The Bride Wore Size 12
Page 57
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“Keep your Spanx on, Wells,” Canavan says. “I’m taking you home, like I promised your boyfriend. Just wanted to make sure the royal guard wasn’t tailing us. Wouldn’t like them to figure out where you live, now would we, in case they decide to shut you up next?”
I swallow and look behind us. We’re not being followed by anyone, though, unless you count the goofy-looking New York College trolley, picking up and dropping off excited freshmen attending various late-afternoon orientation events.
“I’m not wearing Spanx” is all I can think of to say in reply to the detective. “That’s insane. Who wears Spanx under stretch cords? They’d show a line across the thigh.”
Detective Canavan only grunts in reply as he continues to drive the rest of the way around the park toward Cooper’s brownstone. Turner, looking chagrined by his supervisor’s rejection of his colorful suggestion, plays Angry Birds on his smartphone in silence. I’m the only one in the car who notices the blind man near the center of Washington Square, over by the fountain.
Unlike other blind men I’ve seen there in the past, however, this one isn’t strumming a guitar for small change or using a German shepherd to guide him. This one is whipping a red-tipped white cane back and forth in front of him like it’s a machete and he’s Crocodile Dundee, mowing down jungle grass to make a path.
I lean forward to get a better look, not daring to believe my eyes, but they haven’t deceived me.
It’s Dave Fernandez, all right. He seems to be headed back toward Fischer Hall, a happy bounce in his step that matches the smile on his face. He appears mightily pleased with the way things are going (And why wouldn’t he be? He just scored free room and board for a year in one of the most expensive places to live on earth), perfectly unaware that flocks of pigeons—and confused pedestrians—are scattering from the walkway in front of him in order to escape being struck by his cane.
I know it might be wrong, but I’m seized by a sudden urge to laugh. The fact that Dave can be so joyous—so fearless and lacking in self-pity—brings cheer into even my heart, which I’ve recently been told has become hardened from my job.
All I can think is if Dave Fernandez, who’s been through so much pain and heartache, can navigate the crowded paths of Washington Square Park without being able to see, surely I can navigate the paths of my own life, murky as they’ve gotten lately.
But the sudden surge of optimism leaves me when Detective Canavan’s Crown Vic pulls up in front of Cooper’s pink brownstone and I see three familiar figures sitting on the stoop, waiting for me.
23
I thought of wearing white
But I really hate white
I thought of wearing puce
But who the hell wears puce?
“Marriage Song,”
written by Heather Wells
To give credit where it’s due, Detective Canavan seems to be taking Cooper’s request to protect me seriously. He pulls out his service revolver—though he doesn’t hold it high enough for anyone outside the car to notice—and asks suspiciously, “You know any of those mutts on your front stoop, Wells?”
“I know all of them,” I reply in a tired voice. “Unfortunately.”
“What do you mean by ‘unfortunately’?” Canavan asks. “Should I shoot them or not?”
“Well, it’s up to you, but the two girls sitting there with what appears to be a gigantic wedding present between them are my future sisters-in-law,” I say. “Although it might make things easier for me in the short term if you shot them, in the long term, it’ll probably cause a lot of headaches, especially for you, since they don’t look all that threatening. Of course, it depends on what’s in the box.”
“What about the big guy?”
Leaning against the doorframe with his massive arms folded across his chest is a large black man in a pair of clear-framed glasses. He’s wearing a black knit watch cap and a blue Yankees jacket, despite the fact that it’s close to eighty degrees outside. At his feet is a duffel bag large enough to hold a young child. He’s assiduously avoiding eye contact with Cooper’s sisters, sitting a few steps below him in light summer dresses and sandals.
“That’s Virgin Hal,” I say. “He’s one of Cooper’s friends. I have no idea what he’s doing there, but please don’t shoot him either. I imagine he’s waiting for Cooper.”
“Did you say Virgin Hal?” Turner asks, the word “virgin” having roused him from his smartphone. “The guy who looks like a linebacker is a virgin?”
“Apparently,” I say. “But please forget I mentioned it. It’s some kind of private joke. I’ve asked Cooper not to call him that, but the name’s stuck, somehow. Can you unlock the door now? Whatever fresh hell this is that awaits me, I have to go deal with it.”
Canavan lowers his old-school Smith & Wesson (it’s sad that I now recognize the make and model of individual guns, but this is what comes from being engaged to a private investigator) and presses a button on his console, releasing the lock on my door.
“Using my keen powers of observation,” Detective Canavan remarks, “for which, it should be noted, I am well known, I’m guessing that your boy Cartwright sent his pal Virgin Hal over to keep an eye on you until he’s able to get home from wherever the hell he is, and keep you from kicking up more shit.”
“That,” I say, my fingers on the car handle, “is a ridiculous and sexist statement. Cooper isn’t like that. He knows I can take care of myself. Hal’s probably here to fix the Wi-Fi. It’s been on the blink lately.”
This is an outright lie. But I can’t tell the detectives the real reason I suspect that Hal is on the front stoop, since it will only alarm them, and probably cause them to want to come into the house. This would be a disaster since there’s no telling what level of contraband Cooper has holed up in there. While my fiancé swore to uphold the law when he passed the state private investigator exam, then got his license, at times he’s been known to bend it a little. Okay, maybe a lot.
“Hal’s a tech geek,” I explain. “I bet Cooper called him to check his computer.”
This is the biggest lie I’ve told yet.
“A six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound tech geek,” Canavan says drily. “Who happens to show up the day we found you being harassed by a billionaire oil sheikh’s son, who I consider a suspect in a murder at your place of work. Sure, Wells. Anything you say.”
I swallow and look behind us. We’re not being followed by anyone, though, unless you count the goofy-looking New York College trolley, picking up and dropping off excited freshmen attending various late-afternoon orientation events.
“I’m not wearing Spanx” is all I can think of to say in reply to the detective. “That’s insane. Who wears Spanx under stretch cords? They’d show a line across the thigh.”
Detective Canavan only grunts in reply as he continues to drive the rest of the way around the park toward Cooper’s brownstone. Turner, looking chagrined by his supervisor’s rejection of his colorful suggestion, plays Angry Birds on his smartphone in silence. I’m the only one in the car who notices the blind man near the center of Washington Square, over by the fountain.
Unlike other blind men I’ve seen there in the past, however, this one isn’t strumming a guitar for small change or using a German shepherd to guide him. This one is whipping a red-tipped white cane back and forth in front of him like it’s a machete and he’s Crocodile Dundee, mowing down jungle grass to make a path.
I lean forward to get a better look, not daring to believe my eyes, but they haven’t deceived me.
It’s Dave Fernandez, all right. He seems to be headed back toward Fischer Hall, a happy bounce in his step that matches the smile on his face. He appears mightily pleased with the way things are going (And why wouldn’t he be? He just scored free room and board for a year in one of the most expensive places to live on earth), perfectly unaware that flocks of pigeons—and confused pedestrians—are scattering from the walkway in front of him in order to escape being struck by his cane.
I know it might be wrong, but I’m seized by a sudden urge to laugh. The fact that Dave can be so joyous—so fearless and lacking in self-pity—brings cheer into even my heart, which I’ve recently been told has become hardened from my job.
All I can think is if Dave Fernandez, who’s been through so much pain and heartache, can navigate the crowded paths of Washington Square Park without being able to see, surely I can navigate the paths of my own life, murky as they’ve gotten lately.
But the sudden surge of optimism leaves me when Detective Canavan’s Crown Vic pulls up in front of Cooper’s pink brownstone and I see three familiar figures sitting on the stoop, waiting for me.
23
I thought of wearing white
But I really hate white
I thought of wearing puce
But who the hell wears puce?
“Marriage Song,”
written by Heather Wells
To give credit where it’s due, Detective Canavan seems to be taking Cooper’s request to protect me seriously. He pulls out his service revolver—though he doesn’t hold it high enough for anyone outside the car to notice—and asks suspiciously, “You know any of those mutts on your front stoop, Wells?”
“I know all of them,” I reply in a tired voice. “Unfortunately.”
“What do you mean by ‘unfortunately’?” Canavan asks. “Should I shoot them or not?”
“Well, it’s up to you, but the two girls sitting there with what appears to be a gigantic wedding present between them are my future sisters-in-law,” I say. “Although it might make things easier for me in the short term if you shot them, in the long term, it’ll probably cause a lot of headaches, especially for you, since they don’t look all that threatening. Of course, it depends on what’s in the box.”
“What about the big guy?”
Leaning against the doorframe with his massive arms folded across his chest is a large black man in a pair of clear-framed glasses. He’s wearing a black knit watch cap and a blue Yankees jacket, despite the fact that it’s close to eighty degrees outside. At his feet is a duffel bag large enough to hold a young child. He’s assiduously avoiding eye contact with Cooper’s sisters, sitting a few steps below him in light summer dresses and sandals.
“That’s Virgin Hal,” I say. “He’s one of Cooper’s friends. I have no idea what he’s doing there, but please don’t shoot him either. I imagine he’s waiting for Cooper.”
“Did you say Virgin Hal?” Turner asks, the word “virgin” having roused him from his smartphone. “The guy who looks like a linebacker is a virgin?”
“Apparently,” I say. “But please forget I mentioned it. It’s some kind of private joke. I’ve asked Cooper not to call him that, but the name’s stuck, somehow. Can you unlock the door now? Whatever fresh hell this is that awaits me, I have to go deal with it.”
Canavan lowers his old-school Smith & Wesson (it’s sad that I now recognize the make and model of individual guns, but this is what comes from being engaged to a private investigator) and presses a button on his console, releasing the lock on my door.
“Using my keen powers of observation,” Detective Canavan remarks, “for which, it should be noted, I am well known, I’m guessing that your boy Cartwright sent his pal Virgin Hal over to keep an eye on you until he’s able to get home from wherever the hell he is, and keep you from kicking up more shit.”
“That,” I say, my fingers on the car handle, “is a ridiculous and sexist statement. Cooper isn’t like that. He knows I can take care of myself. Hal’s probably here to fix the Wi-Fi. It’s been on the blink lately.”
This is an outright lie. But I can’t tell the detectives the real reason I suspect that Hal is on the front stoop, since it will only alarm them, and probably cause them to want to come into the house. This would be a disaster since there’s no telling what level of contraband Cooper has holed up in there. While my fiancé swore to uphold the law when he passed the state private investigator exam, then got his license, at times he’s been known to bend it a little. Okay, maybe a lot.
“Hal’s a tech geek,” I explain. “I bet Cooper called him to check his computer.”
This is the biggest lie I’ve told yet.
“A six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound tech geek,” Canavan says drily. “Who happens to show up the day we found you being harassed by a billionaire oil sheikh’s son, who I consider a suspect in a murder at your place of work. Sure, Wells. Anything you say.”
