Not Quite Perfect
Page 76

The man waved his hand behind him, signaling his help.
Then he bent down and picked up a box. “This was here.”
She turned away and left the door open while the deliverymen did their job.
In the kitchen, she opened the box to find a case of chicken noodle soup. The card with it said get well soon.
Smiling as she pulled a can from the box, she sent a quick text to Glen. Thank you!
There wasn’t a reply, but then again, it was close to midnight in London.
The time difference was becoming desperately old.
Between the soup, the new living room, and the feeling of being cared for, even from thousands of miles away, Mary fell into bed at close to eight, hugging her monkey and dreaming of Glen.
The day Glen was supposed to be flying back to the States, she got a text saying he was delayed a full day. He ended his text with I’ll make it up to you.
Between all the hours she’d spent in bed and the time change, they hadn’t spoken on the phone in two days. Mary used to think people who spent all their time texting polluted good communication. Now she realized that waking up to a text was her and Glen’s way of saying they were there, and that they cared.
Mary forced herself into the shower early. Her cough was worse, but her headache and fever felt better.
Much as she hated spreading, or possibly spreading, germs, she had two clients who’d already rescheduled once on her calendar for the morning.
With a cough suppressant onboard and antibacterial hand wipes at the ready, Mary drove to work.
The parking lot was full, leaving her to use the spaces behind the building. In the most recent past she’d moved her car at lunchtime when several employees in the building left for lunch. She felt bad, but in light of everything crazy in her life, she felt justified in claiming a closer spot to the door.
Another message from Officer Taylor was on her phone when she turned it back on after her second client left.
“We brought Mr. Golf in.”
Mary could tell from Officer Taylor’s voice he didn’t have good news.
“And?”
“He consented to the prints. He said, and I’m quoting here, ‘I was never in that bitch’s home, so go for it.’”
She closed her eyes. “He didn’t match.”
“Nope. There was a partial on the door to your office, but nothing matched what we found at your house.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Someone who has been at your office has prints on your mirror. My first suspect would be a boyfriend . . .”
“Glen and I were in New York when this happened.”
“Right. The prints could have belonged to a friend who has been at the office and in your home.”
Mary thought of Dakota, even Walt. But neither of them had been by her office in months . . . not since several weeks before Leo was born. “That isn’t possible.”
“Which brings us back to your client list as suspects. Just not Jacob Golf. Do you have cleaning people come to your house?”
“No. I can’t afford that.”
Officer Taylor sighed. “Then I suggest you pull out your calendar and take another look. How often is your office cleaned?”
“Once a week. There’s a service that comes on Fridays.”
“Find out how good they are about cleaning door handles. If we can narrow down a timeline on when that print was left, we might be able to narrow down suspects.”
“There’s no way this was random,” she said.
“Not unless you bring people from your office into your home and have them in your upstairs bathroom.”
Mary went ahead and drove to the deli instead of taking the short walk. Her head was already starting to pound, and she had no desire to cook when she got home.
The counter wasn’t that busy. Mary flagged down Carla before she placed her order.
“What kind of soup do you have?” Mary asked.
Carla did a double take. “You sick?”
Mary puffed out her lip like a three-year-old. “I’ve felt better.”
“I’ve got you covered.” Carla scribbled something on her ticket and tossed it up for the cooks behind the counter to fill.
Mary caught the eyes of one of the cooks she didn’t know by name. “Enferma?”
She understood the question and nodded.
The cook smiled with a short nod before placing a massive bowl up under the hot lights.
“This will do it.” Carla placed the soup along with a basket of crackers next to her.
Mary didn’t try to identify the type of soup before putting a spoonful in her mouth. It had a little kick of spice and a soothing feel as it filled her belly. “Perfect.”
Carla leaned against the counter. “Hector makes a special batch every time the flu goes around. It’s not even on the menu.”
She waved to the cook. “Thanks, Hector.”
Carla watched her take a few bites. “So where is your sidekick today?”
“My who?”
“You know, that guy who’s always here with you.”
Mary’s first thought was Glen, but he’d only been here once. “You mean Kent?”
“Right. The man is going to turn into corned beef.”
“He’s in here a lot, I take it.”
“Constantly. He always seems to be looking for someone when he walks in the door. My guess is that’s you.”
Mary felt her forehead getting hot with the soup. “I think you’re right.”