Page 29

Dinah

Chunky Mike’s is an ice-cream shop in a strip mall with a barbershop, bookstore, shoe-repair shop, and mini-mart. The trash can outside Chunky Mike’s is overflowing, and there’s a transient sleeping on the bench two storefronts down. I park in front of the store and eye the subject as we step out.

The guy doesn’t budge, and I grimace at the sight of Freddie, who opens the glass entrance door with a dramatic sweeping motion of his arm.

“Stop,” I warn.

“Think that was bad, wait until I buy you a sundae,” he drawls. “Sprinkles and everything.”

I ignore him and approach the counter, where a yellow-smocked teenager looks up with a smile. “Hello, how can I help you?”

“We have a few questions about one of your employees.” I pull out my business card and pass it to her. “We’re with LAPD. I’m Detective Marino and this is Freddie. He’s in training; you can ignore him.”

“Ouch,” Freddie mutters. “Should I sit at the kiddie table outside?”

The dark-haired girl studies the card, then looks back at me. Tapping the card on the top of the register, she pauses before brightening. “Cookies and cream with chocolate hardshell in a waffle cone, right?”

“Excuse me?” Freddie asks.

“That’s her order.” She nods toward me. “Right?”

“Uh, no.” I shake my head with a firm glare and will the woman to take the hint.

She doesn’t. “No, that’s it. I never forget a face or an order. Just takes me a couple seconds sometimes.” She laughs. “But you weren’t all dressed up last time.”

Freddie chuckles, his gaze dropping to my rumpled suit. “Dressed up?” he says under his breath.

“I’m a plain-vanilla girl,” I say crisply. “One scoop in a cup is fine.”

“Oh, come on. It was like three weeks ago, right?”

Three weeks ago on the nose. She could be an expert witness.

“I was just about to go on vacation,” she continues. “You were asking us about the—”

“Okay, fine,” I interrupt. Jesus, someone needs to slice this girl’s lips off. What kind of ice-cream scooper has a photographic memory? “I’ll take cookies and cream. Sounds good.”

Freddie is studying me, and this is what I get for letting him tag along.

I should have just come here alone—asked my questions, satisfied my curiosity, and left.

Instead, I felt some ridiculous urge to prove to him that I was doing my job and following any leads, and crossing questioning friends and coworkers off the investigative to-do list.

So I visited an ice-cream shop last month. Who cares?

“Coming right up.” She beams and turns to Freddie. “And you?”

“Mint chocolate chip. Three scoops, please. I’ll take a waffle cone as well.” He leans his weight on the counter and looks around. “Just you working?”

“Yep. Mornings are slow. We have two on in the afternoon. You here to ask about Jessica?”

“We are.” I withdraw the thin leather sleeve where I keep my driver’s license and a credit card.

“I figured so. We’ve all been talking. You know, I’m covering her shift right now. We knew as soon as she no-showed on Tuesday that something was wrong. I mean, she’s like our best employee. Always here early.”

“What kind of girl is she?” I ask. “Partier? Catty? Quiet?”

“Ummm ...” She takes her time scooping out my ice cream, her forehead wrinkling in concentration. “I wouldn’t say she’s a partier, but she was open to stuff—if you know what I mean.”

“No, we don’t know what you mean,” I say.

“Well, I never went out with her, but I do know that she went out. She would be kinda hungover sometimes. She was always going to clubs in Hollywood. She went on a date once with Trent Iverson, you know. Before he died. She talked about that a lot. I don’t know that it was a date as much as like a hookup at a party, but still .

..” She laughs and turns a container of chocolate syrup upside down, drizzling it over my ice cream.

“Did she ever mention her mom?” The abruptness of Freddie’s question rubs me the wrong way, and I force myself to put my credit card on the top of the register and keep my mouth shut.

“Oh yeah, all the time. The last few months, we’ve shifted the schedule a lot for her so she can take her mom to appointments.” She lowers her voice. “You know, her mom is like, dying. It’s really bad.”

“Is that what Jessica told you? That she’s dying?” Freddie asks.

“Well, no. She was always optimistic about it. But Jeff—he works the afternoon shift—his aunt had the same thing that her mom has, and his aunt wasn’t as bad as her mom, and his aunt died, so we all kind of understand what’s up.

” She looks at Freddie, then me. “Who’s taking her to her appointments, with Jessica missing? I can if she needs me to.”

“I think it’s taken care of,” I say quickly before Freddie opens his big mouth. “Did Jessica seem to like her mom? They got along well?”

“Oh, they are best friends. Her mom is like, the coolest. Especially for an older mom. She brought all of us lemon squares for Christmas in these little tins that were decorated with our name on the front. I have a picture of mine if you want to see it. I posted it on Insta.” She passes Freddie his green-and-black tower of scoops, and there’s zero chance he’ll be able to eat it without making a mess of his dress shirt.

I take a bite out of mine and wait for her to ring us up. “Any other close friends you’re aware of? We’re making the rounds, trying to paint a picture of her life.”

“Well, Kristy. She’s a super-tall Black girl, really pretty.

Gets a scoop of strawberry and a Gatorade.

And she was dating some guy who drove a Corvette.

Kinda shaggy hair. I don’t know what his name was; she always acted like it wasn’t serious.

But he got a root beer float when he came in.

” She taps the register’s screen with slow movements, like it’s her first time using it.

“Anything seem odd with her in the last month? Any phone calls that upset her ... or missed shifts ... new behavior. Anything like that?” I already know what she’s going to say. This is a dead end, with expensive sprinkles on top.

“No. Maybe a little sad and stressed about her mom, but it’s been like that for the last few months, ever since her diagnosis.”

Yes, she loved her mom. Daughter of the Year. We got it.

“She have a temper?” Freddie asks suddenly, and I glance at him as I sign the receipt, giving her a hefty tip.

She frowns, thinking over the question. “No, not that I ever saw. But this is like, the best job ever.” She spreads her arms out to encompass the tiny shop. “I mean, like, what’s there to be mad about?”

Oh, to be this young and dumb. I smile at her. “Good point. Thanks a lot ... What was your name?”

“Claire. Claire Brender.”

“Thanks, Claire.” I raise my cone in parting and try to ignore the dribble of melted ice cream running down my fingers. “Call us if you think of anything.”

Freddie holds open the door for me and gestures to one of the two small tables under the building’s eaves. “Shall we?”

I hesitate, glancing toward my car, but the last thing I need is ice cream on my seats. “Yeah,” I say reluctantly, and take the metal seat he holds out for me.