Follow the Dotted Line by Nancy Hersage

yard sale on Sunday to get rid of the furniture.”
    “So you saw him—Mark—last weekend?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tall? Graying hair? Late 50s, early 60s?”
    “Yeah. Way older than she is. Real salesman. He got rid of everything by noon.”
    Andy looked at Harley, and it was another race to the obvious.
    “He’s alive,” Harley said, getting there first.
    “Why? Isn’t he supposed to be?” the woman asked.
    “We’ve been getting mixed signals,” Andy told her. “Do you have any idea where they went?”
    “No.”
    “Does anybody else?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Did they have friends, do you know?”
    “They weren’t here very long,” she reminded Andy. “I don’t think so. Not in the neighborhood, anyway. And they were gone quite a bit. On cruises, I think. Are you an investigator or something?”
    Andy hesitated just long enough for Harley to fill the void. “His ex-wife,” he announced.
    The woman looked mildly uncomfortable with the answer.
    “The mother of his children,” Andy appended. “And several weeks ago Tilda sent them a note saying Mark was dead.”
    “Whoa,” said woman. “How strange is that!”
    For someone who rarely needed validation for her feelings, Andy found she was damned glad to have it.
    The two returned to their hotel, washed off the grit they had accumulated in the Texas humidity and headed to dinner at a small Mexican restaurant across the street.
    “Does this mean we’re going home tomorrow?” Harley asked, as Andy sat down in the booth across from him after a trip to the salsa bar.
    “Yes.”
    “So you think Tilda was just joking around with the ashes—to keep Mitch and your other kids away from their dad?”
    “That’s what it looks like.”
    “I don’t get it.”
    Neither did Andy. “Jealous women do things like that. As I say, maybe she just wants him all to herself. It’s mean, and it’s petty, but it’s not all that sinister.”
    Harley poked at the green slices decorating the food in front of him. “What are these again?”
    “Avocados.”
    “I didn’t eat much Mexican food in Oklahoma.”
    “They’re like a fruit.”
    “Not spicy?”
    “No. Give ‘em a try. They’re pretty benign. Except as an investment,” Andy said.
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Turns out Ian got into trouble with the IRS over some avocado orchards. They’re not a good place to put your money, but they’re perfectly safe to eat.”
    Despite her assurances, he nudged the slices to the side of his plate. “Are we going to the bank before we leave tomorrow?”
    “The bank?”
    “You know, where the lawyer said Uncle Mark has his accounts.”
    “I doubt people at the bank would tell us much.”
    “I think we should go anyway.”
    The boy seemed psychologically incapable of agreeing with her. She speared the slices of avocado from his plate and put them on her own.
    “You are beginning to sound like one of my children,” she told him.
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Yes, you are. Whatever I say, you insist on offering your own opinion.”
    “This really isn’t my opinion, Aunt Andy. It’s one of those things I learned on television.” He took two of the avocado slices back. “I thought you said I could talk about those things.”
    Even as she glowered at him, she ran through the only database they both shared.
    “So on television they always say—”
    “Stop right there, Harley.”
    “Why?”
    This time she was going to fend off the usual humiliation before he had a chance to deliver it. “Because I already know what they always say on television.”
    But ignorance of your elder’s insecurities is bliss, so he charged right on. “They always say follow the money .”
    “Damn it, Harley.”
    “What? What’d I do wrong now?”
    The Texas Fidelity branch where Mark had his bank account was located in a strip mall, wedged between a homeopathic chiropractor and a do-it-yourself ceramic shop. Because their flight left at 2:00 p.m., Andy and Harley were parked