Inspector Murphy’s suggestion that Joe’s interest in hunting forgers stemmed from his father’s situation came back to Joe again. But people who could afford to spend thousands on antiquities clearly didn’t need that money to live on. It was a completely different circumstance than losing the restaurant that served as their family’s livelihood. Joe was after the criminals, no matter who the victims were. He just prayed he’d get a break in the case soon.
“Honestly, I can’t recall a time I ate so well for Thanksgiving,” Doreen jumped in, and Mama looked grateful for the change in subject. “Everything was wonderful! I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Patting his usually trim stomach, Joe agreed. Judging by the amount of food left in the bowls and platters, there was still enough to feed a family of eight.
“Come on, Joey, please. Here, there is pie.” Mama lifted another slice of pumpkin pie and deposited it on his plate.
“I wish I had more room to spare,” Joe protested, but Mama cut him off with one of her looks.
“I just said, there is pie.” She jabbed the pie server at the piece as if that concluded the matter. “In this house, once served, food is always eaten.”
Joe swallowed a chuckle. His little mama had come by her standards honestly. Wasting food was wasting money, and wasting either was near to a crime. Since it had been her penny-pinching that had seen them through the leanest years, he’d never disparage her everlasting frugality.
“And where is Dr. Lauren Westlake this afternoon?” Pop asked. “Dining with her father?”
With the side of his fork, Joe cut a sliver from the pie. “Uh, no, he had to cancel on her.”
Three pairs of eyes riveted on him.
“Hadto cancel?” Mama repeated. “Why does onehaveto cancel on family at such a time? Are they on good terms?”
Joe told them what he knew, which wasn’t enough to satisfy. He’d often thought he’d gotten his passion for detective work from his parents, whose curiosity knew no bounds.
Doreen tsked her disapproval and shook her head. This was her first Thanksgiving without family, Joe realized. She may appreciate the food and even the company, but it wasn’t the same as celebrating with her own flesh and blood. Joe wondered if the day would be different for Connor than any other.
“You should have asked her and her roommates to come here,” Mama said. “We had enough food to feed three more. Or just one more, if that’s better. Maybe that would be better.” She gave him a pointed look.
Joe wasn’t ready for this. “We work together, nothing more.” He reached for the bowl of whipped cream to add a dollop to his pie.
She grabbed it first and pulled it out of his reach. “At this rate, working together is all you’ll ever do. Is that what you want? If so, your strategy is a good one.”
“All right, my dear, you’ve made your point.” Barely disguising a smirk, Pop scooped a spoonful of whipped cream and plopped it on Joe’s pie.
———
Joe insisted on cleaning up after the meal.
“Let me help you, Joe,” Doreen said. “You might as well let me earn my keep around here, at least a little.” She gave him a look that suggested she knew the rate they were charging her was steeply discounted.
After they cleared the table, Joe rolled up his sleeves and filled thesink with soapy water. Doreen found a dish towel and set to drying what he scrubbed. Her hands and wrists bore marks from years of handling flowers with thorns and thistles.
Joe bore his own faded scars from his childhood job of delivering flowers for Doreen. Connor had them, too. His might have healed better if he hadn’t picked his scab one day when Joe had started bleeding. Connor had rubbed his wound against Joe’s and proclaimed they were blood brothers. After Michael took off, years later, Connor had pointed to their scars and said,“You still have me.”
“Is the jail open on Thanksgiving, do you suppose?” Doreen asked. “For visitors, I mean.”
“It’s open.” Joe had already decided that if she wanted to see Connor, he’d take her.
The woman took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know what to say to him, Joe.”
He leaned harder into scrubbing mashed potatoes off the inside of a pot. “He may not know what to say to you, either. But at least he’ll know you care enough to see him.”
She reached for a ladle and wiped out its bowl. “I hope so.”
“I’ll bet he misses spending Thanksgiving with family even more than you do.” He rinsed the pot, set it on the drain board, and plunged his hands into the warm water for the next. “If you need to do this for your own sake, that’s reason enough to go, too.”
Doreen kept quiet as she dried the last of the dishes. Joe didn’t interrupt her reverie as he drained the water from the sink and put everything she dried in its proper place.
At last, she hung the wet dish towel over the oven door handle and turned to him. “Then it’s time, don’t you think? For both of us.”
