Love Can Be Murder

returned his smile and dumped the "not bad" contents of the coffeepot in his lap.
    He did indeed let go, punctuated by a howl that silenced the entire diner. Roxann called upon one semester of high school drama to feign innocence. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
    Rigby trotted over and gawked at the man's wet pants. "You're fired, young lady!"
    "But he grabbed me." She looked at Capistrano. "Tell him."
    But the detective was frozen in a half-standing, half-hunkering position, his face a mask of agony.
    "Get out!" Rigby yelled at her. "And don't even think about filing a dental claim."
    Roxann glanced at a tearful Helen, then turned on the heels of her sensible shoes and walked out, fighting a rare attack of tears herself. Over the years, she'd worked almost every kind of job imaginable to accommodate her commitment to the Rescue program—tutoring college math, selling mortgages over the phone, delivering flowers, modeling for art students—but she'd never been fired. Graduated top of her class at Notre Dame, and she'd just been sacked by a fat guy with one name.
    A too-clean, too-new black Ford Dooley pickup in the parking lot caught her eye, and she smirked—Detective Capistrano's ride, no doubt. She indulged in a half second of victory before surrendering to the spiraling sensation in her gut as her situation sank in. No income, no insurance, no prospects.
    Bad memories plucked at her—estrangement from her father, the nasty breakup with Richard months ago, the bizarre encounter with her roommate Elise. The only good thing she had in her life right now was her work with the Rescue program, but lately...
    She climbed behind Goldie's steering wheel, her mind spinning in a hundred directions. Turning the key, she cajoled the van to life with a series of thumps on various surfaces that had nothing whatsoever to do with combustion, but usually worked. Sure enough, the engine sputtered to life and, as a bonus, she received a face full of singed air from the vents. Goldie had been retrofitted with air-conditioning circa 1995, but the blower had pooped out one week after the two-year warranty expired, and Roxann hadn't gotten around to having a new one installed.
    "I'm getting too old for this," she murmured, hating the unease that stirred in her empty stomach. Thirty-two and still trying to fix the world one broken family at a time. Ironic, considering she hadn't seen a member of her own family in...hmm. A long while. In fact, some might look at her involvement with the Rescue relocation program and label her a fake. Or worse, a fake fighting an unwinnable battle.
    Some things just can't be fixed, Roxann, no matter how much glue you put on 'em.
    At the age of eight, holding the teacup her mother had given her, now broken into a dozen pieces, she'd tearfully fended off her father's cynicism with an entire jar of Elmer's paste and a roll of Scotch tape. But lately she'd begun to wonder if she were fooling herself. After all, she hadn't been able to drink out of that cup again.
    A lifetime ago—sixth grade, to be precise—a school counselor had asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. "A judge," Roxann had answered without hesitation. Wearing a black robe and wielding a wooden mallet to protect the good people from the bad people had seemed like the most perfect job imaginable. But somewhere between puberty and maturity, she'd decided to bypass the flawed legal system and put her summa cum laude political-science degree to no good use whatsoever by driving around the deep South, whisking fleeing women and their children to their next checkpoint.
    No black robe, no red cape, no laser-firing gold-plated bracelets. Just a woman, a van, and a suitcase full of wigs. This is your life, Roxann Beadleman! Applause, applause. Not exactly what she'd had in mind in middle school.
    So what am I doing here?
    Everything in her body quieted, like the stillness after an echo, but no response materialized. She angled the rearview mirror and studied herself—wide-eyed, pale, and still sporting rebel hair. The last time she'd worn her hair long was 1980, b.d . (before divorce). Before her father's lawyer had wrangled her away from her mother. The day of the custody judgment, she'd cut a lock of her long hair to give to her mother, and the gap in the dark mane her father adored struck her as so wickedly satisfying, she'd simply kept whacking. Her parents had been appropriately horrified, and she'd kept her hair short ever since. As if she had