Anger flowed through my veins like molten spears. “You make too many assumptions, Chief.” He’d assumed right, but he didn’t need to know that. The man was arrogant without help. “I was going to ask how many hours you’ll be expecting from me. This is my mom’s first visit to Fair Haven. I need to spend at least some time with her.”
“As long as you provide an accounting of your time at the end, you can spend whatever time you need and feel you can spare.”
The molten tendrils solidified in my chest—it felt like annoyance, but if I was honest with myself, it might have been a little pride. He knew based on my history that I’d be relentless once I started.
An idea flared in my mind. My mom would be bored of Fair Haven by tomorrow, and that was a generous estimate. I didn’t know how long she planned to stay, but we’d have at least a few days of staring at each other and arguing about me returning to the firm unless I provided her with something more interesting to pay attention to.
Chief McTavish’s defenses might be weak enough right now that he’d actually agree to it, too. “I know you don’t have a lot of respect for defense lawyers, but my mom is the best there is. Would you consider clearing her to take part as well?”
“Would I have to pay you both?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t about to admit that I hadn’t realized I’d be paid at all.
“Fine.”
The word sounded a bit like a snarl, but I was in a good enough mood to chock it up to his illness.
“Doesn’t hurt to have a defense attorney use their abilities for good for once anyway,” he grumbled the words. “Just make sure she remembers what side she’s on.”
Only the fear that he’d snatch this opportunity away from me kept me from sticking my tongue out at him.
Chief McTavish crawled to his feet and pulled on his jacket. “Sheila will have the agreements for you to sign tonight or tomorrow. I’m going home. You’ll be under the supervision of Sergeant Higgins. I assume you remember him.”
Illness apparently brought out all of Chief McTavish’s hidden snark. The first time we’d met, he’d had to interview me himself because I had friendships with all of his on-duty officers. Erik Higgins and I had gone on a couple of dates before realizing we were better as friends. Now he was dating Mark’s cousin and my friend Elise Scott, who was also an officer. Mark and I stomped them at Spades last Saturday night.
I quirked a smile. “I might remember him. Skinny guy. High-pitched voice.”
Chief McTavish flopped his hat onto his head and gave me a look that spoke to exhaustion that was more than physical. “I’d ask if your mother didn’t teach you not to sass your elders, but I’ve met your mother.”
This time I did stick my tongue out at him.
I spent my whole drive home figuring out how to pitch this to my mom. At the time, it’d sounded like fun to work with her again, this time on more level footing. Halfway home, though, it’d struck me that it could sound like I wasn’t able to handle this myself. And that perhaps she wouldn’t want to work with the police. Not that she had anything against officers of the law. She was just more skilled at finding ways to call into question their credibility or their methods. That might be a hard dynamic to change.
When I opened the door, the house smelled like warm caramel, and three plates of maple syrup candies rested on the kitchen counter. My mom perched on one of the stools, a cup of coffee next to her and her laptop open in front of her.
My dogs were nowhere around.
The first thought that flitted through my head was that my mom had whisked them away to the animal shelter while I was gone, but even if she had, I’d easily be able to get them back. I volunteered and helped with fundraising, so the manager knew me and my dogs.
I dropped my purse and coat into the closet and approached the counter. The recipe from Nancy rested next to them.
My mom couldn’t have…I swept a hand toward the plates. “Did Nancy stop by? I thought she was still out sick.”
My mom didn’t even look up from the email she was writing. “I don’t know who Nancy is.”
“Then where did these come from?” I picked one up and bit into it. It melted in my mouth, the perfect consistency rather than the too soft, too hard, or plain burnt results I’d had the day before.
My mom stopped typing this time and gave me a you’re-smarter-than-that look. “I made them. I saw the recipe sitting out and yesterday your sink was full of pots. I assumed you were working on the recipe for something.”
I pulled the paper closer to me. She’d not only made it. She’d written on it. She’d crossed out the instructions for making the candy in a pot with a thermometer and had penned in instructions for microwaving the mixture instead. Followed by the words more reliable and saves time.
For a second, I was the five-year-old who couldn’t make her bed correctly again. I’d spent hours trying to figure this out and do it right. My mom came in, did it her own way, and made it better within a couple of hours.
A little voice in the back of my head whispered that was my problem. I was always playing by everyone else’s rules and trying to do things their way. My mom didn’t bother. She knew who she was, and she excelled at it.
The candy suddenly tasted too sweet in my mouth. “When did you turn into Molly Weasley?”
“Who?” She must have finished what she was doing because she closed her laptop lid.
Of course my mom wouldn’t know who Molly Weasley was. She didn’t read novels, and especially not ones about a boy wizard. Even saying she’s from the Harry Potter books wouldn’t help. “She’s like June Cleaver but with magic.”
My mom’s lips thinned. If her thoughts could display on a screen, they’d probably be about why she’d ended up with such a strange daughter.
To my mom’s credit, she didn’t say anything along those lines.
All she said was, “I wanted to show interest in what you’ve been doing here.”
What I’d been doing here? All the anger and frustration I’d felt every time my parents had criticized Uncle Stan for retiring from medicine and moving here bubbled around inside me like a science experiment gone wrong. “I haven’t been baking, Mom. I’m a terrible cook. You saw the pots.”
She got up, rinsed her cup, and left it in the sink. But she didn’t go back to her seat. She turned to face me, and her expression was the one she normally wore when she gave her client’s the lecture about needing to be smart during their trial. They could say whatever they wanted to her, to vent and purge, but then she expected them to behave.
“Then what have you been doing here? Let’s do it and get it out of your system so you can come home.”
Get it out of my system. Like I was an Amish teenager on Rumspringa and I’d overstayed my time away. “This is my home, and I like it. I like making maple syrup.”
That was only partly true. As much as I loved living in Fair Haven and I enjoyed spending some time working around Sugarwood, I couldn’t see myself running tours and boiling sap the rest of my life. I missed the puzzle of investigating cases.
