Page 18 of Rest In Pink

I was actually in a pretty good mood, since I was wearing one of my favorite tees—the one that saidI’ll Believe That Corporations Are People When Texas Executes One—along with my jeans with the five silver buttons that drive Vince wild, and I’d been belting out “My Life Would Suck Without You” in the shower sounding fabulous, and the new cook had made omelets and just dropped one in front of me. Literally, she held it an inch above the table and dropped it, maybe to hear it clatter. Her name was Marianne. She was a compact brunette somewhere around middle age. She looked like the love child of Ina Garten and Nigella Lawson, and the omelet looked divine.

I cut into it and tasted it.

Okay, I don’t where Anemone found Marianne, Anemone has skills I will never have and one of them is finding people to make her life pleasant, but wherever she dug the woman up, I was all for it. Marianne can cook. I was instantly a huge Marianne fan.

“I’m a huge fan,” I told Marianne as she brought toast and orange juice to the table and I cut into the omelet again. “You are the best thing about my life.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Marianne said as she dropped the toast plate down in front of me. “How big is the dour cop’s dick, anyway?”

So, Marianne cooks, but she does not serve. This only increases my respect for her.

“That’s none of your business,” I said, trying to sound prim but grinning anyway.

“That big, huh?” she said. “You gonna be here for lunch?”

“Yes. We are working all day, so we will be here. Leftovers to nosh on would be appreciated.”

Marianne snorted.

“I love you Marianne,” I called, and she rolled her eyes as she went back into the kitchen.

“Did you say something?” Anemone said, lifting her eyes from her laptop screen.

Anemone is not a morning person. Well, neither am I, but I can at least speak full sentences before noon.

“I said, ‘Somebody’s going to kill Thacker’.” I forked up the next piece of my omelet to make sure it was as spectacular as I’d thought. Pale strings—mozzarella? Gruyere?—fought with my fork and lost and I bit again into the rich cheese, creamy egg, caramelized onion, earthy mushroom, and crunchy, salty, delicious bacon. I chewed, concentrating on the mini-taste-explosions in my mouth, and then swallowed and yelled, “I really love you, Marianne,” toward the kitchen.

“Who’s left to kill Thacker?” Anemone gestured toward the screen. “Cleve’s dead. Dayton’s not the type and has his own problems with an incarcerated wife and an aggressive mistress. I heard Skye’s sleeping with Thacker, so not her. Peri’s a little young for vengeance. There’s nobody left to kill him.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate Peri. She’s seven but she’s fierce.” I chewed some more omelet. Caramelized onion does not get enough good press. “I was thinking more of Cash and the mayor with the senator standing behind all of them if Thacker goes after the development.”

“The mayor doesn’t have the balls,” Anemone said, finally noticing her omelet. “What’s in this?”

“Who cares, Marianne made it, it’s wonderful, eat it. Then we can get started on the chapter two rewrite.”

“Vince would have the balls,” Anemone said judiciously as she cut into her omelet.

“If Vince had any idea his genitals were such a hot topic at breakfast, he’d probably start dropping by.”

“Good. I like looking at him.” Anemone stared off into the distance as she chewed. “He gives good face.”

I shoved the toast plate closer to her. “Good face?”

“He’s not pretty,” she said, “but you look at him and think, ‘That’s a good man who can get things done.’ He gives good face.” She looked at my hands as I cut into my omelet again. “Why are your wrists red?”

“The padding on the cuffs slipped.”

She nodded. “Any craft or fabric store will have soft cotton rope-like stuff. I have no idea what it’s used for in crafts, but it’s a lot easier on your skin.”

“Thank you, that’s very good advice. Now Chapter Two, your acting career. That’s a short chapter, so I’m thinking, you left some stuff out.”

Anemone cut into her omelet again. “It was only two years. Not much happened.”

I was going to say “You made three movies and fell in love with a hitman,” but then I remembered that she’d really loved Anthony and had been devastated when somebody had shot him. Or shot back at him. What mattered was, they’d hit him. Fatally.

“I think maybe just a little more on the three movies,” I said, treading carefully now as I ate my omelet.

“I really don’t want to talk about the movies,” she said.

---