“For how much?”
I tell her.
She nods. “That seems reasonable. Certainly worth it if we can recover our fossils.”
“I imagine so.”
She writes out a check to ‘Moon Investigations’ for the agreed-upon amount. The account name readsCraig Regional Park.
Never been paid by a park before. First time for everything.
As I watch her leave, I consider my options. After all, she didn’t just hire a private detective. She hired a vampire PI with a few extra tricks up her sleeve.
Tammy rises and walks her to the door. “I remember going to Craig Park on school field trips,” she says with a soft laugh. “Still one of the coolest places in the county.”
Jill smiles warmly. “We work hard to keep it that way.”
When Tammy returns to her desk, she pulls her keyboard closer. “Want me to run background checks on the staff list?”
“Yeah,” I say, reopening the folder. “Look for money troubles, prior theft charges, sudden resignations, or terminations. Let’s see who bubbles up.”
Tammy’s fingers fly. “Got it.”
Outside the office window, the late afternoon sun paints downtown Fullerton in gold and shadow. Cars crawl through intersections. College students chatter on the sidewalks. The city hums with ordinary life.
For now.
Chapter Two
It’s late evening and we’re starving, some more than others.
Anthony is cooking and coordinating in the kitchen. Tonight is no big surprise: his specialty, spaghetti just the way his dad taught him. I don’t really miss Danny these days, but I do miss his spaghetti. Luckily, Anthony has taken up the pasta mantle.
The key is homemade noodles. Not just homemade, but the right kind of flour.
What that flour is, I don’t know. Anthony does. He and his older sister went out after work to buy it, along with fresh tomatoes, basil, onions, and whatever else goes into the sauce, which is considerable.
Paxton is on boiling-pot duty, instructed to stir at two-minute intervals. Anthony and Tammy handle the chopping and blending. Anthony takes cooking seriously, and had he not been an angel-in-training, I have no doubt he would have gone to cooking school. I would have wholeheartedly supported him. Cooking is the gift that keeps on giving.
The kid can make a half dozen excellent meals, not just spaghetti, though it remains the family favorite. He indulges us most Friday evenings, especially at the end of rough weeks.
Kingsley is on his way over. So is Allison. Neither would miss a Friday night with friends, family, and Anthony’s specialty.
I sit at the small, round breakfast table in our crowded kitchen and watch it all unfold. Anthony reminds Paxton to stir. He tells Tammy to cut the onions smaller and that there is no crying in the kitchen. Tammy tells him to shut up, that it’s the onions making her cry.
I chuckle, sip from my can of Coke, and ask half-heartedly if there’s anything I can do.
Anthony knows the routine. He says no, that they’ve got it. I nod and turn back to my phone, a case file, or the TV in the livingroom. I’ve made enough meals over the decades. I can be waited on now without feeling guilty.
Which I don’t.
Anthony is in his element now, wooden spoon in hand, steam fogging the kitchen windows as the sauce simmers. The kitchen smells like tomatoes and garlic and basil, rich and alive. If happiness has a scent, this might be it. Paxton stands on a stool at the stove, solemnly stirring the boiling pot like it’s her sacred duty, which it kind of is. She counts under her breath each stir. Tammy hovers nearby, sneaking tastes and pretending not to.
I’m here,comes a familiar voice in my head.
I smile before the knock sounds.
“Door,” I say.
