Page 21 of The Bad Weather Friend

“Exactly my point. Sitting here would be about as comfortable as sitting in a dentist’s waiting room.”

“Who sits inanyliving room?” he said. “People sit in their family rooms.”

“Then why have a living room?”

Benny resorted to his Realtor’s chrestomathy of convincing responses, but the only thing in it was this: “Well, houses have always had living rooms.”

“The view is cool,” she said. “I like how you put the ocean just where you did.”

He didn’t know what to make of her, whether she was playing with him or maybe a little off-center. “Are you and Fat Bob ... an item?”

“I’m twenty-one. Bob is old enough to be my father and then some.”

“Not so unusual around here.”

“I love Bob like you love a favorite uncle. I work with him.”

“You’re a private detective?”

“No. Not yet. Maybe someday, if being a waitress stops being exciting. For now, with Bob, it’s a generational thing and a gender thing. He finds a young woman’s perspective helpful on a lot of cases, and he’s very generous.”

“But you’re still working as a waitress.”

“Breakfast-to-lunch shift. I also have a little side business knitting custom sweaters for dogs. I like to stay busy. Can’t sleep more than four hours a night. Never have, so far as I can remember. That leaves a big day to fill. What have you done to your hair?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Following her into the dining room, Benny said, “I don’t know your last name.”

“Harper,” she said.

“Oh. Then I don’t know your first name.”

“Harper.”

“Harper Harper? Why would your parents do that?”

“I’ve never discussed it with them. Everyone makes mistakes. They’re such nice people, very sweet. I never want to upset them. Your dining room is as welcoming as a morgue.”

“I like minimalist.”

“Do any guests come back for dinner a second time?”

“I don’t have people to dinner. I take them to restaurants.”

“Ah. Then maybe you should convert the dining room into a second living room.”

“The kitchen is a mess,” he warned her, as she pushed through the swinging door.

Saltines crackled under her shoes. She surveyed the empty milk cartons and cracker boxes, the overturned jam jars, the drooling squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, a slice of pizza cheese-glued to a cabinet door. “If no one ever comes here for dinner, who did you have a food fight with?”

“Some intruder did this when I was out taking a walk. Raided the fridge and the cabinets, ate stuff, threw other stuff around. That’s what I called Fat Bob about.”

“Bob.”

“Yeah. Yesterday and today, everything’s gone kablooey, and I mean everything. Somehow, this has to be part of it.”

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