intend to find out. Maybe it’s just coincidence it’s always Tour Tyme vans, or maybe there’s a reason for it. Look, I know the police are a lot better than I am at doing this kind of thing, but I can talk to people who might not talk so freely to the cops. If it’s okay with you, I’ll keep on asking questions and digging around. All right?”
“You’d do that?” Tootsie looked up at her, spreading his fingers across his face to stretch away the weariness and doubts. “And you’ll be careful?”
“You bet. So don’t keep stressing about it. The MPD is one of the best in the country at tracking down criminals, and hey—they’ve got me to help.”
“Oh God.” Tootsie laughed a little shakily. “Don’t tell them that. I have a feeling it wouldn’t be in your best interest.”
“And I have a feeling you’re right. Now here.” Harley dug in her backpack and pulled out a new tube of lipstick. “Estée Lauder. I was saving it for a special occasion, and I think this qualifies.”
Tootsie opened the box and pulled out the tube. “Ooh, scarlet red! You sure you don’t want this?”
“It’s not my color. Actually, I got it for you anyway. Free with my purchase of mascara. It’s you. Really.”
The phone console lit up with a call, and saved her from any further lying. Happier now, Tootsie answered the phone with his Memphis Tour Tyme spiel and took down a message. As another call came in, he handed it to Harley. “Put this on Rhett’s desk for me, will you? He should be back soon.”
“Ah, the charming Retch Sandler. Has he found his missing personality yet?”
“Still missing. But he’s a good accountant and hasn’t stolen anything yet, so don’t make him mad, okay?”
“I’ll do my best. As long as he still hands out the paychecks, anyway.”
Harley went down the hall and put the pink message slip in the middle of Rhett’s desk, on top of a neatly stacked set of ledgers that sat atop a spotless desk, in a small office that was more like a hospital room than most hospital rooms. Sanitary, hygienic, and sparse. Just like Rhett. No personal photos, no sports souvenirs, no plants. Just stacks of ledgers and a computer. It looked a lot newer than the one Tootsie had at his desk. Sandler had a new computer to use in his work, while Tootsie still used an older computer. It was most likely a thorn in Tootsie’s side that he didn’t have a new one at the office, but he did have a state-of-the-art computer at home.
Sandler’s computer hummed, the monitor still on. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, Harley said to herself, and took a peek at the screen. Accounting had never been her forté. Even though she’d worked for the bank, it had been in the marketing department, where creativity counted a lot more than spread sheets. They’d been about to outsource all the marketing when she’d decided she couldn’t stand another minute of her bosses, and a transfer to one of the branches was her idea of hell. Thus began her sojourn into the world of tourism.
And murder. Who would have thought it?
Now she reflected that she should have paid more attention to the accounting class she’d taken at Ole Miss, because all this looked like hieroglyphics to her. A few things stood out, not the numbers but the initials. LOP. TAR. What on earth were those for? Tar she could figure out, probably something to do with repaving the parking lot, but LOP? What was a lop and why did it cost so much?
Footsteps slogged down the hallway, and she headed for his office door. Sandler met her in the hall, his eyes narrowing a little when he saw her come out of his office. He was the kind of man you’d never really notice, ordinary, with sandy hair he kept short, slight build, and regular features. He always wore a suit, black in the winter, tan in the summer, and bow ties that still didn’t hide his prominent Adam’s
“You’d do that?” Tootsie looked up at her, spreading his fingers across his face to stretch away the weariness and doubts. “And you’ll be careful?”
“You bet. So don’t keep stressing about it. The MPD is one of the best in the country at tracking down criminals, and hey—they’ve got me to help.”
“Oh God.” Tootsie laughed a little shakily. “Don’t tell them that. I have a feeling it wouldn’t be in your best interest.”
“And I have a feeling you’re right. Now here.” Harley dug in her backpack and pulled out a new tube of lipstick. “Estée Lauder. I was saving it for a special occasion, and I think this qualifies.”
Tootsie opened the box and pulled out the tube. “Ooh, scarlet red! You sure you don’t want this?”
“It’s not my color. Actually, I got it for you anyway. Free with my purchase of mascara. It’s you. Really.”
The phone console lit up with a call, and saved her from any further lying. Happier now, Tootsie answered the phone with his Memphis Tour Tyme spiel and took down a message. As another call came in, he handed it to Harley. “Put this on Rhett’s desk for me, will you? He should be back soon.”
“Ah, the charming Retch Sandler. Has he found his missing personality yet?”
“Still missing. But he’s a good accountant and hasn’t stolen anything yet, so don’t make him mad, okay?”
“I’ll do my best. As long as he still hands out the paychecks, anyway.”
Harley went down the hall and put the pink message slip in the middle of Rhett’s desk, on top of a neatly stacked set of ledgers that sat atop a spotless desk, in a small office that was more like a hospital room than most hospital rooms. Sanitary, hygienic, and sparse. Just like Rhett. No personal photos, no sports souvenirs, no plants. Just stacks of ledgers and a computer. It looked a lot newer than the one Tootsie had at his desk. Sandler had a new computer to use in his work, while Tootsie still used an older computer. It was most likely a thorn in Tootsie’s side that he didn’t have a new one at the office, but he did have a state-of-the-art computer at home.
Sandler’s computer hummed, the monitor still on. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, Harley said to herself, and took a peek at the screen. Accounting had never been her forté. Even though she’d worked for the bank, it had been in the marketing department, where creativity counted a lot more than spread sheets. They’d been about to outsource all the marketing when she’d decided she couldn’t stand another minute of her bosses, and a transfer to one of the branches was her idea of hell. Thus began her sojourn into the world of tourism.
And murder. Who would have thought it?
Now she reflected that she should have paid more attention to the accounting class she’d taken at Ole Miss, because all this looked like hieroglyphics to her. A few things stood out, not the numbers but the initials. LOP. TAR. What on earth were those for? Tar she could figure out, probably something to do with repaving the parking lot, but LOP? What was a lop and why did it cost so much?
Footsteps slogged down the hallway, and she headed for his office door. Sandler met her in the hall, his eyes narrowing a little when he saw her come out of his office. He was the kind of man you’d never really notice, ordinary, with sandy hair he kept short, slight build, and regular features. He always wore a suit, black in the winter, tan in the summer, and bow ties that still didn’t hide his prominent Adam’s
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