year.
“That’s the plan.” I paused. “Is there something I can do, Sally?”
“I wish.” She sat back in her seat, shaking her head gloomily. “No. I’m afraid Mike is the only one who can help me.”
“What is it you want him to do? Of course, it’s none of my business, but . . .” I let my voice trail off.
She looked away. “I need him to . . . to talk to somebody for me. It’s . . . it’s an investigative matter.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, well, he’s certainly the guy you want to talk to. Investigation isn’t my line of work. So I guess you’ll have to wait until he gets back. Or you could call. He’s got his cell phone with him.” I felt guilty suggesting this, although it was still my considered opinion that McQuaid could have found a few minutes to talk to her, especially since she seemed to think it was so urgent.
“Call him?” She brightened, then thought about it and got gloomy again. “I’d rather talk to him in person. This is pretty complicated. It would be hard to tell him over the phone. He might . . . He might not believe me.”
I hate it when people reject suggestions as fast as you can make them. “Well, I guess it’ll just have to wait, then. In the meantime, if you’d like to take Caitlin Christmas shopping, be my guest.” A year ago I might have had reservations about trusting Sally to do something like this, but now she seemed almost normal. “Why don’t you pay for what she picks out—within reason, of course—and I’ll pay you back.”
Sally ducked her head, looking embarrassed. “Could I maybe get an advance? As I told you, I’m not exactly rolling in the stuff right now.”
No? What about the cash she’d picked up at the bank? I was troubled, but I didn’t want to give Bonnie’s information away—not just yet, anyway. I picked up my purse, opened my wallet, and handed over three tens. “This should be enough. We’re not having a big Christmas this year.”
“Tell me about it.” Sally tucked the money into her purse, laughing wryly, then picked up her iced tea and took a sip. “While Caitie and I are at the mall, I was thinking I might see if anybody’s hiring temporaries for the holiday. I could maybe earn enough to help with the groceries and pay for gas for the car.”
A job? Well, then, maybe she had already unloaded the cash. But where? And how much? Which reminded me of something else. “I was closing up this afternoon when I got a phone call,” I said, picking up my fork to begin on my salad. “It was for you.”
She looked up, startled. “For me? But nobody knows where—” Her voice cracked. “Who . . . Who was it?”
“Some guy. He didn’t give his name.” I was watching her. There was something in her voice—apprehension? fear?—that didn’t fit my casual announcement of the phone call. “He just said to tell you that a friend called, and that he has your car.”
I can’t say exactly what happened next, whether Sally dropped her full glass of iced tea, or whether it was wet and slipped out of her fingers. It didn’t break—Gino’s glasses are tough—but it made a large, messy splash all over the table. Hurriedly, we slid out of the booth and waited while the server jogged over with a towel to mop up the spill.
“Sorry, China,” Sally muttered. “I didn’t splash you, did I?”
“Even if you had, it wouldn’t matter,” I said. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt—my usual working garb. “I’m totally washable.”
We sat down again. Our salads had escaped the deluge, and I returned to mine. Sally toyed with hers. I let the silence deepen, waiting to see what she would say next. After a moment, she took a deep breath.
“The man who called—did he say where he was calling from?”
“Nope. I asked him to leave a number, but he didn’t do that, either.”
I frowned at my salad. Throughout my whole life, I have staved off other people’s efforts to dig into what I consider my personal business,
“That’s the plan.” I paused. “Is there something I can do, Sally?”
“I wish.” She sat back in her seat, shaking her head gloomily. “No. I’m afraid Mike is the only one who can help me.”
“What is it you want him to do? Of course, it’s none of my business, but . . .” I let my voice trail off.
She looked away. “I need him to . . . to talk to somebody for me. It’s . . . it’s an investigative matter.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, well, he’s certainly the guy you want to talk to. Investigation isn’t my line of work. So I guess you’ll have to wait until he gets back. Or you could call. He’s got his cell phone with him.” I felt guilty suggesting this, although it was still my considered opinion that McQuaid could have found a few minutes to talk to her, especially since she seemed to think it was so urgent.
“Call him?” She brightened, then thought about it and got gloomy again. “I’d rather talk to him in person. This is pretty complicated. It would be hard to tell him over the phone. He might . . . He might not believe me.”
I hate it when people reject suggestions as fast as you can make them. “Well, I guess it’ll just have to wait, then. In the meantime, if you’d like to take Caitlin Christmas shopping, be my guest.” A year ago I might have had reservations about trusting Sally to do something like this, but now she seemed almost normal. “Why don’t you pay for what she picks out—within reason, of course—and I’ll pay you back.”
Sally ducked her head, looking embarrassed. “Could I maybe get an advance? As I told you, I’m not exactly rolling in the stuff right now.”
No? What about the cash she’d picked up at the bank? I was troubled, but I didn’t want to give Bonnie’s information away—not just yet, anyway. I picked up my purse, opened my wallet, and handed over three tens. “This should be enough. We’re not having a big Christmas this year.”
“Tell me about it.” Sally tucked the money into her purse, laughing wryly, then picked up her iced tea and took a sip. “While Caitie and I are at the mall, I was thinking I might see if anybody’s hiring temporaries for the holiday. I could maybe earn enough to help with the groceries and pay for gas for the car.”
A job? Well, then, maybe she had already unloaded the cash. But where? And how much? Which reminded me of something else. “I was closing up this afternoon when I got a phone call,” I said, picking up my fork to begin on my salad. “It was for you.”
She looked up, startled. “For me? But nobody knows where—” Her voice cracked. “Who . . . Who was it?”
“Some guy. He didn’t give his name.” I was watching her. There was something in her voice—apprehension? fear?—that didn’t fit my casual announcement of the phone call. “He just said to tell you that a friend called, and that he has your car.”
I can’t say exactly what happened next, whether Sally dropped her full glass of iced tea, or whether it was wet and slipped out of her fingers. It didn’t break—Gino’s glasses are tough—but it made a large, messy splash all over the table. Hurriedly, we slid out of the booth and waited while the server jogged over with a towel to mop up the spill.
“Sorry, China,” Sally muttered. “I didn’t splash you, did I?”
“Even if you had, it wouldn’t matter,” I said. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt—my usual working garb. “I’m totally washable.”
We sat down again. Our salads had escaped the deluge, and I returned to mine. Sally toyed with hers. I let the silence deepen, waiting to see what she would say next. After a moment, she took a deep breath.
“The man who called—did he say where he was calling from?”
“Nope. I asked him to leave a number, but he didn’t do that, either.”
I frowned at my salad. Throughout my whole life, I have staved off other people’s efforts to dig into what I consider my personal business,
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