I did.”
    “Did you get out?”
    “No. He didn’t say another word. He drove me home and I paid him. I didn’t leave a tip. No big deal.”
    “Except now he knows where you live. I should call Gerry Sloman.”
    “Damon, I don’t need the police. Save the chivalry for Bethany Krims.”

Chapter 2

    Damon walked home through the clammy evening air. David Einstaff, his duplex neighbor, greeted him with a tip of his whiskey glass from the front porch they shared. Damon nodded and continued inside.
    He plunked down at the kitchen table in front of his laptop and logged onto the Hollydale listserv. It had only been three hours since he posted his message but he already had four replies. Each conveyed a story similar to the one articulated by Jeremiah Milk. Insects were eating away at crepe myrtles throughout the neighborhood despite the best efforts of the tree care companies. One gardening enthusiast pointed to several species of aphids and Japanese beetles as possible sources of the problem.