Divine Evil

been busy.”
    “We read all about her in
People
magazine. Clare, I mean. She's famous.”
    “That so?” Amused, Cam shuffled papers.
    “Oh, yeah. She's an artist or something. Makes statues. I saw a picture of one. Must'a been ten feet high.” His pleasant face screwed up in thought. “Couldn't make out what it was. I dated her once, you know.”
    “No, I didn't.”
    “Yes, sir, took her to the movies and everything. That was the year after her dad died. Damn shame about all that.” He used his sleeve to wipe a smudge from the glass of the gun cabinet. “My mom was friends with her mom. Fact is, they were out together the night he did it. Anyway, I thought I might go by the Kimball place sometime. See how Clare's doing.”
    Before Cam could comment, the phone rang. “Sheriff's office.” He listened for a moment to the rapid, high-pitched voice. “Is anyone hurt? Okay, I'll be right there.” He hung up and pushed away from the desk. “CecilFogarty ran his car into the oak tree in Mrs. Negley's front yard.”
    “Want me to take it?”
    “No, I'll handle it.” Mrs. Negley's was just around the corner from Clare's, he thought as he went out. It would be downright unneighborly not to drop by.
    Clare was just pulling into the drive when Cam cruised up. He took his time, watching her as she fumbled for the lever to pop the trunk. Hands tucked in his pockets, he strolled up behind her as she tugged at the bags and boxes heaped in the back of the car.
    “Want some help?”
    Startled, she rapped her head on the hatchback and swore as she rubbed the hurt. “Jesus, is it part of your job description to sneak around?”
    “Yeah.” He hefted out a box. “What's all this?”
    “Things. I realized you need more than a sleeping bag and a bar of soap to survive.” She dropped two bags on top of the box he held and gathered up the rest herself.
    “You left your keys in the car.”
    “I'll get them later.”
    “Get them now.”
    On a long-suffering sigh, Clare walked around the car, juggling bags as she leaned inside to pull the keys out of the ignition. She went in through the open garage and left him to follow.
    Cam took a look at the tools, several hundred dollars′ worth, he estimated. The steel tanks, the stone and metal and lumber. “If you're going to keep all this stuff in here, you'd better start closing the garage door.”
    “Taking our job seriously, aren't we?” She stepped through the laundry room into the kitchen.
    “That's right.” He glanced at the counter loaded with covered dishes. “You want to make room for this?”
    “Sorry.” She pushed plates and bowls together. “The ladies came by this afternoon.” She pried a plastic lid from a tub, took a sniff. “Want a brownie?”
    “Yeah. Got any coffee to go with it?”
    “No, but there's beer and Pepsi in the fridge. And somewhere in all of this is a coffeepot.” She began to dig in the box, unraveling items wrapped in newspaper. “I hit a flea market on the way to the mall. It was great.” She held up a slightly battered percolator. “It might even work.”
    “I'll take the Pepsi,” he decided and helped himself.
    “Just as well, I think I forgot to buy coffee. I got plates, though. This terrific old Fiestaware. And I got these great jelly glasses with Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck on them.” She tossed back her hair, pushed up her sleeves, and smiled at him. “So, how was your day?”
    “Cecil Fogarty ran his Plymouth into Mrs. Negley's oak tree.”
    “Pretty exciting.”
    “She thought so.” He passed her the bottle of Pepsi. “So, you're going to set up shop in the garage.”
    “Um-hmm.” She took a long sip and handed it back to him.
    “Does that mean you're settling in, Slim?”
    “That means I'm working while I'm here.” She chose a brownie for herself, then scooted up to sit on the counter by the sink. The light of the fading sun glowed in her hair. “Can I ask you something I was too polite to ask you last night?”
    “All right.”
    “Why did you come back?”
    “I wanted a change,” he said simply, and not completely truthfully.
    “As I remember you couldn't wait to see the last of this place.”
    He had gone fast, not looking back, with two hundred and twenty-seven dollars in his pocket and all kinds of needs boiling in his blood. There had been freedom in that. “I was eighteen. Why are you back?”
    She frowned, nibbling on the brownie. “Maybe I'd had enough change. I've been thinking a lot