Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📕

the latest kitchen gadgets. I could do that tomorrow on my way to Lisa for the blow-dry. Yes.

I heard singing, not just any singing, caroling. Oh, how I loved that sound. I moved to the side along with the rest of the crowd of shoppers to make room for the slow moving group of young and old carolers. They harmonized “Jingle Bells,” and wore old-fashioned bonnets. What a charming vignette, even without snow. And that added to my sadness, thinking about home. Crud. I left through the food court, stopping to purchase some chocolate chip cookies, and headed home. Okay, I made a tiny detour and drove by Tristan’s place, just because.

All looked quiet over at Brenda’s. No Harley and no squad car. Yes!!! That meant that neither of the dinner guests had arrived. I went home to change into my jeans and comfy shoes to walk Dior. Kassandra’s secret info group kept gnawing at me. That was it. I would ask Officer Clarke. After all, he was a real cop. He had to know. Right?

I switched the Christmas tree lights on and thought about Tristan. Could he be home alone like me? And just like that, I started to cry. For no reason, except—the damn season of joy. Right. I sniffled quietly, found a leftover cookie and plopped it in my mouth. My cell chimed. What now?

“Hi, Fiat.” Tristan.

Did he see me drive by his house? I tried to answer and choked on the cookie, coughing and wheezing into the phone. Why, why, why?

“Fiat, are you okay?”

“Yes.”—cough—“Yes, I—I was eating a cookie” Cough.

“Oh, you had me worried there for a minute. I sort of expected you to come up with some sudden illness to get out of our dinner date.”

Dinner date? Now I coughed twice as hard. I finally came up for air. “No, it’s an accident, sorry.” Dinner date?

“It occurred to me that I don’t really know what you would like to eat.”

Eat? You. Then out loud, “I’m easy.” Nooo. “Oh, I’m talking food.” My face? On fire. His low chuckle was at the other end. “I mean, I like simple food, steak and potatoes, cheeseburgers and fries, and no particular restaurant in mind. You decide.”

“Interesting. And here I was concerned about finding authentic Italian food for you.”

“Just out of curiosity, do you actually think you’re going to get a reservation for tomorrow night? A week before Christmas? Ah!”

“I’m an optimist,” he said, and I sensed his smiling. “You’ll see, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

Wow, just wow. Dinner date. Tell Brenda or don’t tell Brenda? I would think about that while I walked Dior. It was about six o’clock when I headed over to Brenda’s back door and found a white typing paper scotch-taped to the door. I could hear Dior inside, having a barking fit.

From Brenda. RE: dinner. Have to cancel. Sorry. Emergency. Will explain later. I’m fine, something regarding the catering business. Monica, please take Dior for a walk? Tommy, come back in the morning? Brenda.

Wow. An emergency regarding B&B Catering? What? And not a word to Bob? What made him so special? Stop it, Monica.

I rushed home to get Brenda’s key and let myself into her house.

“Okay, okay, Dior, get down. Enough kisses. Be still, big boy. Let me get the leash.” He had stepped on his water bowl. I quickly dried up the small spill, and soon we headed toward the 40th Street intersection. I picked the direction on impulse, or maybe deep down I had wild hopes of running into Tristan and Tache? Today the farrier was working on his horse’s what...hooves? Had no clue what any of that was called, wondered if it was painful for the poor horse. Maybe he couldn’t walk. And maybe I needed my head examined. Common sensed prevailed, and I turned around once I reached one of the small streets running through the neighborhood.

“Hey, Dior, let’s pretend we are judging the home decorations, okay?” But the Great Dane was busy sniffing every bush, every tree. I wasn’t in any hurry to get home, hoping to miss Tommy all together. I walked around with part of my brain tuned to detect any rumbling motorcycle, the better to hide and not be harassed by my mean-spirited ex-husband.

The sun had set long before Dior had done his business so we headed home. I figured after I disposed of the dog poop and washed my hands good, I was entitled to take a look in Brenda’s pantry for something to eat, and I could always count on a glass of wine from her refrigerator supply—as long as Tommy wasn’t in the picture.

We passed neighbor Bob’s house, in my opinion he had the best Christmas decorations, even an animated nativity scene, and I’d been told he was agnostic. Go figure.

And just then I noticed the car parked by the widow’s driveway.

Officer Bob Clarke’s car. Huh, what? Brenda told him to eat across the street? Then again, maybe she called me, but since my cell sat on my couch, well....

And then, as we came closer and closer to the house, Bob Clarke came out of the widow’s home and headed to his car. I wanted to talk to him, without acting like I wanted to talk to him. God, how stupid was that?

Maybe the powers above took pity on me because he turned his head and must have noticed us. He waved and crossed the street.

“Hi, Monica.” He petted Dior who tried to jump on him, “Okay, boy, calm down,” He seemed to enjoy Dior’s exuberant behavior. “I guess Brenda is in damage control mode. Are you okay for dinner, or do you need something?”

I don’t know what got into me, standing there with Dior’s leash on one hand and a plastic bag full of stinky poop in the other, I said, “Actually, do you mind walking me to Brenda’s house. I would hate to find Tommy there, waiting.” I assumed he knew about my past spousal situation with Tommy because