a lamp in the room where he died? It’s a custom in my country.” She left, then returned quickly.
Tracy had been scanning the living room, which was almost sadly neat. She didn’t know how Herb had passed most of his time, but some portion of it had been spent on the minutiae of daily life.
“Janya, did you know Herb? Better than I did, I mean. I don’t see any photos around. The deputy says the funeral director wants the phone numbers for his next of kin. You don’t happen to know who they are and where they live, do you?”
“We only spoke a few times. He never told me anything about himself.” Janya spoke in a lower tone. “And I never told him anything about my life, either. Although I think he might have liked that.”
Tracy didn’t want to feel guilty. After all, the only connection she and Herb Krause had shared was the upcoming rent check. Still, she couldn’t forget the times she had made sure he wasn’t outside so she could sneak by his cottage and avoid a conversation.
“I guess if there’s nothing on the rental agreement, I’ll have to go through his things to see what I can find. His family will need to be notified. I’m sure they’ll want some of his stuff.” Although as she said this, Tracy wondered. There was nothing in sight that was anything like an heirloom. The furniture was inexpensive and unremarkable. Knickknacks had obviously never been his passion.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Janya said politely.
Tracy had given up looking for anything. But she knew Janya was only talking about Herb.
Ken was gone, but that was no surprise. Wanda’s husband had left the house before she even opened her eyes. She doubted she would see him at all today, even though it was her day off from the restaurant. Most nights he got home after she’d already gone to bed, which was fine with her, since they never did anything interesting on the pillow-top mattress anymore, no way, no how.
She wasn’t sure where her husband went and what he did when work was over. She was sure she didn’t care anymore. Ken could be whooping it up with his fellow officers or with some cute young thing who thought hanging out with a cop was some sort of Dirty Harry marathon. Whatever was going on, she had lost interest. A woman was supposed to fight for her man, but what happened if he wasn’t worth so much as a rip in her pantyhose?
Sunlight was pouring through the slits between the bedroom blinds, and she had been sitting on the edge of the bed long enough. She wished, as she always did, that she had not promised her son she would never smoke again. Then she headed for the bathroom.
One squint in the mirror convinced her she had not, as hoped, indulged in genuine beauty sleep last night. She had been plagued with hot flashes. If she’d slept soundly in between, the evidence was nowhere to be seen. She had bags under her eyes, crow’s-feet at the sides, furrows shooting up between her eyebrows like twin exclamation points. The signs of aging still surprised her.
No wonder Ken didn’t find his way home very often.
After a tepid shower—she really should have put a new hot water heater on the list for that Deloche woman—she changed into shorts and a tank top, and wound her hair on hot rollers. Then she limped into the kitchen to see what she could pull together for a late breakfast.
She was surprised to find Ken was still good for something. He had brewed a pot of coffee, which had cooked down to sludge, but he’d also brought in the newspaper. Armed with her first cup of hazelnut mocha from a fresh pot—sinfully rich with sugar and whipping cream—she turned to her horoscope.
“Aries…” She scanned the column and read out loud. “‘You don’t lack for romantic interests, but playing the field won’t bring you closer to finding your heart’s desire. The time has come to narrow your prospects. Friends can help you find your true love. Remember, others can see what you can’t.’”
A belly laugh erupted. The laughter felt good, cleansing, as if she were getting rid of something poisonous.
She read the paragraph again. Okay, point one was correct. No question she had to narrow her romantic interests. She had reached a saturation point. In fact, there really wasn’t enough free time in her evenings for