middle of the night to break up a bonfire on the beach after it’s closed, or not being able to have a beer while at Maxine’s birthday party in case I’ve got to run to a call or break up a fight. Which, by the way, you missed this year.”
“The fight at Maxine’s birthday party, or just a fight in general?” Vivien climbed out of the car, then opened the back door to pull out the Nutcracker headpiece.
Helga rolled her eyes, looking at her from over the car roof and its siren. “The party, of course. There hasn’t been a fight for a while—not since Trib found out his pastry chef had slathered whipped cream all over, and presumably licked, the new, very hot produce guy earlier that day. Watching two gay men having a catfight is something I could have done without.”
“I miss Maxine’s party every year,” Vivien replied, walking across the road with the mask tucked under her arm. “Ever since I came to the one back in…what was it, four years ago, and she was trying to get me to hook her up with a tattoo artist? Remember that? She wanted me to bring one from New York, like I could put him or her in my suitcase or something. As if there aren’t any tattoo artists here in Wicks Hollow—or anywhere in Michigan.” She shook her head, happy to have a reason to laugh.
Helga chuckled. “No one in the entire county is dumb enough to try to ink Maxine Took.”
“True dat,” replied Vivien, digging out the key to her cottage.
“What did she want tattooed on her, anyway?”
“I think it was something like Exceptional and Eighty with a woman flexing her bicep…and this was three years before she was turning eighty,” Vivien said, shoving open the door. “That was pretty damned optimistic of her.”
“That sounds like Maxine. And oh, VL, I just love what you’ve done to the place,” Helga added dryly, stepping inside the cottage. “Geez.”
“I haven’t had time to finish unpacking. I’ve been a little busy, you know. And I’ve had to actually cook instead of ordering takeout, which is a real pain—”
“Cooking is what most people do.”
“Not people who live in the city.”
“Well, you’re not in the city anymore, Dorothy.”
Helga walked into the tiny kitchen, which had been done with happy blue and white tile on the countertops, probably back in the eighties, Vivien guessed. There was no island and about a square yard of counter space, and the cabinets were decades-old medium brown that might eventually be called “vintage” but were just plain ugly (in her mind) right now. Someone had put blue and white china knobs on them and hung matching blue curtains over the small window that looked into the backyard.
“I can see you’ve been doing a lot of cooking,” said Helga, eyeing the single pot in the dish drainer and the one plate next to it.
“I hate cooking,” Vivien replied, putting her keys, purse, and the Nutcracker on the kitchen table. “I love eating but I hate cooking. Food, glorious food!” she sang with a grin. “You know that’s my theme song— Hey, where are you going?”
“Gonna check around a little.”
“Check around for what?” Then it dawned on her, and Vivien put a hand over her middle as her insides sank. Her cop friend was making sure there was no one here lying in wait for her—or that no one had been here, vandalizing or stealing anything.
“It’s really hard to tell whether someone’s come through and searched your things or whether you just dumped all this stuff on the bed yourself,” Helga called from the back of the cottage—which was near enough that Vivien could hear her sigh of exasperation.
The bungalow was only five hundred square feet with two bedrooms, a single bathroom, and a compact living room/kitchen area, so it didn’t take Helga long to do her “checking.”
“It’s not like I didn’t just move in three days ago,” Vivien retorted. “I’m still trying to figure out where to put everything.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it all out. Someday. Anyway, all clear,” Helga said as she walked through to the kitchen while Vivien just stood there, watching her home—and then her fridge—being invaded, for now her cop friend was poking in there too. “I can see you’ve been doing a lot of cooking with this entire apple and a sad-looking box of romaine. What the hell is this? A carrot? One carrot? Who buys one carrot? But at least you’ve got