“What gives?” Jayne asked.
“Mr. Whistler asked if I could come in today, from like eleven to two, because some people are off sick and stuff. I’ve got no classes then so I said I could whip over and do them.”
Jayne didn’t look convinced, but said, “You sure you’ve got time to get over there and back before your afternoon classes?”
“I’m sure.”
“You want me to take a break and drive you over?” Jayne asked.
“Or I could,” I said.
Tyler had his bike, but school was in Stratford, and Whistler’s was across the bridge in Milford.
“I can do it,” he said. “Unless it rains. If it rains, can I call one of you guys?”
We both nodded.
I was, at some point today, going to try to learn what sort of arrangements were being made for Elizabeth McBain. Would I be welcome at any possible service? If not, should I at least send flowers to the funeral home? I was thinking I’d get back to Diedre later, given that she was the one who’d let me know Elizabeth had died.
Jayne was the first to leave for work. She got in her car at half-past eight, about two minutes before Tyler hopped on his bike and went tearing down the street, headed for school. I was settling in behind the wheel of the Explorer when I noticed, in the mirror, a vehicle stopping at the end of the driveway, blocking my way.
Shit, I figured. Detective Hardy again.
Except it wasn’t, unless Hardy had traded in her unmarked cruiser for a pickup truck. In my oversized door mirror I could see Greg behind the wheel. I was going to get out, but he bailed from his truck first and came up to my door.
I powered down the window.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he said, resting his elbow on the sill, one of his personally rolled French cigarettes dangling between his lips. It was down to about a quarter of an inch and appeared to have gone out.
“Thought I’d swing by on my way to work and apologize for coming by last night,” he said, resting his arms on the door sill, his face partway into my car.
“For what?” I said.
He laughed. “I feel a little foolish, is all. I’d been talking for a while with Julie about whether I should ask you about teaming up again, you know. Finally, she says, I’m sick of hearing about this, why don’t you go and ask him? No way, I says. It’s late. So what, she says, get your ass over there and ask him. So, I did.”
“Sounds like Julie might be the best thing that’s happened to you in a while.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I did kind of put you on the spot.”
“I said I’d think about it. But for what it’s worth, Jayne thinks I should go for it.”
Greg looked impressed. “Well, nice to have her on my side.”
“Look,” I said, “I wanted to talk to you about something you said the other day. About when you came to see me, when I was at my worst. You know.”
“Yeah, what?”
“That part about me saying that it was all my fault. About Brie.”
“Don’t worry, man. I’ve never said a word about it.”
“That’s not — no, that’s not what I mean. I just wanted to say, that doesn’t have to mean what you might have thought.”
Greg shook his head. “You don’t have to explain.”
“No, I think I do. I can believe I might have said something like that. I mean, Brie and I had our troubles, and a lot of them were my fault. I think it’s more likely that’s what I meant.”
Greg nodded confidently. “I hear ya.”
“I’m serious. I think that’s what it was.”
“Then let’s consider it case closed,” Greg said. “We don’t ever have to mention it again.”
He smiled, and the butt that had been dangling from his lower lip dropped into my car, landing somewhere on the floor mat. I don’t think Greg noticed, and I pretended not to.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m off. Gotta grab some donuts on the way to the mall. Want to keep the squatters on my good side.”
He gave me a thumbs-up, took his elbows off the door, and headed back to his truck.
My first stop was a waterfront home, worth a cool two mill easy. The owners wanted to build a large walkout from the back of the house, where they’d have a nice view of New Haven Harbor. I’d brought along an iPad and showed them a few pics of what they might want to consider, then took some measurements so that I could better prepare an estimate. Right off the top of my head, I was thinking twenty-five thousand to do the job, which after materials would allow me to clear a good six or seven grand. Of course, once you got started on a project, the client always started adding things. Hey, what if we put in a firepit over here? What about some overhanging beams we could let vines grow on? You just had to make it clear that there was an upcharge for everything. Once they saw the potential in a project, they usually went along with the extra cost.
I had a second stop planned for the afternoon, up in Orange. A young couple with a six-month-old was considering bumping out the back of the house to make a new baby’s room. The husband was the one who’d taken a leave from work to look after the kid, and his wife, a corporate lawyer, had the flow, and wanted to be there when I scoped out the job, so I wasn’t due there until five.
So I went home for lunch.
There were the makings for a decent sandwich in the fridge. Sliced ham and oven-roasted turkey from the deli counter at Whistler’s. (We figured, if the owner was good enough to hire Tyler, we should buy our groceries there.) I found some sliced cheddar in the fridge and half a loaf of whole-wheat in the cupboard. I took three slices of ham, three of turkey, two of cheese, and made the thickest honkin’ sandwich this kitchen had ever seen.
Washed it down with a beer.
I was killing off the last of the Sam Adams when I heard a car out front. I went to the window, saw it wasn’t a car but one of those huge GM SUVs. A black Chevy Suburban. So far as I knew, the cops didn’t use Suburbans, although they were often the vehicle of choice for big-time government law enforcement types.
Maybe the CIA was paying me a visit. I mean, was that any crazier than some of the other shit that had happened lately?
But the guy getting out didn’t look like someone who’d been sent from Washington to talk to me. He was about five-eight, pushing two hundred and twenty pounds, judging by the slight paunch hanging over his belt. He was in jeans and a button-down-collar work shirt, and he had a red ball cap on I thought might be a political statement in favor of a former president, but it had no message on the front. Not even a logo for a tractor or a sports team.
I came out the front door as he was walking up the driveway.
“Help you?” I asked.
He smiled. “Would you be Andrew Carville?”
“I would.”
“Glad I caught you while you were home. Kinda took a chance on it since I was passing by this way.”
“What can I help you with?”
“I hear you do renos, additions, that kind of thing.”
“You heard right,” I said.
“So, I’ve got this place up Wheelers Farm Road. You know it?”
“I do.”
“Got a house up there. Not the one I live in, but I rent it out. Kind of an investment place. Anyway, had a tenant lived there for a few years and he just moved out and he left the place kind of in a mess. Holes in the drywall, a busted door. Couple of windows need replacing. Bunch of little things, and maybe I made a mistake getting a place like that when I’m not all that handy, but it needs some loving attention before I can even think about renting it to anyone else.”
It didn’t sound like the kind of job I’d enjoy doing. Of course, money’s money. But if the morning project came through, and this other afternoon prospect looked promising, this was something I wouldn’t mind giving a wave. Then again, if I got neither of them, I’d be a fool to have turned this down.