Page 7 of Cougar Point

“Megan, are you at home?”

I avoid the question. “What’s up, Ronnie?”

“Can you come by my place?”

I hadn’t told anyone where I was going and Ronnie’s place is at least forty-five minutes away. It’s my day off, but being a detective means I’m subject to being called in at any time. This doesn’t sound like a work thing, and I’d promised the Sheriff I’d look into his councilman issue.

I say cautiously, “I’m about an hour away and Tony needs me for a project.”

“Oh. I just…”

“What is it, Ronnie? I’m heading home first.” I’m not. I’m going to get a stiff drink.

She says, “I’d really appreciate your help with something.”

“Can you tell me now?” I’m hoping to get tipsy and maybe call my therapist, Dr. Karen Albright. The meeting with my mother has left me unsettled. In truth I’m wrung dry from conflicting emotions and don’t feel like dealing with anything else today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.

“It can wait until I see you again, Megan.”

I was so caught up in my mother issues I didn’t recognize the need in Ronnie’s voice. Now I feel guilty. “We can meet at Moe’s if that works for you.” That will cut about fifteen minutes off my travel time, and I’m relieved when she agrees.

The drive to Port Townsend and Moe’s takes me up State Road 16, through thick forests that sometimes almost block out the sky. As I head north and the road curls around Sinclair Inlet, I catch a magnificent view of the Puget Sound Naval Yard, the late-morning sun glinting off the hulks of the ships in the yard. It almost makes me want to pull over and take a picture. But then I remind myself I’m not the “stop and take a picture” kind of person.

I skirt the inlet by hopping on State Road 3 at the little town of Gorst, located on the shores of the Puget Sound in an area of primarily antique stores, clothing stores, car dealerships and espresso stands. My mouth waters at the smell of espresso but I don’t stop. Ronnie will be waiting for me at Moe’s.

Recently, Ronnie met my baby brother, Hayden, and though I’ve tried to discourage her from going down that path, she’s persisted in her interest. They’re not dating yet, but he seems to show up wherever Ronnie and I are having drinks or when we’re at my apartment discussing a case, and I see the looks they give each other.

They’d make a perfect couple but I have selfish reasons I don’t want them to get together. Mostly because Ronnie already has a paramour. His name is Marley Yang, divorced, two kids, a very nice nerd, and he’s the supervisor of the crime lab. Ronnieis beautiful and can get Marley to put us at the head of the line and sometimes to unofficially look at evidence. Her infatuation with Hayden will only hurt my chances of having priority at the lab.

I come out of auto drive when I reach downtown Port Townsend and spot Ronnie’s tiny car parked outside Moe’s. I’m emotionally drained from the confrontation with my mother so I hope Ronnie’s issue is an easy fix. And then I remember it’s Ronnie I’m talking about. Nothing about her is ever simple.

SEVEN

Moe’s has outside seating and a magnificent view of Port Townsend Bay with its sailboats and cabin cruisers and the comedy of tourists needing directions. A lot of Moe’s clientele are coming from or going to the marina and drawn to the smell of burning grease and hot fries. Moe’s is popular with tourists and locals and a hangout for hungry cops who eat free. Today is no exception. I count no less than three police cars in the lot.

Ronnie is sitting at a booth by the window, and Moe is leaning on the counter chatting her up. Moses Adamos. He’s in his early thirties, olive complexion, Mediterranean dark curly hair.

“Hi, Megan. Your regular?” Moe asks.

“I didn’t know I had a regular, Moe.”

“Coffee, cinnamon bun, two eggs over greasy, two pieces bacon semi-crispy, white toast buttered lightly.”

“Sure. Sounds regular enough for me.”

He brings coffee for me and refills Ronnie’s mug before taking my order to the back. The cops exchange a look, get up, and leave. I might have yelled at one of them at a crime scene for being a dumbass. Of course he won’t tell his buddies he wasa dumbass. He’ll say I’m hormonal. Screw them. They won’t say it to my face.

One other couple, teens, horny teens, sit in the corner thinking they’re hidden by the booth. They’re all over each other like stink on sweat socks. I want to yell, “Stop that at once!” But it will take Moses to separate them like parting the Red Sea.

Grease is my friend now, but when my pants are too tight, I’ll curse my weakness. “So what’s the dilemma?” I ask Ronnie a little sharply, and then regret it.

“What’s wrong, Megan? Can I help?”

I’m ashamed. She asks for my help and when I snap at her she offers to help me. That’s Ronnie. “Bad morning,” I say. “Got up on the wrong side of the Red Sea.”

“What?”

“Never mind. You said you needed to meet.” She’s quiet. For Ronnie, silence is as unusual as Congress working. “Whatever it is we can fix it.” I don’t know what needs fixing. But that’s what you’re supposed to say when a friend is feeling down.

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