Perhaps it wasn’t the lollypop as much as it was the fact that Lucy had been rewarded with it for enduring a tongue depressor halfway down her throat or waiting forever in line while her aunt deposited her state paycheck. The list of verboten foods and safety concerns got longer with time as her aunt discovered yet one more way someone could die. But Lucy’s life with Scarpetta was not so severe as it might seem. Scarpetta had always given Lucy her time. Aunt Kay had enlightened and educated her with books, computers, and, now and then, church. She had taught Lucy about good and evil, and had not tolerated selfishness, for it was, in Scarpetta’s words, the root of all that was heartless and bad in the world.
Lucy formed small balls out of the cookie dough, which she first tasted raw, remembering when she was a kid and fat and had sneaked enough of it to make her sick. She flattened the balls just a little and placed them several inches apart on the cookie sheets.
“Someone get the Bailey’s out of the bar. And glasses. Whiskey tumbler size,” she directed from the doorway leading into the great room.
“You’re sure your aunt doesn’t mind us squatters wrecking her house?”
“We’re not wrecking it,” Lucy said.
“Not yet.”
“When’s she coming back?”
“Tomorrow, if planes can get ~
“What if we’re still here?” An ATF agent, who knew all about bombs, laughed. “I mean, we might all be right here in this same spot, especially if we eat anything else.”
“She won’t care,” Lucy said.
A second ATF agent eyed the holstered pistols and extra magazines scattered over tables.
“Wouldn’t be a smart time for a burglar to show up,” she matter-of-factly cornmented.
“OHHHH, all us women alone,” Lucy said in a silly tone, as if she were ready for the fainting couch.
Normally, the cookies needed a good ten minutes in the oven, but Lucy always rescued them somewhat earlier than that, while they were still soft in the middle, because she liked them chewy and moist. With a spatula, she slid them onto a plattei eating one while it was hot.
“God,” she groaned. “You’re gonna die!” she called out to her friends. “They’re so good they’re bad!”
They dipped them into tumblers of Bailey’s fish Cream, sitting close to each other in front of the fire, the shadows of flames dancing on their faces.
Chapter 8
The next morning, Marino did not serve Jimmy Simpson snow, as threatened, although he did jerk the boy around a bit by carrying a bowl of it into the house. He dribbled Mrs. Butterworth’s maple syrup over it and stuck a soupspoon in the middle. Jimmy was warm with sleep and tangled in blankets on the couch when he opened his eyes and found Marino hovering over him, holding out the disgusting concoction.
“Snow cream,” Marino told him.
Jimmy sat up, his dark tufts sprouting in different directions. He blinked several times, shifting into consciousness.
“Yuck,” he said.
“How ‘bout an omelet?” Marino asked. “Or you never had one of those, either?”
“I don’t know”
Marino clicked on the TV? He opened the venetian blinds to let the overcast morning into his cramped, slovenly living room.
“I think it’s going to snow again,” Jimmy said, hopefully.
“Clouds aren’t low enough,” said Marino, the weather expert. “When they get low like fog and you can’t see the sky anywhere, that’s when you know. I can feel it like rain coming. Could happen before the day’s out, though.”
“Will I stay here again if it does?”
“One of these days your mother might want you back,” Marino said.
MARINO’S SOUTHERN-STYLE NEW JERZY OMLETTE
Marino was in a gray FBI sweat suit that did not completely cover his girth, and the feet of his white tube socks were stained orange from the insoles of his Cortex boots. He made his way into the kitchen, and soon enough had coffee brewing and was cracking eggs with one hand into a Tupperware juice container The cast iron skillet was on the stove, and he wiped it with paper towels. He never washed the skillet with soap, and it was seasoned so well he didn’t need to grease it.