“You should go home,” Sassy told her. “I can close.”
“Are you sure?” Soledad asked.
Sassy nodded. “Stop by Jessamine’s. She keeps trying to send food home with me. I’m running out of room in my fridge.”
“I could use one of her pep talks,” Soledad admitted.
“She likes you better, so she’ll go gentle on you,” Sassy pointed out, helping Soledad to her feet.
Soledad paused. “Next time Nick calls, you should answer.”
“Why?” Sassy asked, covering her shock with a dry laugh.
“Because,” Soledad said, “you two are peanut butter and jelly.”
“What happens when Peanut Butter messes up?” Sassy asked. “Is Jelly just supposed to close her eyes and keep truckin’?”
“No,” Soledad reasoned, “but think about it. Peanut Butter wasn’t the one masquerading as Nutella on a stick.”
Sassy couldn’t manage to keep a straight face. “Peanut Butter would never.”
“And how many times has Peanut Butter messed up in the last twenty years?” Soledad asked.
“Did he have to mess upthisbadly?” Sassy asked, wincing.
“So he was due for a screwup,” Soledad explained. “Even Jif was recalled a few years ago. At least Nick didn’t give you salmonella.”
Sassy couldn’t hold back a laugh any longer. “Is it weird that this conversation is making me hungry?”
“Could you be craving… Peanut Butter?”
“Clever girl,” Sassy drawled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Call me if you hear anything,” Soledad returned, growing serious again.
“Same goes.”
* * *
It took Sassy ten minutes to find her car parallel parked across from the gallery. She’d finally broken down and bought a new one—a spiffy Durango with Bluetooth and a sunroof.
Not that she knew precisely how to work said sunroof. She was still learning to finagle the Bluetooth.
Normally, she’d call Peanut Butter for these things, but she was determined to figure it out for herself. She’d spent the last two decades depending far too much on a man who was neither father, brother, uncle or cousin.
Nobody needed to know she’d raged out the first time she’d tried linking her phone to the car’s smart system. Or that the rage session had been followed closely by a crying jag. She’d eventually dusted herself off and decoded the problem.
It didn’t matter that she missed him. She was still steaming over what he’d done. But she thought of him when she went to lunch or when she sat on the couch at night with no text notifications to distract her from Rogue’s Grumpy Cat impressions. She’d broken down twice and watched her favorite movie alone with a pint of ice cream.
She started the car. Instantly, the local ’80s station hit her with a blast of the eighties’ ballad they had sung along to in his truck on the way to the Navajo Nation not that long ago.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered. She switched to Bluetooth and kicked off her favorite righteous-woman playlist. Because the weather was unseasonably warm and Dark Canyon had had a break in the rain clouds that had been hanging around lately, she rolled down the driver’s window and let the breeze buffet her as she drove home. When she caught herself wondering if she had any peanut butter in her pantry, she cranked the tunes and belted the lyrics.
She’d stick to her plan of thirty minutes of wall Pilates followed by a hot shower and a plateful of Jessamine’s pity food. She’d google Detective Finbar, print off a copy of his headshot, pin it up and practice using her new pneumatic drill on his face.
Bonus points if she could find Fletcher Ryder’s driver’s license photo on the web. She also needed to try her hand at the Skil saw a friend in construction had cautiously let her borrow.
Dusk was coming on fast by the time she pulled into her driveway. She waved to her neighbors, who were busy tilling flower beds while their girls played tag in their front yard.
