Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [13]
“Head reference librarian. Nora works there, too.”
“What about her?”
“She’s dead.”
“That’s too bad. Was she sick?”
“No, she drowned. It might be murder.” I grabbed her cappuccino and took a large gulp. She could tell I was upset so she didn’t harp like she normally would about me drinking out of her glass. I set the glass mug down, my hand shaking slightly. “I found her body.”
Elvia pushed her computer printouts aside and leaned closer. “Tell me what happened.” Her shiny black hair caught the overhead light and flashed. It reminded me of Nora’s lifeless strands floating in the water. I closed my eyes for a moment.
“Benni,” Elvia said softly. “Do you want to go up to my office?”
“No,” I said, opening my eyes. “I’m fine.”
Remembering my single quarter’s worth of parking time, I gave her the condensed version. I finished her drink as I talked, and suddenly realized when I was through that I was ravenously hungry and deliriously happy to be alive. Survivor’s guilt pricked at my conscience, that small relieved voice whispering, “Aren’t you glad you weren’t the one who died?”
“Would you like another one?” she asked. She held up the glass mug and motioned at the counter clerk to bring us two more.
“I can’t stay long,” I said. “This is Gabe’s lunch. He hates eating the food they order when they’re working on an investigation. It’s always pizza or hamburgers or some junk food. And I’m bringing him a change of clothes.”
“How’s he taking it?”
I rested my chin in my palm and sighed. “Like he does everything, stoically, professionally. He really doesn’t need this right now.”
“And exactly when does a person need a murder investigation in their life?” she asked ironically.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be facetious.” She and I had discussed my worries about Gabe, the strain he’d been under the last few months with his friend’s death in Kansas and now Aaron’s death and how he never spoke of either of them. She viewed his quiet reticence with more dispassion than me. Not only because he wasn’t her husband, but because she was accustomed to the Latino male’s way of handling emotion.
“He’s reacting exactly how any of my brothers or my dad would,” she assured me. “He’ll come around eventually or work it out in his own way.”
“He seemed a little more open when we got back from Kansas, then Aaron died, and he’s . . . well, he’s not exactly depressed. It’s just like it never happened. I don’t think holding things in necessarily works them out. I think people need to talk about their feelings.”
“That’s your Southern background. All you people do is talk. But does it really help? You all are just as crazy as the rest of us.”
I gave her a weak smile. “Sometimes crazier.”
She wrinkled her nose delicately, reminding me of a fussy, purebred cat. “Well, I didn’t want to actually say it—”
“You know as well as I do talking about things is healthier, but I guess you’re right. He’ll come around in his own time. I know when Jack died I didn’t want people poking at me to do things.” I sipped the iced coffee drink the clerk set in front of me. “On the other hand, sometimes it was what I needed, you and Dove pushing me back into life before I thought I wanted to go. A person isn’t always their own best judge of what they need.”
“Go feed him,” she said, pushing the white sack toward me. “Mama says if you can’t do anything else for a man, you can always feed him.”
I laughed and stood up. “I love your mama. I need to visit her soon.”
“This week,” she said firmly. “She’s been complaining about not seeing you enough. Are you going to visit Nick?”
“Yeah, I’m going to drop by the bakery and get a pie.”
“Give him my condolences. I’ll send some flowers.” She gathered up her computer printouts and stood up. “I’d better do it now before I forget.”
“I’ll call you later and let you know what happened.”
I took my cappuccino over to the counter and asked the clerk to pour it into a paper cup and added a just-baked apple