The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #8)

Chapter 27

I pulled into the lot at the Greenfinch Restaurant and Bar the next afternoon and parked two rows away from the entrance. As I walked to the eatery's front door, the green Mustang that followed me in gunned its engine. It brushed my coat as it passed me at too high a speed for a parking lot. Racing, I supposed, to grab one of the few remaining slots. I thought I'd seen the nose of a similar Mustang behind me a few days ago, but I wasn't sure. Still, I made a note to keep an eye out for any other green Mustangs that popped up. Two might be a coincidence, but given my recent experience with Seaver and his bodyguards, three would be a problem.

I had arrived a few minutes early and got us a four-top so Marci and I would have room to work. I was on pins and needles waiting to see her, but Marci wasn't far behind. It surprised me to see her in a cast and on crutches.

"Oh, Marci, what happened to you?" I asked with genuine concern.

"I met Liz Frank out on the dance floor," Marci said, no expression on her face.

"What did she do, shoot your foot?!?" I asked, still not comprehending.

"I am just messing with you," Marci said. "It's a Lisfranc fracture. That's where a bone, or maybe several, in the middle of your foot, the ones above your arch, get broken."

Seeing the blank expression on my face, she explained. "I had never heard of one either, but I have to tell you, you go down like a falling rock when it happens. If you want to take somebody out painfully and quickly without killing them, that's how you'd do it."

"This happened at work, an in-the-line-of-duty thing?" I asked.

"I only wish. Danny and I like country-western dancing at a nightspot where many of the AA members go. You can order club sodas all night long, and they won't blink an eye. But it is a public bar, so you get people drinking. We were on the dance floor to a slow set, and some guy was pawing a girl beside us. Finally, she'd had enough and belted him. He came crashing into us—he must have weighed 250 or better—and the heel of one of his cowboy boots nailed me right on top of my foot. Danny caught me, so my head didn't go bouncing off the floor. But by then, there was nothing he could do to stop the damage to my hoof."

"Do they have you on sick leave?" I asked.

"No, I'm milking all the sympathy I can get and working it out," Marci said. "I figure I'll have some great leverage in the future if I need some paid time away. 'Hey, Captain, remember when...?'" Marci said with a little laugh.

"Still, it looks and sounds painful—I wouldn't want it to happen to me," I said, and suddenly I could feel a twinge of what must have been empathy pain in my right foot.

"Other than childbirth, that was as much pain as I've ever experienced in one go," Marci replied. "But as long as I don't put any weight on it and I take my meds, it's okay during the day. At night, it throbs, but I've gotten used to it enough that I can get some sleep now."

Even though we were only a party of two and the place was getting crowded, the hostess moved us to a bigger corner booth. That kindness let Marci rest her cast on the cushioned seat. Marci and I agreed we'd order before I got into why I had asked her to come.

Once our server had taken our drink and food orders, Marci grinned and said, "That's enough about me. Time for you to put up or shut up. What in the world have you gotten us into that has you so excited? I could tell something had you pumped up. You used an exclamation point in your last text, and you never do that. And, of course, I have a professional obligation to pay attention when someone mentions two or more homicides in the same sentence."

"You might remember the last time we had lunch together when I asked you for help with two different situations, and then texted you later about a third," I began. "There was the Brian Pierce beating death downtown and the presumed killing of Dr. James Seaver's wife. Her son suspects the doctor, but no corpse has yet turned up. And we've talked a couple of times about Coach Cantor's murder execution-style in his living room."