Some of them were real people, ya know!”
“—of Walnut Grove, Minnesota.”
“I’m sure Doc Baker did all kinds of things, including pathology. Walnut Grove wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Oh my God, now we’re talking about shows that have been off the air for forty years and then I’m taking him out for a meal and to figuratively show him my dream journal and a normal person would find this incredibly weird and off-putting so just WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME that I think it’s intriguing?
“Tell ya what,” Darla said. “You seem like a nice lady and the boss here has done me a few favors—”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Tom interrupted. “I don’t understand why you’re assigning more weight to this than it’s worth.”
“He got my abusive ex to skedaddle out of town,” Darla explained, which wasn’t any of Ava’s business but which she loved hearing about regardless. “And when I was about to get kicked out of my apartment, he got me a loan. And remember when you let Billy crash on your couch for a week?” To Ava: “Billy’s the night guy. Nasty divorce.”
“She’s right,” Ava said. “That’s above and beyond standard boss stuff.”
Tom shrugged and looked down, and it was adorable to see such a big guy behaving like a bashful kid embarrassed by praise.
“Check out Konichi-ha,” Darla suggested, oblivious to Ava’s sudden, internal screaming. “It’s that sushi place / comedy club on University.”
“Hard pass.” Nothing against Darla, or sushi, but Ava knew she’d rather do PCP, weed, cocaine, ecstasy, benzos, oxy, and PCP than sit through amateur hour at any comedy club. It wasn’t the up-and-coming entertainers who depressed her, it was the hecklers. They were brutal and always made Ava feel like she should go up and give the performer a hug. It made enjoying the meal next to impossible. It made belly landings seem like an effortless task. “No offense.”
“Dixie’s on Grand?”
“That’ll do.”
Tom nodded. “Excellent. It may interest you to know that in 2014, a body was—”
“No-no-no-no!” Darla had clapped her hands over her ears. “Please. Boss. I’m beggin’ ya. Don’t ruin another restaurant for me.”
“It wasn’t the restaurant; it was the parking lot,” he explained with long-suffering patience. “And the victim had no connection to the restaurant.”
“Tell me on the way,” Ava said. “I’d love to hear it. I know that sounds deeply strange.”
“It’s the only thing about this job I don’t love,” Darla said.
“Really?” Ava couldn’t help asking. “The only thing?”
“Yup.”
“The only thing?”
“Yes.”
“Darla, I’m leaving for the day. Once you’ve finished that clinic note, the remainder of the day is yours.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.”
“That’s why I hired you,” he replied. “I never have to repeat myself.”
“Have I ever told you, you’re the most literal person I’ve ever worked for?”
“Many times, Darla, including twice this week.”
“Well, you kids have fun. Nice to meet ya, Ava.” Darla turned back to her computer with a flourish and was immediately engrossed in whatever-it-was.
“Dixie’s, then?”
“Dixie’s then.”
Twenty-One
Dixie’s was a cheerful restaurant on Grand Avenue in Saint Paul, specializing in Southern cuisine and, to use the colloquialism, comfort food. Although what was comforting about carb overload and rising cholesterol levels had always escaped him.
After minimal discussion, Ava led them to the farthest, quietest corner, though it was a beautiful day and Dixie’s had outdoor seating. Since she did not strike him as the type content to lurk in corners (at least not during meals), he briefly wondered if she had done it to accommodate him.
This was confusing, which he did not appreciate. Was Ava Capp genuinely thoughtful and charming and funny and a lovely kisser or was she a machine who could perfectly mimic being thoughtful, charming, and funny and a lovely kisser? And how does one mimic being funny?
“So your assistant is a ray of sunshine.” Ava said this between wolfing down slices of fried green tomatoes. “And I say that with total sincerity.”
“Isn’t she?” When he thought about it, Tom felt downright gleeful. “She is surrounded by the dead—”
“Right?”
“—and works for a man frequently elbow-deep in corpses—”
“Gross.”
“—and to the best of my knowledge, has never caught so much as a cold or been unhappy on shift.”
“Wait, never?”
“It’s the incongruity that pleases me,” Tom explained.
“Yep. Lots of incongruity going on there.” She took a gulp of lemonade, paused, then swigged down more and set the glass down with a decisive thump. “Could I ask you something?”
Do not say it. Do not say it. Do not say it. “You realize you just have, yes?”