tapped his brakes. A careless wave, a quick trip to Target to buy Hannah some baby food, and then … gone.
Ava nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, my folks, too. Happens all the time—everyone knows someone who was hurt or killed in their car. But sure: let’s put the focus on keeping marijuana illegal.”
He couldn’t follow the non sequitur and didn’t try. “We did not … Hannah’s father made himself unavailable roughly twenty minutes after conception. Even now, no one knows where he is. And Abe’s wife had died of cancer just after Hannah was born. We were…” Distraught. Dismayed. Clueless and afraid and overwhelmed. “It was Abe’s idea to raise her together.”
Abraham Simon, who spoke nine languages and told everyone he had been an accountant before retirement, a lie going by the calluses on his palms alone. Abraham Simon, who had been kindness personified to his sister and her family and never qualified that affection but showed over time that it was unconditional.
Tom had not planned on making a best friend out of the tragedy, never mind one in his fifties. And darn it to heck, he still didn’t know how to introduce the man to people.
But as the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, he deduced further discussion wouldn’t put his family in any more danger than they already were from his dog-park blunder. “Hannah’s IQ is immeasurable,” he bragged announced.
“Well, yeah. Listen, when she’s ruling the world, try to put in a good word for me, will ya?”
“No promises.” He brightened, thinking about Hannah’s milestones. First word: “Unacceptable.” First full sentence: “Broccoli is unacceptable.” And she refused to crawl. Went from sitting to walking, which had been amazing to see. One day she had simply gotten up and done it. His sister had been simultaneously proud and amused to see her daughter and her brother had so many traits in common.
He thought about mentioning Hannah’s upcoming trip to the MAGE conference in Boston—Hannah was the youngest invitee in years—but had been careless with too many personal details already. “Hannah and Abe thought you were very nice,” he summed up, which was true. Though he’d made sure to take Abe aside to warn him Ava could well be considered a person of interest in the near future. Well, sure, Abe had said, amused. It’s always the quiet ones. Except when it isn’t.
“Well, I thought they were nice, too. As well as your giant dog with a wrecking ball for a tail. And now that I’ve said my piece … and you’ve said yours”—Ava looked up at the waitress, who had appeared to whisk away their dishes—“I’d like to close this meeting-meal by ordering bread pudding.”
He shrugged. “If you wish to consume wet bread, I have no objections.”
She rolled her eyes, which was as irritating as it was charming. “Oh, you’re one of those guys. And it’s adorable that you thought I was asking permission to eat dessert.”
“Did you know bread pudding was invented as a way to use up inedible stale bread and was often combined with suet?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yes, Tom, I knew that. Well. Most of that.” She wrinkled her nose. “Suet?”
“Bread pudding, stuffing, french toast, casse-croûte, panzanella, ribollita … you are essentially consuming garbage. You are paying restaurant prices to consume garbage.”
“And an extra order to go!” she called after the waitress while glaring in his direction. “In case I want to consume stale bread at midnight. Because there is nothing more delicious at midnight than stale bread. So there.”
There was nothing for it; he laughed and hoped, again, that she wasn’t a killer.
Twenty-Two
THE LIST
Smuggle Doc Baker into memorial for dead friend
Sleuth while not looking like we’re sleuthing at memorial for dead friend
Find out if hotel restaurant serves bread pudding
Calamine lotion?
Oh, this is so fucked up.
Yep. Mere days ago, she’d been breaking up with Blake and clip-clopping through her perfectly placid life, and now she was at another memorial on a fake date with a medical examiner who couldn’t lie but told the best gross stories, and their mission was to find out if a killer vandal was in attendance. And to not get drunk. Probably. Well, Tom wouldn’t get drunk. Ava preferred to keep her options open.
Fortunately, she had moisturized heavily before leaving to meet him. She’d needed it, too; her arms and legs were itching like crazy and she felt like an animated piece of bark. Her SPF 35 BB lotion was her armor against harmful rays and passive-aggressive mourners. In Minnesota, they