Tea, Anyone Page 2

  When Brooke came back to Hillside to be near what remained of her family, little did she know she’d end up sharing a space with someone like him. He turned out to be one of the only good things to come out of her own tragedy. Having inherited enough money from her dearly departed parents, along with the court’s settlement, she was able to buy a small apartment. And once Henry came into her life, she was thrilled how quickly her new roommate became the grandfather she could truly love––unlike her real one.

  Now, watching him happily setting up his sandwich in their ground floor apartment kitchen, she chuckled at his well-practiced technique: Whole wheat bread toasted just so––check. A dab of mustard and mayo––check. Thin slices of chicken or turkey––check. Two lettuce wedges––never ever more than that––check. And the finishing touch? One tomato with all its seeds cut out, and perfectly sliced––check, check, check.

  She once had made fun of him and his OCD food prep tendencies, but his instant, “Do you know the difference between a sandwich and a tennis shoe?” shut her up fast––then she laughed.

  Sitting across from her and her slopped-together tuna salad sandwich resembling leftover garbage, Henry took a large bite of his own perfect creation, chewed vigorously, swallowed, then tossed out a satisfied grin.

  “Yum,” he said and looked out through their kitchen window, which faced the back end of another ten-unit complex.

  Brooke followed his gaze.

  Casually walking down their shared alley toward her garage was their neighbor, Abby. Henry and Brooke had heard her name spoken once at the local library, but they really didn’t know her. Still, having seen the young woman sometimes stroll up and down the alley then quickly disappear into her own garage was a bit intriguing. With her wild, curly blonde hair waving softly, her hippie John Lennon tinted glasses and her mostly flowing pants or long skirts covered by a modern pink hoodie, she definitely stood out from all the other tenants living around there.

  “There goes that Abby girl,” Brooke said. “She looks like a teenager.”

  Henry chuckled. “She’s probably your age. You girls all seem so young to me.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re an old man.” She grinned at his one arched eyebrow. “Seriously, I wonder what that Abby person does in her garage. I mean she’s in there for hours at a time. Then for weeks, she doesn’t go inside it at all.”

  “Since you seem to be spying on her, you could get an answer to your question by being neighborly. Why don’t you invite her over?”

  Brooke snorted. “I’m not spying on her.” There he goes again. Trying to turn me into a social animal. Good luck on that one.

  “Once I saw her open up the door high enough for me to peek inside,” she said, a dab of mushy tuna salad dribble on one corner of her lip. “She has an old, antique car, but little else. It looked like it had the original paint job.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asked. “What kind of car?”

  Brooke shrugged.

  “I guess it’s a guy thing,” he said.

  Bristling, Brooke shot off, “It looked like an old Packard. Yes, I’m almost sure that’s what it was.”

  One eyebrow lifted instantly. “Glad you knew the make, after all. By the way, the next time you refuse to admit you spy on our neighbors, I’ll be sure to remind you of this car knowledge.”

  “All right, all right, smarty pants.” She shrugged. “Can’t help myself. Comes with the territory. Anyway, although she’s probably about my age, she looks younger and definitely straight out of Haight-Ashbury, circa 1967. Except for the hoodie, of course.”

  Henry rose, brought his plate and glass over to the sink, rinsed them off, then placed them carefully in the dishwasher. “Look, Brooke, why don’t you check her out by asking her over? Think of it as a way of practicing your detective interview skills. Even if Chief Bruner has certain issues––with you being one.”

  “Hey, don’t even go there, okay?”

  His other eyebrow raised.

  As he walked down the hall to his “lair,” Brooke chuckled and gave a dismissive air swat at his back, then headed for her own work area. He’s so different now.

  Back in her office-corner of the living room, she sat down in front of her desk and computer. Her work niche was perfect. Cluttered, yes, spatially cramped, yes, but she had all the essentials at her fingertips. Off to one side on a low shelf, a bulletin board was ready to have pinned up photos of whatever police or library case she was working on. Library books were stacked up on one corner of her desk, drawers were filled with supplies and needed snacks. And, of course, down near her feet, a fleece-lined cat bed for her special Comfort Cat––June. Or Junie. Or Junebug, depending on her moods. And everyone else’s, for that matter.

  After looking down at her fluffy gray cat with her sparkling green eyes, her white chest and matching boots, Brooke smiled. “Okay, you know you wanna. You know it.”

  As if by magic, Junebug leapt into her lap, and after one short yet steady turn, plopped down and started to knead her owner’s thighs. Giant purrs echoed throughout as Brooke passworded her way into her computer. Next, she pulled her “To Do” bin closer and took out her latest library assignment. She sighed. She enjoyed doing research but never thought she’d be doing so much of it for the local library instead of having a full-time detective job. C’est la vie––and all that schtuff.

  “Remember when we first met Henry, Junie?” she asked, as vivid images of discovering him sifted through her brain.

  She remembered that day perfectly. Stalled in traffic under a freeway, she had casually glanced through the passenger window and saw a homeless person’s encampment. Crumpled clothes shoved into a small shopping cart had served as one column, a small tent served as another, and draped over the both of them was a long, black plastic tarp, creating a dark, eerie structure.

  A small light flickered from one of the opened tent flaps, exposing a most unexpected sight. It was a man, reading a thick book by the light of a battery-operated lantern. Then her eyes shifted over to a plastic bin just outside his tent, close to her car. It was overflowing with thick, leather-bound books.

  “Medical books? Law books? What are the chances?” she remembered saying aloud. She was definitely intrigued.

  The next day, against Larry and her grandma Martha’s advice, she parked her car nearby, got out, and returned to find out more.

  As if inching up to a crazed wild animal, she took a few minutes before actually speaking. For all she knew, he could attack her. Just the week before, she had heard on the news about a homeless guy who had bit down so hard on someone’s arm, it caused sepsis.

  But to her, something about his having all those books said he was most probably a person down on his luck. Physically, he was a mess. Greasy salt and pepper hair, mustache and beard encrusted with some kind of unidentifiable food came with ground-in dirt under his fingernails.

  As soon as she approached, he let out a short catch of breath. “Why are you here?” he asked then coughed loudly.

  Pneumonia? TB? What am I getting myself into?

  “The point is, why are you here?” she asked gently.

  “Guess I don’t fit the scenario of a typical homeless person, huh?”

  No kidding. Brooke leaned slightly toward him. “No, you don’t.” She pointed to his bin of books. “Why do you have books like these?”

  Straightening up, he cleared his throat. “Because I used to be a professor.”

  “Really. Where did you teach?”

  “At Yale.”

  “That’s impressive,” she said.

  Sighing, he shook his head. “I suppose. It was in another lifetime.”

  She couldn’t help herself. “What in the world happened?”

  It was if he were about to cry. Thank god, he didn’t. He drew a very large breath instead. “Life happened.”

  It sure does. “Yes, life happens, but––”

  “My wife and daughter were killed in a car accident––because of
me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Again, he sighed. “I mean, I had had a couple of drinks and wasn’t a hundred percent sober when a truck driver drifted over the line and came right at us.” He stared at her. “Why in the world are you teary-eyed?”

  If only he knew. She collected herself fast. “It sounds like it was the truck driver’s fault. It could have happened even if you were clean and sober.”

  Her words obviously came on deaf ears. “No, no, no. I didn’t protect them. Anyway, after that I really started to drink. Why not?” He shook his head. “I was a broken man. Truth be told, I still am one,” he added softly.

  “I don’t mean to be pushy, but have you tried any shelters?”

  His tone instantly hardened. “Sure, if you’re into no privacy and having your belongings stolen. No way am I going to risk losing my books, my papers.” He motioned toward another plastic bin in the back of his tent. “My articles, everything is in there. They’re all I have left.”

  Poor guy. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Henry Wiles.”

  “Hi, Henry. I’m Brooke Anderson.” She wasn’t quite ready to extend her hand.

  “Look, miss. Nice of you to care, but I’m afraid I’m a hopeless case. Don’t waste your energy here. Why don’t you go off and try to save another poor soul? There are plenty of needy people out there.”

  She left. But at home, she immediately went to her computer and looked him up. Turned out not only was he legitimate, he actually had been a very well-respected and popular professor. In fact, he was considered an Emeritis in stature. Even won some prestigious award. But apparently, he had no other surviving relatives, so she couldn’t help herself. She returned every day, and inside of a week, she had convinced him to come home with her.

  “You’re insane!” Larry and Grandma Martha had both cried. Even her any-new-experience-is-cool niece, Haley, protested.

  “Auntie, are you kidding me? My whole life, you’ve constantly told me not to go off with strangers! And here you are…” She stopped. Obviously, she had seen Brooke’s determined face.

  So, Brooke did what she always did––followed her gut. And Henry got himself a home.

  But that was then, and now was now. Wonder when I’m gonna hear from Larry about that new case.

  She found out two hours later when Larry called. She immediately put him on speakerphone.

  “I’m here with Tony,” he said, his voice sounding odd, almost shaky if she didn’t know better. “It’s a kind of a weird murder, Brooke. In fact, everyone’s a bit unnerved, being a small town and all.”

  “You gonna tell us or what?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” Henry said from across the room.

  “Oh, hi, Henry. Okay, here’s the deal––and Brooke, I will definitely need your help on this.”

  Obviously picking up on the tension in the room, June began first to rub around Brooke’s legs, then Henry’s.

  “First off, I promise to get proper clearance from Chief Bruner this time. Not like the last time. Sorry about that. My bad?”

  Instantly, Brooke pictured the chief’s face and words to her at their last run-in. “Okay. Apology accepted. Now, what do you need?”

  “See what you can find on a company called Sheffield Company. They make cloth bags.”

  “What?” Henry and Brooke chimed at the same time.

  “Yeah, we’re at an alley in back of Fortune Street. The victim––a woman–– was found with a cloth bag over her head, cinched tight with a ribbon at her throat. When they removed the bag, her head looked like it’d been hit with some kind of flat object. The lab folks are doing their thing.”

  “Any ID?” Henry asked.

  “Nothing yet.” Larry cleared his throat. “Oh, and there’s something else.” He waited. “A simple label was pinned to her coat lapel. No handwriting, just printed block letters from a newspaper, like, you know, kidnapper-style.”

  “What’s it say?” Brooke asked, picking up Junebug for a sudden, needed cuddle.

  Larry hesitated before he read it out loud. “Serves you right, you naughty girl.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was another one of her nightmares. With the leading actor in it, once again, about to do his favorite thing in the whole wide world––make people around him feel bad. Especially his granddaughter, when she least expected it. Especially when she had a bad cold and was home in bed, vulnerable.

  “Well, Little Miss Mistake, Miss Know-It-All,” he sneered. “Just because you say you have a cold doesn’t mean you get any privileges. Not on my watch. Don’t think you can lie around in bed all day. You’ll still have to help your grandma.”

  “Grandma said I should stay in bed because I am sick. That’s why I didn’t go with Mama, Papa, and Pete today,” Brooke said, her chin up while she worked hard to stay strong.

  He smirked. He had obviously picked up on her trembling lips. So, he threw his typical go-to nasty dig. “Remember, Miss Afterthought, you’re a Plain-Jane, who is never gonna have someone want you. Not like your good-looking, older brother Pete. He’s smart, too. Unlike you.”

  She pulled the covers up and tried defiance. “What do YOU know, Grandpa?”

  Even at ten years old, her parents and Pete had often commented on her toughness and her sixth sense. She smiled. Maybe that’s why Grandpa hated her so much. She had his number.

  But then who knew that day would play out so badly? So badly, all she could feel was a crushing numbness about the news of the sudden car crash out on Route 7 involving her parents and her married brother. The crash that left her an orphan and forced her and her newly pregnant sister-in-law to live with her grandparents––and get daily jabs from her grandpa.

  Her grandpa who was now putting a cloth bag over her head…

  To say Brooke woke up with a start was the understatement of the year. It was more of an electric-shock jolt. But she was quick-witted. Immediately, she slid into a self-pep talk. “Keep it together, Brooke,” she said out loud to herself and Junebug, who was now at the foot of her bed, staring at her with wide green eyes. When the cat jumped off and disappeared, it didn’t surprise her. Poor girl.

  Brooke glanced at her cell phone. “Nine-thirty. Slept in. Henry’s probably already off to the library,” she muttered and got up to start her day.

  As she stumbled down the hall to the kitchen for some much-needed caffeine, from out of her peripheral view, she noticed their back door was slightly ajar. Geesh! Henry promised to fix that.

  Junie! Talk about another jolt. “Junie!” she called out, charging outside and down the alleyway.

  No feline in sight, gray or otherwise.

  She willed herself not to panic, but the thought of losing her precious girl was making her heart beat hard. More than hard. She stood still, frozen––until she noticed her neighbor, Abby, raising her half-opened garage door up even further from inside, to come out. Within seconds, the young-looking, “hippie” had fully appeared, holding Junebug in her arms.

  “Thank God!” Brooke cried and ran toward her pet.

  Abby handed over the precious cargo. “There you are. I guess your cat went exploring. Haven’t seen her outside before. She’s a beauty. Love her eyes.”

  “She’s an indoor cat, but we have a problem with the back door not latching.”

  “It happens,” Abby said slowly. “You only lose what you cling to.”

  Sheesh. What Buddhist nonsense.

  Brooke peered inside the woman’s garage. “Cool antique car,” she said. “What kind?”

  It was as if a mask had been pulled down over Abby’s face. Definitely, an annoyed mask. She quickly rolled down her door and locked it behind her. “It’s a 1935 Packard Eight Sport Phaeton. I inherited it from my great uncle.” Her voice sounded pinched.

  Touchy, aren’t we? Then Brooke remembered Henry’s words and felt ashamed. Here’s your chance to be neighborly. “Hey, wanna come in for coffee and Danish? It’s the least
I can do,” she said, willing her lips into a smile.

  The surprised look on their neighbor’s face tickled her.

  “Okay, thanks,” Abby said and followed Brooke into her apartment.

  Coffee was poured––thank goodness Henry always made extra––and after they both sank down onto the cream-colored leather sofa covered with Navaho-style throw pillows, Abby took off her pink hoodie. Brooke eyed her guest more closely. No doubt about it. She was absolutely a throwback from the hippie-dippy era and couldn’t be older than twenty––tops. She had on a light purple and olive-green tie-dyed jumper, underneath which lay a thin, dark purple, long-sleeved shirt. And all was accessorized by small dangling silver earrings, a black ribbon choker, and wooden clogs.

  Perfect.

  The San Francisco Throwback put a Danish on her plate but didn’t touch her coffee.

  “Is the coffee too hot?” Brooke asked. “I’ve got milk and sugar here.”

  Abby shook her head. “Sorry, I only drink herbal tea.”

  Of course, you do. “I could look and see what my roommate, Henry, has. He drinks tea sometimes.”

  Abby waved her hand. “No, don’t bother. It’s okay.”

  She started to look all around her, pausing at Brooke’s sound machine. She nodded. “I have

  one of these, too. Which sound do you like best? My favorite is the light rain one.”

  Brooke nodded. “That’s mine, too.”

  “Have you ever tried counting sheep?” Abby asked.

  “Nah, that doesn’t work. My mind ends up counting over five hundred of them.”

  Laughing, Abby continued to scope out the room, particularly Brooke’s crowded work area. She got up and went straight over there, moving in close to the crammed bookshelves then checking out the corked bulletin board displaying a large, prominent photo. When she leaned over Brooke’s desk covered by an open manila file, her hostess shot up.

  “Hey, that’s my private stuff,” she said sharply. Nosey girl.

  Abby swiveled around, smiled, and returned to the couch. “Sorry. Was just curious. So, it looks like you do, what, police work? Are you a detective?”