Part 129 (2/2)

of the mower vibrating under his hands. He might not have had his gold

s.h.i.+eld, but it didn't take a detective to figure out what was going on

behind the shade. At nine o'clock in the morning. He continued to stare

a moment, unsure if he should be amused, embarra.s.sed, or delighted. He

decided it was best not to think about it at all. There was something

spooky about imagining your parents having s.e.x.

He steered the mower one-handed, unb.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt as he went.

Christmas lights might have been strung along the caves of the houses,

but it would be eighty degrees before noon. Michael sent a casual wave

to Mrs. Baxter who had come out to weed her gladiolas. She merely

frowned at him, so he went back to singing along with the

Bruce Springsteen number that played through his headphone. He'd sent a

long fly ball through Mrs. Baxter's picture window more than ten years

before, and she had yet to forgive him.

He had the backyard trimmed, and half of the front when he began to

wonder why his father had never invested in a riding mower. A trim

Mercedes convertible pulled up at the curb. Michael wouldn't have given

it more than a glance, except there was a blonde behind the wheel. He

had a weakness for blondes. She merely sat, dark gla.s.ses hiding her

eyes, as a minute stretched into five.

At length she slowly got out of the car. She was as trim and sleek as

the Mercedes, long, elegant legs beneath a thin cotton skirt. He

noticed her hands as well, delicate, tea-serving hands that clutched

tight on a gray leather purse.

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