Ramsey Rules Page 16

  “It occurred to me. You can tell me to mind my own business.”

  “I know I can, and you’d be decent about it, but I’m prepared to share a few things. I was simply prioritizing the list.” Ramsey pushed the cereal box to the side so it no longer distracted her. “Most of it was about money. He managed it all, the bills, the bank, our debt, our credit, even groceries and incidentals. I got an allowance for personal spending and I had to show him receipts. Fifty dollars every week. If I didn’t spend it or couldn’t prove I spent it, he subtracted the difference from the next allowance.” Ramsey turned her head, regarded Sullivan candidly. “You look as if you want to say something.”

  “Want to,” he said. “Don’t know if I should.”

  Ramsey shrugged. “Up to you.” She waited, cocked an eyebrow.

  Sullivan set his lips together and thought it over. “All right. It seems uncharacteristic that you would tolerate that.”

  “You didn’t know me then,” she said frankly. “Looking back, I hardly recognize myself. I was finishing my degree. He’s eight years older than me so he was already working, good job, excellent money, and I was creating debt. It just made sense to let him handle our finances. He never complained and I never cared enough to ask how we were doing. I don’t know if you can understand or appreciate how it’s possible to suddenly find yourself treading water when you never knew you were in the deep end of the pool.”

  “I might have some understanding,” said Sullivan. “And a little appreciation. My marriage was like that toward the end.”

  “Right.” She sipped her coffee and then held the mug between her palms. “At the point I recognized I was exhausted of reporting to Jay and began asking questions about our accounts, I got the don’t-worry-your-pretty-little-head-about-it speech. We were off to the races at that point. We argued about the job he never wanted me to have in the first place. Argued about me stepping out with girlfriends from school. It disintegrated from there until he was pointing out that I didn’t make the corners of the bed with a sharp enough crease. Dust bunnies under the couch. Dishwasher not loaded to his liking.”

  Ramsey gave him a sidelong look. “See? No time for politics, not a discussion anyway. When he pontificated, I dissociated.”

  “How did he take it when you asked for a divorce?”

  “Pretty much how you’d imagine he would.” She shook her head. “That’s enough of that.” She picked up the box of Crunch and gave it a shake over her bowl. “You want more? You still have milk.”

  Sullivan put out a hand. “I’m good.” He switched gears. “What do you have planned for today?”

  “House cleaning. Reading. Laundry. Feed the fish. Grocery shopping. All the highlights. What about you?”

  “Afternoon shift so I’m going to go down to the rec center and swim this morning.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, you could cut out one of your highlights and join me.”

  “Not a chance. Maybe when I know you better, I’ll embarrass myself swimming in front of you.”

  “You can’t be that bad.”

  “I’m a fish out of water in the water.”

  He chuckled. “All right. We’ll save it.”

  Ramsey tapped him lightly on the back of his hand with the bowl of her spoon. “I said maybe. Maybe when I know you better.”

  When Ramsey removed the spoon, Sullivan sucked a droplet of milk off his knuckle while he regarded her with a vaguely retaliatory stare.

  “Hey,” she said, holding up the spoon as if to ward him off. “It was just a tap. Just a drop of milk.”

  “It was assault,” he said, sliding off his stool. “And I think getting to know me better starts now.”

  He took the spoon from her hand and led her back to the bedroom.

  21

  Ramsey was lounging in her manager’s office, feet propped on an empty chair, drinking a latte and watching a newsfeed about a bridge collapse, when Paul strolled in from his lunch break.

  Making no effort to hide that he was out of sorts, he grunted something that might have been a greeting and asked Ramsey what she wanted.

  “Not at thing,” said Ramsey. “I had a message you wanted to see me. Did you, or was someone having me on?”

  Paul dropped in the chair behind his desk, rubbed the creases in his forehead as he thought. “Yeah. I guess I did tell Mason that. Hours ago.”

  “You weren’t here when I dropped by the first couple of times, and I couldn’t find you on the monitors so I went back to work and figured I’d catch you when you came back from lunch. Here you are, and here I am.” She didn’t ask him where he’d been hiding when she was looking for him. Not only wasn’t her business, but also she didn’t care. “What’d you need?”

  “First, get your feet off that chair.”

  “Yes, sir.” She pushed the chair back and let her feet fall to the floor. She sat up and regarded him expectantly, if a little cheekily.

  “What’s your interest in home improvement these days?”

  “My interest in home improvement? I guess it’s the same as anyone who watches too much HGTV. Always inspired by a new project. Right now, it’s a closet remodel,” she said, thinking of Sullivan’s walk-in.

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about here in the store. It’s come to my attention that you’re spending more shift time there. It’s not a high product loss area of the store, so what’s that about?”

  Ramsey did not feign bewilderment. She genuinely was puzzled. “I wasn’t aware that I was spending more time there than I usually do. Did someone complain?”

  “No, but I watch the monitors, replay shifts when I think it’s warranted, and I noticed the activity.”

  “My activity?” she asked, pointing a finger at her chest. “Or the bizarre run on paint in hardware?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you were viewing the monitors, you must have seen that your decision to accept those pallets of Caribbean Coast was a good one.”

  “Oh, that. Why do you say it’s bizarre?”

  “I wasn’t referring to your decision, although you have to admit it was at the very least a gamble. I was referring to the customer interest in the paint. For one thing, it’s pre-mixed. Most people pick a color from the sample tags and whoever is working in paints mixes it up by adding color to the base. Caribbean Coast is ready to go. Mason said neutral colors are popular, so maybe that explains it. I find it curious, that’s all. I guess that accounts for me hanging around there more often, if I am. As I said, I’m not aware.”

  “I thought you might say that.” Paul opened a side drawer and withdrew a piece of paper and held it out so Ramsey could see the pie chart that occupied the better part of the page.

  “A color wheel?” asked Ramsey. “I already know I’m autumn. What are you? Winter, I bet.”

  Paul snapped the paper so it fluttered at the end of his fingertips. “It’s a pie chart. It shows how much time you spend in any area of the store during a typical shift.”

  “You made that?” Clearly, he had way too much time on his hands, but Ramsey decided she probably shouldn’t point that out. “May I see?” She extended her arm, fully expecting him to pass the paper to her without hesitation. There was hesitation, though, and she was immediately suspicious. It was not out of the question that the chart was a fabrication to support his contention that she was overstaying her welcome in home improvement. Paul liked to be on the right side of any dispute. He was not unlike her ex-husband in that regard.

  Ramsey closed her eyes briefly, dismissing that image. Perhaps it was her recent conversation with Sullivan that brought Jay so easily to mind as she was sitting with Paul, but whatever provoked it, she didn’t like it. Not at all.

  “May I?” she asked politely, keeping her arm extended. She was tempted to wiggle her fingers to encourage him to hand it over, but she did not want him to know how truly curious she was.

  “Of course,” he said, just as if there had never been any doubt that he would giv
e it to her.

  Ramsey settled the chart on her side of his desk and leaned in to study it. “This is impressive,” she said. According to the chart, the slice of the pie that indicated her time in home improvement was twelve percent. She spent twenty-three percent in clothes and cosmetics. Eight percent at the coffee bar. Five percent in automotive. Ten percent in the pharmacy and another ten in guns and ammo. She patrolled the refrigerated meat section for six percent and jewelry for seven. Electronics was thirty percent. Finally, there was a pie slice devoted to miscellaneous, which she assumed was break time, interviewing shoplifters, writing reports, and watching the monitors. That accounted for twenty percent.

  “Huh,” she said, sliding the chart toward him and settling back in her chair. “Interesting math.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your chart accounts for one hundred thirty-one percent of my eight-hour shift. I’m not sure how you managed that, but this pie tells me I’m working way too hard.” When he simply stared at her blankly, she realized he didn’t get it. She said carefully, “The slices of the pie should equal one hundred. It’s the way of all pies. The math is faulty.” So she didn’t give offense, she added, “Probably the software.”

  He picked up the chart, looked at it. “Yeah, probably the software.”

  “Sure,” she said, straight-faced. No spreadsheet she knew could make a mistake like that. Paul had drawn the pie on the computer, colored it in, but had created the slices without using a math program. The man was obviously innumerate. “Well, since we’re talking about it, how much of my time do you think I should be devoting to home improvement?” She waited again when he fell silent. She wasn’t certain he was thinking, more like he was stumped.

  “Not as much time as you’re spending now,” he said finally. “Maybe three percent.”

  Without missing a beat, she said, “About fourteen minutes, then.”

  Paul shook his head. “No. Too much time.”

  “I could always just walk through, sniff the paint and move on.”

  “Yeah. That sounds good. Why don’t you do that?”

  Ramsey stared at him. He was serious. “All right.”

  Paul nodded, visibly pleased. He returned the pie chart to the side drawer and sat up, folding his hands in a fist on top of his desk. “Good idea. You could use the time you spend chatting with Mason Calabash trolling electronics. Always need an extra pair of eyes in electronics.”

  “You realize that in order to get an extra pair of eyes you’d have to hire someone to partner me. I’m working alone way too often these days, Paul.”

  He made sympathetic noises. “I’ll have to run it past regional corporate. Right now they’re promoting more cross-training to cashier positions. I was thinking that you could do that job in a pinch.” He paused. “After you’re trained, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said dryly. The more Paul talked, the better the police academy sounded. “You know me, Paul. Anything for the Ridge.”

  Sullivan Day gave a bark of laughter that made heads turn. He was sitting across from Ramsey in a dimly lit Italian restaurant with plastic grapevines suspended from the ceiling, red-and-white checked tablecloths, and a flickering candle supported in a straw-covered wine bottle. It was so cliché, it was now considered retro chic. “You really said that? Anything for the Ridge?”

  She nodded. “I did.”

  Sullivan tamped down his smile. “Did he believe you?”

  “I think so. Told me I was a team player and how much he appreciated it.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Yeah.” She took a chunk of warm bread and dragged it through the dipping oil before she plopped it in her mouth. “This was a good idea. I haven’t been here in a while.”

  “I like the ambience,” said Sullivan, glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s hard to beat plastic grapes as a motif.”

  “Ambience? Motif? You are a strange individual.”

  Not at all offended, Sullivan grinned. “Tell me about your week.”

  “I just did. My meeting with Paul was the highlight.”

  “Poor you.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell me about yours. You can start with how you happened to run into me as I was leaving the rec center.”

  “I told you then. I was going in for a swim after my shift.”

  “That’s what you said, only you weren’t carrying a bag.”

  “Damn.” He swore because he’d been caught in the lie, not because he was sorry for it. “I thought you’d be mad if I told you about the chip I implanted in your neck while you were sleeping.”

  Ramsey nodded as if it were precisely what she expected. “And here I thought that bruise was a hickey. You’re slick, mister.”

  Sullivan shrugged modestly and then answered her question truthfully. “You know your friend Maggie is Buddy’s cousin, right?” When she nodded again, he went on. “She texted him that you and her partner Briony were playing racquetball and that maybe I’d want to know that.”

  “Huh.” Ramsey screwed her mouth to one side. “Does that make her an even better friend than I thought or a betrayer of the girl bond?”

  “I’m going to go with the first one.”

  After a moment of contemplation, she said, “Yeah. Me too.” She sat back to let the waitress set down their antipasto and then spread her napkin across her lap. “You know, Sullivan, you could have called me. Texted. You have my number.”

  He picked the pepperoncini out of his salad and laid it on his appetizer plate. “Unless you want it,” he said, pointing to the pepper. When she shook her head, he said, “I didn’t think a text or a phone call was our thing.”

  “We have a thing?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” He forked lettuce and prosciutto and carried it to his mouth. “Running into each other seemed like a better option. More casual.”

  “Even though you deliberately plotted the encounter,” she said dryly.

  “Hey, I didn’t ask Maggie to tell Buddy you were with Briony, and I didn’t ask Buddy for an update on your whereabouts. It happened more or less organically.”

  “Mostly less.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No. Actually, I thought I’d see you at the Ridge. I had six calls into the department. You never responded to any of them.”

  “I know. I heard. There’s a little competition at the station to be the one who answers your calls.”

  “Really? Should I be flattered or creeped out?”

  “Up to you.”

  “Do the guys know we had a few dates?”

  “Some of them know you went to Linda’s wedding with me.”

  “But not about Shoot and Shots or the concert?”

  “Nope. It felt like something I should keep to myself for the time being.”

  “Then they don’t know that…” Ramsey’s voice trailed off.

  “That you saw my closet?”

  “Yeah. That.” She smiled a trifle crookedly and speared a cherry tomato.

  Sullivan returned her smile. “No, they are all encouraging me—ribbing me—to ask you out again. I don’t know when or how they got the idea that they have a stake in my love life.”

  “Obviously there is some talk behind our backs in addition to what our friends say to our faces.” Ramsey waved her fork, dismissing the middle school drama. “Tell me about your week.”

  Sullivan finished the last of his salad and then pressed his napkin to his mouth. “Five overdoses, four drunk and disorderly calls, three domestic violence complaints, two car accidents, and one—”

  “Partridge in a pear tree?”

  “I wish. One schizophrenic off his meds scaring pedestrians on Main Street.”

  “Oh, that’s sad. Did he have a weapon?”

  “No. Just doing a lot of yelling and gesticulating. He’s on a psych hold. The docs will get him stabilized, he’ll do well for a while, then he’ll go off his meds and we’ll get another call.”

  The waitress returned, took their salad bowl
s, and replaced Ramsey’s with a hot plate of manicotti and Sullivan’s with gnocchi. Ramsey let Sullivan get a couple of bites in before she asked him about the overdoses.

  “Five in one week? Is that a lot? Average?”

  “About average. No one died, and two elected to go to rehab after they left the ER. That’s not the norm. Usually we get a death and no one opting for rehab.”

  “Repeats?”

  Sullivan held up an index finger. “Just the one. Second overdose in six weeks. Borrowed time, no doubt.” He speared two gnocchi and ate them with obvious enjoyment. “How is your manicotti?”

  “Best ever.”

  He nodded, set his fork down, and picked up his wine glass. “Was Paul right?” he asked.

  “Right about what?”

  “Right about you spending more time in home improvement chatting up Mason Calabash?”

  Frowning, Ramsey swallowed her bite before she answered. “Where did that come from?”

  “Humor me.”

  She shrugged, raised her water glass and sipped. “You heard me explain that Paul’s math is suspect, but he’s not wrong that I’ve been hovering in the area more than usual. Not that I told him that.” She set her glass down. “As for chatting up Mason. He’s friendly. I’m friendly. Well, some of the time I’m friendly. It just happens that he and I work similar shifts so it’s natural that we would chat.”

  “Are you following any shoplifters into that area?”

  “No. Even shoplifters don’t linger in home improvement.”

  “Suspicious activity?”

  “No, not suspicious. Well, maybe a little. Bizarre, for sure. Are you going somewhere with this? Thinking of switching allegiances from light bulbs to paints?”

  “Hah. Funny. Light bulbs are fascinating. You’ve got your LEDs. Your incandescents and your fluorescents. Soft white. Daylight. Nightlights. Watts. Lumens. Then there’s dimmable and—”

  “If I stab myself in the eye with this fork, will you stop?” She waggled the fork at him. A droplet of red sauce fell on her plate. “If I stab you, will you answer my question?”