Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Read Free Page A

that was about to go belly-up. He put his boots back on and went into the yard again.
    *
    Parker found him with a hammer in his hand and his mouth full of nails, mending a loose picket in the fence.
    “Hello, Jack.”
    Willows drove home a nail.
    “Nice job on the plum tree. Put the branches in the garage. Give them a chance to dry out. Great kindling.”
    Willows tilted his head, dropped the nails into his hand. “I keep my car in the garage. You want me to let my car get wet so some guy I don’t even know can have a nice warm fire?”
    “The real estate agent’s already been here, has she?”
    “How’d you know about that?”
    “You told me she was coming.”
    “I did?” Willows frowned.
    “Day before last. What’re you asking?”
    “Three thirty.”
    “A steal.”
    “You think so?”
    “Just kidding, Jack.”
    Willows positioned another nail, drove it home with three quick strokes.
    “Had lunch?”
    “No.”
    “Hungry?”
    “Not particularly.” Willows stared at her for a moment. She was wearing faded jeans and white leather running shoes, a scuffed brown leather jacket he’d loaned her a month ago and that she obviously had no intention of returning. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a kind of abbreviated ponytail. The crisp January air had brought colour to her cheeks, a sparkle to her eyes. Not for the first time, he thought that she was far too good-looking to be a cop.
    “All this fresh air, exercise. I figured you had to be hungry. What’s in the cupboard, a tin of consommé soup and maybe a couple of old bones? I stopped by at a deli on the way over, bought a loaf of rye bread, some black forest ham. And I dropped in at your neighbourhood 7-Eleven, picked up one of those fire logs, guaranteed to burn for three hours minimum, all the colours of the rainbow.”
    “Sounds enchanting. Who’s gonna light it, Judy Garland?”
    Parker smiled. “Finish your chores, Jack. I’ll get busy in the kitchen. Just don’t tell any of my feminist friends about it, that’s all.”
    They ate on the floor in the living room, in front of the silent, nearly smokeless fire. Orange and blue flames licked at the blackened bricks. Parker had brought along a bottle of Napa Valley burgundy. Willows drained his glass and picked up a crumb off the rug. When he and Sheila had moved in, the hardwood floors had been hidden beneath beige wall-to-wall carpet. They’d left the carpet in place until the children had mastered their fine motor skills, and spilt milk was no longer a regular occurrence. Then Willows had rented a huge ungainly machine and sanded and varnished the floors, and they’d spent more money than they could afford on area carpets.
    He ran his fingers lightly across the polished wood. He’d done a thorough job, three layers of Varathane, the first two with a matt and the third with a glossy finish. The floor had worn well. Outlasted the marriage.
    “I wonder what kind of chemicals they use to make the flames go all those colours,” said Parker.
    “Carcinogenic, probably.”
    “More wine?”
    Willows held out his glass.
    “What’s the magic word?”
    “Gimme.”
    Parker poured half of what was left into his glass, helped herself to the rest of the bottle. She said, “I hear Eddy and Judith are finally going to tie the knot.”
    “I’ll believe it when I see him wearing the ring,” said Willows. Eddy Orwell was a homicide detective. He’d had a rocky, long-term romance with a woman named Judith Lundstrom. He’d met Judith after her boyfriend had been run over by a squad car in hot pursuit of a sniper who’d shot several citizens to death. The murder investigation had terminated with the death of one of Willows’ friends, a cop named George Franklin. Willows drank the Napa Valley dry.
    “How’d it go with the real estate agent?”
    “She seems to know what she’s doing.”
    “I figured as much, the car she drives.”
    “Been snooping, have we?”
    “I drove past about eleven.