Brooks liked to taunt his sisters that he was the only Gleason actually born in wedlock. They rebutted that he was also the only Gleason who had to pack heat to do his job.
He settled back with his coffee, easing himself into the day by watching the goings-on outside the window.
While it was too early for most of the shops to open, The Vegetable Garden had its sign out. He tried to spread his patronage around, so he stopped in for soup now and again, but he was an unapologetic carnivore, and just couldn’t see the purpose in something like tofu disguised as meat.
The bakery—now, they were doing some business. And Cup O’ Joe likely had its counter full. February had barely turned the corner into March, but the tourists from up north often moseyed down early in the year to get out of the worst bite of winter. The Bradford pears hinted at blossoms. In a week they’d put on their show. Daffodils crowded together in sidewalk tubs, yellow as sticks of butter.
Sid Firehawk’s truck farted explosively as it drove by. On a sigh, Brooks made a mental note to give Sid one more warning to get his goddamn muffler replaced.
Drunken wife smackers and noise polluters, Brooks thought. A hell of a long way from Robbery-Homicide. But mostly it suited him. Even when it sucked.
And when it didn’t, he thought, straightening in his seat for a better view.
He could admit to himself he’d planted himself in that seat early, on the off chance she’d come to town.
Abigail Lowery of the warm brown hair, exceptional ass and air of mystery. Pretty cat-green eyes, he thought, though she mostly kept them behind sunglasses.
She had a way of walking, Abigail Lowery did, with apurpose. She never moseyed or strolled or meandered. She only came into town every couple of weeks, shopped for groceries. Always early in the day but never on the same day. On rarer occasions, she went into one of the other shops, did her business briskly.
He liked that about her. The purpose, the briskness. He thought he might like more about her, but she kept to herself in a way that made your average hermit look like a social butterfly.
She drove a big, burly, black SUV, not that she did a lot of driving around that he’d noticed.
As far as he could tell, she stayed on her own spread of land, pretty as a picture and neat as a pin, according to the FedEx and UPS guys he’d subtly pumped for information.
He knew she planted both a vegetable garden and a flower garden in the spring, had her own greenhouse and a massive bullmastiff with a brindle coat she called Bert.
She was single—at least she had no one but Bert living with her, and wore no ring. The delivery guys termed her polite and generous, with a tip on Christmas, but standoffish.
Most of the townspeople termed her odd.
“Top that off for you?” Kim, his waitress, held out the pot of coffee.
“Wouldn’t mind, thanks.”
“Must be working. You looked cross as a bear when you walked in; now you’re all smiles.” She gave him a pat on the cheek.
She had a motherly way, which made him only smile wider, as she was barely five years his senior. “It’s getting the motor running.”
“I’d sayshegot it running.” Kim lifted her chin toward Abigail as she walked into the market on the near corner. “Got looks, anybody can see that, but she’s a strange one. She’s lived here almost a year, and not once has she stepped foot in here, or any of the other restaurants. She’s barely gone into any of the shops or businesses, either. Orders mostly everything online.”
“So I hear.”
“Nothing against Internet shopping. I do a bit of it myself. But we’ve got plenty to offer right here in town. And she barely has a word to say. Always polite when she does, but barely a word. Spends nearly every minute of every day up there on her place. All alone.”
“Quiet, mannerly, keeps to herself. She must be a serial killer.”
“Brooks.” Kim let out a snort and walked over to her next table, shaking her head.
He added a little sugar to his coffee, stirred it lazily with his eyes on the market. No reason, he decided, he couldn’t go on over. He knew how to mosey. Maybe pick up some Cokes for the station or…he’d think of something.
Brooks lifted a hip for his wallet, peeled out some bills, then slid out of the booth.
“Thanks, Kim. See you, Lindy.”
The beanpole with the gray braid down to his ass let out a grunt, waved his spatula.
He strolled out. He had his father’s height, and given Loren’s post–heart attack regimen, they shared the same lanky build. His mother claimed he got his ink-black hair from the Algonquin brave who’d captured his great-great—and possibly one more great—grandmother and made her his wife.
