word “lurking” and then there would be no end of complications.
If the choice was between waiting here for the others to join him and driving to Lucy’s chicken ranch, the best way to avoid making any choice at all was to get back on the highway driving south at the usual pace so that they could eventually catch up. If Lucy detained them indefinitely, he would arrive in the city without them.
But before he’d started the engine, a silver VW Golf pulled up and stopped too close beside him. A woman stepped out and slammed her door but did not head off toward the store. The pleased-with-herself look on her face and the open notebook in her hand suggested he ought to have left before now. She was probably an off-duty police-woman asked by the grocer to check out the malingering hearse-driver. He would be subjected now to an interrogation. No ownership papers? A portable license plate? He would be required to accompany her to the station for questioning.
“Just leaving,” he said, for she had come around behind her car and put a hand on the lip of his half-door.
“This won’t take long,” she said. “A photographer’s on his way, but I have a few questions I want to ask while we’re waiting. For the Telegraph .”
The town’s weekly!
“Sorry. I was just about to leave,” he said. “You can call your photographer and tell him to stop wherever he is and turn back.”
She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, or maybe fifty — he couldn’t guess the age of younger people any more. She had freckles, and a mop of reddish hair. She might have persuaded himto chat with her if she hadn’t mentioned a photographer. He did not want to see himself or this hearse in the papers. Not yet, at least. For the time being it was no one else’s business why he was driving to the city in this hearse.
“We might have had this conversation at your workshop yesterday if you’d unlocked the doors to Mr. Foreman and myself.”
If she worked for a magazine or newspaper, locked doors were bound to make her curious. If there was something to hide, there must be something to pursue. “There was nothing to talk about yesterday. There’s nothing to talk about today, either, unless you send the photographer home.”
“Dammit,” she said, and rooted around in her large maroon handbag. When she’d brought up a bright red cell phone, she held it to her ear and turned away. Arvo considered taking advantage of her distraction to back up and drive out of here, but of course she would catch up to him before he’d made the first bend. And then he’d have both her and probably the photographer as well to deal with. She lowered her voice to speak but Arvo, straining hard, could hear enough: “No, no, I’m sure he’s serious. I mean it. I can see he’s one of those .”
Arvo didn’t know what she meant by those . A stubborn old man? A stubborn old mechanic who didn’t trust photographers? He probably wouldn’t care to know what box she’d put him in.
He got out of the hearse and sat on the log facing the water. He was not going to be interviewed sitting behind the wheel. That would only encourage her to get in and sit beside him, and then there would be no way of getting rid of her. Even if he started the engine and drove out onto the road heading south, she would probably stay beside him, unshakeable, willing to nag at him right to the end of the journey. He’d never been interviewed by the press but he had a prettygood idea they did not succeed at their job without being as hard to shake as a boa constrictor around your neck.
“Lucky you,” she said, coming up behind him and stepping over the log to sit too close. “His wife has the car and he was waiting for a cab. He said he would cancel the cab. I hope you’re going to reward me for this kindness.”
“It would not have been worth the price of a taxi. I have nothing worth putting in that notebook.”
“Not even to answer Where did you find this
If the choice was between waiting here for the others to join him and driving to Lucy’s chicken ranch, the best way to avoid making any choice at all was to get back on the highway driving south at the usual pace so that they could eventually catch up. If Lucy detained them indefinitely, he would arrive in the city without them.
But before he’d started the engine, a silver VW Golf pulled up and stopped too close beside him. A woman stepped out and slammed her door but did not head off toward the store. The pleased-with-herself look on her face and the open notebook in her hand suggested he ought to have left before now. She was probably an off-duty police-woman asked by the grocer to check out the malingering hearse-driver. He would be subjected now to an interrogation. No ownership papers? A portable license plate? He would be required to accompany her to the station for questioning.
“Just leaving,” he said, for she had come around behind her car and put a hand on the lip of his half-door.
“This won’t take long,” she said. “A photographer’s on his way, but I have a few questions I want to ask while we’re waiting. For the Telegraph .”
The town’s weekly!
“Sorry. I was just about to leave,” he said. “You can call your photographer and tell him to stop wherever he is and turn back.”
She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, or maybe fifty — he couldn’t guess the age of younger people any more. She had freckles, and a mop of reddish hair. She might have persuaded himto chat with her if she hadn’t mentioned a photographer. He did not want to see himself or this hearse in the papers. Not yet, at least. For the time being it was no one else’s business why he was driving to the city in this hearse.
“We might have had this conversation at your workshop yesterday if you’d unlocked the doors to Mr. Foreman and myself.”
If she worked for a magazine or newspaper, locked doors were bound to make her curious. If there was something to hide, there must be something to pursue. “There was nothing to talk about yesterday. There’s nothing to talk about today, either, unless you send the photographer home.”
“Dammit,” she said, and rooted around in her large maroon handbag. When she’d brought up a bright red cell phone, she held it to her ear and turned away. Arvo considered taking advantage of her distraction to back up and drive out of here, but of course she would catch up to him before he’d made the first bend. And then he’d have both her and probably the photographer as well to deal with. She lowered her voice to speak but Arvo, straining hard, could hear enough: “No, no, I’m sure he’s serious. I mean it. I can see he’s one of those .”
Arvo didn’t know what she meant by those . A stubborn old man? A stubborn old mechanic who didn’t trust photographers? He probably wouldn’t care to know what box she’d put him in.
He got out of the hearse and sat on the log facing the water. He was not going to be interviewed sitting behind the wheel. That would only encourage her to get in and sit beside him, and then there would be no way of getting rid of her. Even if he started the engine and drove out onto the road heading south, she would probably stay beside him, unshakeable, willing to nag at him right to the end of the journey. He’d never been interviewed by the press but he had a prettygood idea they did not succeed at their job without being as hard to shake as a boa constrictor around your neck.
“Lucky you,” she said, coming up behind him and stepping over the log to sit too close. “His wife has the car and he was waiting for a cab. He said he would cancel the cab. I hope you’re going to reward me for this kindness.”
“It would not have been worth the price of a taxi. I have nothing worth putting in that notebook.”
“Not even to answer Where did you find this
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