Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) by Susan Fleet

a bath. His mother depended on the home-care workers, but he didn’t like strangers in the house when he wasn’t home. He took off his shirt and sniffed his underarms. Disgusting. He smelled like a ditch-digger.
    Ten days ago it was cold and raw, today it felt like July, temperatures in the eighties. He'd done twenty cable hookups today and not one house with air conditioning.
    The hamper was overflowing with dirty clothes. He’d better go to the laundromat tonight. He hated doing laundry, but it got him out of the house. Afterwards, he’d go to the Seaside Diner and sit at the counter with the cops.
    He soaped his underarms and put on a clean T-shirt, wondering what his mother had fixed for dinner. He hadn’t eaten much lunch. He left the bathroom and entered the kitchen. Even with the windows open it was stifling. She was in her wheelchair in front of the sink where the linoleum was worn down to the bare wood. He bent down and gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek. Beads of sweat dotted her nose and forehead.
    “How was your day, Mom?”
    “The girl from the health service was new. I had a terrible time washing up.” She wheeled over to the card table and set paper napkins by their plates. “I tried a new recipe today. Nobody can say I don’t cook for my family.” She picked up a serving spoon. “Did you shut the light off in the bathroom?”
    “Yes, Mom.”
    “Are you sure? I got up this morning and it was on. We can’t afford to waste electricity, you know. Go check and make sure.”
    He got up and went around the corner to the bathroom. The light was off. When he returned to the kitchen, a glutinous gray mound filled his plate. “What’s the new recipe?”
    “Tuna casserole. I got it off a Campbell’s mushroom soup can. I put green peas and black olives in it.”
    He studied the black specks in the slop on his plate. Probably the olives. The grayish-green things must be the peas. His mother looked at him expectantly. Her portion was smaller, and she had carrot sticks and celery stalks on her plate. His mother liked her rabbit food. He took a bite and rolled it around his mouth. It felt slimy.
    What was it? Overcooked spaghetti, salty, with a fishy taste.
    “Do you like it?” she said, watching him, not touching hers.
    He smiled and nodded. “It’s good, Mom. Real good. But you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble on such a hot day.”
    “The recipe makes a lot, enough for two meals.”
    “That’s nice.” He set his fork down. “But I won’t be home for dinner tomorrow.”
    His mother stopped chewing and frowned. “Why not? Where are you going?”
    “Up to the library in Quincy. They might have an opening.”
    “Why don’t you call first and see? That’s the smart thing to do. Why waste gas?”
    “It’s better to go in person so I can leave my resume. If I get another library job—”
    “For more money, I hope. We can barely afford this house. You should get down on your knees and pray for a job that pays better. With the help of the Lord, maybe you’ll find one.” She took a bite of carrot and chewed. “Your father may have had his faults, but he was a good provider. Silas was salesman of the month, plenty of times.”
    He put his hands in his lap and picked the scab on his thumb, remembering the sour whisky-stink when his father got in his face and yelled: Sissy! Why can’t you be a big boy like John?
    Big brother John. 
    He went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. Anything to wash down the slop. He shook the carton. “Is this all the milk?”
    “Yes. I used most of it in the casserole.”
    He poured what was left into a glass and picked up the package of hot-dog rolls on the counter.
    “Don’t open those, Billy. They’re for tomorrow.”
    He put them back, sat down at the table and felt a prickle of excitement.
    His mother was wearing Florence’s bracelet! He stared at it, picturing Florence with the yellow plastic bag over her head. He wondered how his