Part 30 (2/2)

”Come on in,” I said.

Debby entered, and Jacob followed, shuffling his feet and looking around.

”Looks like a big kitchen in here,” he said.

I propped the door open. ”Well, in a way I guess you could say I'm a cook. Or at least part cook. It's just that my recipes aren't for things people eat.”

”Maybe not,” Debby said, ”but it smells yummy in here.”

I inhaled the chocolate scent, smiling. ”That's the cocoa b.u.t.ter melting right now.” I picked up the beeswax and carried it to the stove. ”Give me a sec, and I'll get that stuff for you to look through.”

Once I'd stirred the beeswax into the olive oil and cocoa b.u.t.ter already in the large saucepan and lowered the heat, I retrieved the box of Walter's mementos from the storeroom where I'd stashed it earlier in antic.i.p.ation of their visit. I put it on the center island and stood back.

”I'm sorry there isn't any more than that. But with the fire and the police taking a couple of the pictures, that's all that's left. Oh, and his mother took one picture, too. The one of Walter as a little boy, with the beagle?”

Debby nodded, either remembering the picture or acknowledging Tootie's right to take it. ”I've never met her.”

The first time I'd met Debby she didn't have anything good to say about Walter's mother, but now her words held no heat, only a soft sadness. And until I told her, Tootie hadn't even known her son was engaged.

”Why don't you go visit her?” I asked.

Debby shrugged.

”How long had you and Walter been, uh, an item?” An item? Good Lord, Sophie Mae.

But Debby just said, ”A little over a year,” and went back to pulling items from the box and spreading them across the butcherblock counter.

Over a year, and he'd never taken her to meet his mother, even after he'd asked Debby to marry him. His mother, who lived only a mile away.

Debby sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her face. I glanced at Jacob in time to see something indefinable cross his features as he watched his sister sort through her dead lover's things.

”Her name's Tootie,” I said. Debby raised her head. ”Walter's mother. Tootie. Short for Petunia. I think she'd like to meet you.”

She looked down. ”Oh, I don't know.” Then back up at me. ”You think so?”

I nodded. Maybe Walter had been right not to subject his fiancee to his mother's judgment earlier, but somehow I didn't think Tootie felt the same way now. Regret had altered her outlook more effectively than anything else might have.

So was it better for bitterness to be replaced by sadness? I'd get an argument from some, but I think so. Sadness is real, grief is real, and ideally a stage you move through to get to the other side where life goes on, while bitterness is a protective facade, static and hard. My father turned brittle with bitterness after Bobby Lee killed himself, and I struggled against doing the same thing when my husband died. Debby seemed to be doing okay, inviting the sorrow from losing Walter to sit with her a while. Maybe a lifetime of battling depressive episodes gave her a special understanding of the process. Or maybe she was on really good drugs. But Tootie had forgiven Walter only to turn around and judge herself. If only she could release some of her self-recrimination.

As for what was going on with Jacob, I had no idea.

Debby pulled out the ceramic chicken bank, turning it in her hands.

”That looks old. You might be able to get somethin' for it,” Jacob said.

Debby glared. He hung his head and stubbed his toe into the concrete floor like a little kid.

Fingering the worn paint on the bank, she looked back at me. ”You think you could go with me? To, you know...”

”Like, to introduce you? Yeah, I could do that.”

”Okay. I'll um...I'll let you know.”

”What's back there?” Jacob asked, gesturing with his chin toward the storeroom.

”I keep my product inventory in there, as well as some of the raw ingredients I use.”

”That where you keep your lye?” It was a shock to find him looking directly into my eyes as he said it, and I realized it was the first time he hadn't shunted his gaze off elsewhere when I looked at him.

I didn't look away. ”No. That's not where I keep it.”

”Stop it, Jacob,” Debby said. ”It's not her fault, what happened.”

Jacob shrugged and shuffled toward the storeroom, pausing in the doorway and then continuing in, head craned up to see the contents of the high shelves.

”Sorry 'bout that,” Debby muttered.

”He knows, right?”

”Knows what?”

”That Walter didn't... commit suicide.” It was still hard for me to say.

She was silent. Then, ”Well, that policeman sure talked like someone killed him. Jacob's not taking it too well. Doesn't want to believe it. 'Course, the guy made it sound like Jacob or me had done it, and that made him mad”

”The policeman-was it Detective Ambrose?”

”That's the one. Promised he'd let me know when they caught the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who did that to Walter, but I haven't heard anything. Probably just gave up.” She sounded resigned, like she didn't expect Ambrose to spend more than the minimum required time on Walter's case. It had only been a day since he'd spoken with her, and only a week since I'd found Walter.

”He didn't give up,” I said. ”In fact he's got a good idea who did it. Now he just has to catch them. Trust me, Ambrose knows what he's doing.”

Jacob peered around the storeroom door, saw Debby's face. ”What's wrong?” he asked, scurrying like a monkey to her side.

Debby ignored him, her gaze boring into me. ”Who killed Walter? Do you know?” When I hesitated, she said, ”Tell me.”

”I'm sorry, but-”

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