Death Come Quickly by Susan Wittig Albert Page A

about meeting her friend.”
    â€œBut she doesn’t answer her cell,” Ruby reminded her.
    â€œYes, there’s that.” Sheila glanced at me. “You don’t happen to have the younger sister’s cell phone number, do you?”
    â€œNo, but Brian does,” I replied promptly. “I’ll get it.”
    I reached in my pocket for my phone as Sheila said to Ruby, “Under the circumstances, we’ll make this a priority. Call Kitt back and—” She stopped. “No. Give me her number, Ruby, and I’ll call her myself. If she’ll come down to the station, we can get the information into the system faster.”
    I had turned off my phone while we were having lunch, and when I turned it on, I saw that there were a couple of missed calls from McQuaid. But I had to talk to Brian first. We had hired him to paint our house this summer—a big job, since the house itself is big: a two-story, five-bedroom Victorian with a turret and a porch that wraps around three sides. For the past month, Brian has been working on it steadily, with a little help from Caitie on the trim around the windows. (We solved two problems at the same time, as it turned out. While he’s painting, he’s also keeping an eye on Caitlin.)
    It was several rings before Brian picked up, and I pictured him on a ladder, a paintbrush in one hand. “I need Jake’s cell number,” I said, reaching over the counter for a pencil and a scrap of paper.
    â€œHang on a sec,” he said. “I’ve got it on my speed dial, and I never remember it.” A moment later, he read it off to me and I wrote it down. “How come you’re asking, Mom? Is there a problem?”
    I didn’t want to spook him. “Not really,” I said in an offhand tone. “Ruby is looking for Gretchen, and I thought Jake might know where she is.” I paused. “You haven’t seen her, have you? Gretchen, I mean.”
    â€œAre you kidding?” He laughed. “The only thing I’ve seen is the business end of this paintbrush. Oh, and Dad called. He was trying to get in touch with you. He said he left a couple of messages on your phone.”
    â€œI had it turned off. Anything urgent?”
    â€œNope. He just wanted to tell you that he has to go to Austin this afternoon—some research he’s doing for Mr. Lipman. He probably won’t make it home in time for supper. He said he’d pick something up for himself and we should just go ahead.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “In that case, how about if I stop at Gino’s and get a pizza?” Gino’s Italian Pizza Kitchen served up Pecan Springs’ very first pizza in the late 1950s, at a time when most folks around here had never tasted one. Texans tend to go for burgers or fried chicken, and pizza was slow to catch on with the townies. But the kids at CTSU—which was a small teachers’ college back then—loved it. They made Gino’s an enduring success. Gino Senior is gone now, but Gino Junior carries on, and his pizza is still the best in town.
    â€œGreat by me,” Brian replied enthusiastically. “Bring home a super-size and I’ll ask Jake to come over.”
    â€œI’ll ask her myself,” I replied, thanked him, and clicked the connection off. “I’ve got Jake’s cell number,” I said to Sheila. “How about if I call her?”
    â€œPlease,” Sheila said. “You know her.”
    But a call to Jake didn’t net us any information. She had last seen Gretchen at breakfast and didn’t expect her home until late evening. I didn’t want to alarm her, so I didn’t say why I was asking.
    â€œShe left at nine to meet Kitt at the media lab,” she added. “They’re working on the rough cut today. Here, let me give you Gretchen’s cell number.”
    I took it down. “We’re having pizza tonight,” I said.