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I’D HOPED THAT by going to Jamie’s funeral, his killer or a lead to that person would reveal himself, but the opposite had happened. I’d cleared no one, while adding additional potential suspects: Marly, Rae, and Christophe, to name three, and possibly Rafe, to add another.
I thought about Arthur: his attachment to Jamie, his twenty years of loyal service, his access to all things Jamie, and not least, his inheritance of more money from Jamie Fricke’s estate than he would earn in three lifetimes as house manager.
I was so absorbed in reviewing the funeral attendees that the fifteen-minute drive home felt like it had only taken a minute. Lake Street was just ahead. I parked around the corner on Eleventh and entered our building, hoping that Joe was awake, his feet on the ground, watchingWorld News Today.
Inside our place, I locked my piece in the gun case in the foyer and by then Martha had found me and greeted me with wagging and slobbering and shoving me backward byplanting her front feet on my waist. I told her she was a good girl and called out to Joe.
“Help!”
Julie shouted back. “Mom! I’m giving dad combat training. We need to concentrate.”
Meaning,Don’t interrupt us, okay?
Okay.
CHAPTER 92
INSIDE OUR BEDROOM, I stepped out of my black silky everything and changed into jeans and an SFPD T-shirt. Back in the living room, I dropped into my Mom chair. I wanted to talk to Joe and knew he wanted to talk to me. But this was Dad and Julie time, and Julie wasn’t giving that up without a fight.
“Daddyyyyyy. This is important. No talking.”
I saw what was happening and stifled a laugh. Julie is one of the funniest people I know, but she takes herself very seriously. When it came to combat training, Julie Ann Molinari, clothed in lavender unicorn pj’s, was in charge.
She called out her moves.
“Daddy. This is called ‘kicking and punching.’”
Joe covered his eyes and our little combat trainer kicked him in the shin with one bare little foot, then socked him in the biceps with the opposite fist.
“Ooo. Oww, Julie,” Joe called out in mock pain.
“Now,” she said, “this is what I call ‘dodging.’”
She leapt from side to side making, I guess, war cries. “Yah. Pow. Powee. Yahoo.” Joe played his part as victim until a laugh escaped him.
“Don’t laugh, Daddy. These moves could save your life! Now, this one is ‘karate chopping.’”
“No, no more, Julie,” Joe said, falling over sideways. “You’ve killed me.”
“Okay. Last one today,” Julie announced. “This is advanced training. It’s ‘using weapons.’”
Julie picked up her plush stuffed cow she’d named Mrs. Mooey Milkington and swung it around her head singing out, “Whoop, whoop, whoop,” then slapping those few ounces of fluff and foam rubber against Joe’s forearm.
“Julie, I can’t take any more. Pleeease stop.”
“We’re done,” Julie crowed. “I promote myself to combat trainer level two,” she said, and jumped into his arms. Joe hugged her until she squeaked, “Daddddddyyyyy, you winnnn.”
“Thank you, Julie. I can take on anyone now: kung fu fighters, even Superman,” said the actual G-man in the family.
I said, “Julie—”
“Mom! You want combat training?”
“Not now, sweetie. I need to talk to Dad. It’s confidential police business. How about we set you up with a movie in your room so Dad and I can catch up?”
“Okay. This time. What movie, Mom?”
She ran across the floor, climbed into my lap, and threw her arms around my neck.