Willard considered that at length. "Gut instinct isn't a hundred percent, though."
"Maybe not. But I'll bet you've regretted way more decisions you talked yourself into, or out of." Extending her hand, she added, "And a minute ago, your gut said yes to being Valhalla Springs' new resident operations manager."
Willard closed his eyes, sighed, then shook on it. "I knew I shoulda made a break for it when you got that funny look on your face."
It wouldn't have done any good. She knew where he lived, and had lunch with his mother, Benita, every few weeks or so.
Hannah and the new resident operations manager were at the front entrance before she remembered why she'd come to the center in the first place. "I don't suppose you've seen Delbert today, have you?"
"Bisbee?" Willard said, as though there could be two of them in all the universe, let alone Valhalla Springs. "No. In fact, I called his house a couple of times to make sure he was okay. When he didn't answer, I figured he'd gone on that bus tour down to Branson and Eureka Springs."
Hannah started. "Why were you concerned enough to call him?"
"Well, not concerned, as in worried. More like concerned he's given up on tae kwon do because he wasn't up to Jet Li speed yet."
Willard held open the door for her. "It's not like Delbert to miss class," he said, "but I haven't seen him since Wednesday, when he dug through the storage cabinet looking for some old card game."
RUDY. Which meant Sam Spade Bisbee had been on Chlorine's case sooner than she'd
Oh, my God.
RUDY.
"Gosh, I hate to rush off, Willard." Hannah clattered down the steps. "But there's a phone call I have to make, pronto." Visually sweeping the hydrangea bushes for Malcolm's hideout, she blathered, "Why it's important, I'm not sure, but it is. I just know it is."
Assuming Malcolm had gotten tired of pouting and gone home, Hannah started into a jog, calling backward, "Congratulations on the new job. Don't tell anybody yet, though, okay? I'll explain later. Have a great weekend."
A forty-three-year-old woman who hasn't run since her mid-thirties, and then only once, shouldn't attempt an encore on a steamy July afternoon in the Missouri Ozarks.
The cottage being downhill from the community center was a major plus. And an adrenaline high must be as invigorating as the endorphin kind she'd read about. It was also good to know that Doc Pennington kept portable oxygen tanks on hand at all times.
Just as she leapt onto the porch, Willard's car cruised by at a speed usually associated with drivers gawking at a pileup on the highway. Hannah waved, let the still-sulking Malcolm inside, snatched the handset off the desk, then collapsed in the chair.
Chest heaving, she felt sweat stream from pores accustomed to extended periods of complete inactivity. By the time uncontrolled panting relented to normal breathing, she'd changed her mind about calling David. The reason couldn't be more selfish, but she hadn't almost killed herself just to blow a hole in their dinner plans and the surprises she had in store.
Hannah pawed through her purse for her wallet, then for Marlin's business card with his handwritten cell phone number on the back. What seemed like a lifetime ago, she'd loaned the card to Delbert for an emergency payphone call. That irony wasn't lost on her, either.
At Marlin's voice mail's cue, she said, "Marlin, Hannah. Something's nagged at me since I was in your office. I didn't know what untilokay, look. That GMEI envelope on your desk? GMEI bought out Acer and Sons several years ago. Acer and Sons produced and marketed RUDY, the card game Chlorine Moody supposedly invented. Mrs. Beauford and everybody else in town are probably in GMEI's direct-mail database, but"
A click as rude as Marlin could be cut her off. "Oh, well," she said. "Mission accomplished."
Reaching across the desk to dock the phone, she hesitated, then sat back in the chair and punched in another number. Delbert's phone rang and rang and rang. So did IdaClare's. And the Schnurs'. And Marge Rosenbaum's.
"Fine," she snapped. "Obviously, Congress declared this National Don't Answer Your Freakin' Phone Day, and everybody forgot to tell
me
about it."
* * *
David made it back to town from the bluegrass festival just before Henry Beard's butcher shop closed at seven. Buying the last pair of thick, perfectly marbled steaks in Henry's meat case seemed like a good omen.
Now, setting them aside to marinate in his secret recipe, David cut slits in two Idaho bakers and stuffed them with braised onions and green peppers. A drizzle of butter, a dash of salt and pepper, and he reached into an adjacent cabinet for the aluminum foil.
Adjacent pretty well described the farmhouse's entire kitchen. All the cabinets, appliances, and a narrow pantry lined one wall. If the place hadn't been a temporary roof over his head, he'd have gutted the kitchen and started over. Turning away from the counter, he visualized the sink moved beneath the window and the stove where the sink was. Chuck the dinette, set back the wall for a side-by-side fridge, add a breakfast bar and
Grabbing the shiny wrapped potatoes, he headed outside to the grill. Stop building sand castles as if you own the joint, he thought. The old house, the new one and the land they're standing on aren't yours anymore. They're Luke's. Or will be, on Monday when you sign over the deed.
He nestled the spuds in a coal bed reserved for them, stifling the urge to watch the gathering gloam fall over the meadow. As he covered the foil lumps with hot ash, he wondered if he should've been a tad more creative with the menu.
In the summertime, steak, baked potatoes and a spinach salad were as common as fried catfish and hush puppies. Sure, he'd bought the makings for an Oreo cheesecake, but this was a special dinner, even if Hannah wasn't aware of it. Hearing the phone, David shut the grill's lid and strode back inside to answer it.
"How was the hootenanny?" Marlin inquired.
David chuffed. "About time you called me back."
"Whaddaya mean, back? If you called me, I didn't get the message, as usual."
"That's why I didn't bother trying the office. I left one on your cell over an hour ago." David opened the refrigerator. "No big deal. I just wanted to touch base."
A pause, then a curse. "The battery's dead on my cell. Guess I forgot to plug it into the charger last night."
"Likely story." Bricks of cream cheese slapped the counter. The eggs, David laid on a wadded kitchen towel. "So, anything exciting happen while I was charming voters?"
"That's why I called. Cletus is on the way back from the courthouse with Bev's phone records. Like everything else, the fax machine here is a piece of crap."
"You're just now getting them?" David glanced at the clock on the stove. "Jesus, did they chisel them on stone tablets or what?"
"A miscommunication." If the rattle on the line was a chuckle, it sorely lacked humor. "With the phone company, if you can imagine."
As David cut open the cookie package to lessen the cellophane racket, Marlin went on. "Aw, to be honest, the gal I got the sixtieth time I called was a doll. Name's Stephanie Michaels. Tattoo it on your arm, boss, 'cause she's the go-to person from now on."
David transferred handfuls of cookies to a plastic bag. "She comprehends the words
homicide investigation.
"
"That she does. Bev's records were on the wire before we hung up. Ninety days' worth." A slight change in tone preceded, "Soon as Cletus delivers them, I'm sending him out on a call. It looks like our basement burglar hit another house last night while the owners were out of town."
David eyed the rolling pin he'd use to crush the cookies. Excellent therapy, cooking. He'd been itching to smash something for days. "How many robberies does that make? Four? Five?"
"Five. Assuming he didn't go for a daily double we don't know about yet."
"Where'd he hit this time?"
"Tuscumbia," Marlin said. "Same MO. Busted a basement window for access, backed a vehicle into the garage, loaded 'er up, and drove off."
The Outhouse's door buzzer was audible over the line. Cletus Orr must have returned with the telephone company printouts. Marlin confirmed it when he said, "The reason I called is, Phelps was wondering if your offer to help look over Bev's call records was still good."
Phelps was?
Yeah, sure.
David clenched his teeth as guilt's spidery tentacles crept up his breastbone. Marlin had put in close to fifty hours since Bev's body was found. Phelps, almost as many. David had worked a goodly chunk, but had been off most of the day eating country barbecue, listening to some damned fine music and shooting the breeze with the kind of people usually referred to as the salt of the earth.
Hannah would understand if he postponed their dinner on short notice, given how late it was already. She always did. Or, even more wonderful, if his job taking precedence did irk her at times, she never let on. And wasn't keeping score to bust his chops about it later, either.
"No can do, Marlin," he said. "Sorry, but"
"Toots comes first." Marlin hastened to add, "And should. At least, until you get a ring on her finger. Then you can treat her like a wife."
David laughed. "Like you do yours, right? Foot massages, breakfast in bed on Sundays, bringing her flowers for no reason in particular"
"My
ass.
I don't know who laid that crock of shit on you, but it's ait's awell, it's a crock of shit, that's what it is."
"Uh-huh," David said, grinning. "Let me know if you and Phelps find anything interesting."
* * *
Delbert slithered onto the garage roof. He winced at every scraping noise on the rough composite shingles. He'd smell dirty tar and bird droppings for a week, too, but so far, Operation: Royal Flush was proceeding without a hitch. Well, none he couldn't handle, anyway.
The sun beating down all day had softened the shingles, giving the golf shoes he'd spray-painted black better purchase than he'd expected. On the other hand, the roof hadn't cooled off after dark as much as he'd hoped.
Sprawled at a belly-down slant near the peak was like lying in a tanning bed with the lid up. Without that touch of a breeze floating by, his goose'd be cooking, for sure.
The black, long-sleeved turtleneck, slacks and sock hat he wore didn't help. Neither did the camo face paint concocted from shortening and black shoe polish. The last time he'd smeared on the goop was for an inside job back in the spring. That night, the temperature had been in the mid-to-high fifties. Now it felt like his forehead was slowly melting into his shirt collar.
Rolling to one side, then the other, he carefully pushed off his backpack's shoulder straps. Holding on to one, he fumbled for the wallet keeper attached to his belt. The hook at the end, he clipped to a D-ring on the backpack. If it took a notion to skitter down the roof, he could grab the line and reel 'er up again.
Contingencies, he thought. Any you don't think of in advance, you sure as hell can't prepare for. And he was prepared, for nigh anything, apart from the operation being a bust.
He took a slug from the sports bottle strapped to the backpack, then licked his lips. Cold water had never tasted any sweeter, but he had to ration it. Hydration was critical, but he sure as sixty didn't want to climb down that rope ladder to take a leak, then climb back up it again.
The backpack's zippered interior yielded two toy walkie-talkiesa red one and a blue one. They were cheap plastic sons of guns, but the fancier, expensive models made cricket noises when you keyed them and lit up like a dingdanged Sputnik.
He thumbed the button on the side of the red one. "Team one," he whispered. "This is command central. Do you copy?"
IdaClare's drawl blasted out the speaker. "Delbert? Is that you?"
Who the hell else would it be? "Jesus criminy, woman. You don't have to yell."
"Oh." She lowered her voice. "I wasn't sure you could hear me if I didn't."
Delbert scowled in the direction of her Lincoln, parked two houses down from Chlorine's and on the opposite side of the street. He couldn't see it, or the crazy old broad behind the wheel, which might be a good thing. "You and Marge stay in the car and keep your eyes peeled. Copy?"
"We won't." A duet of snickers wended from the speaker. "What I mean is, we
will
sit tight and we
won't
take our eyes off"
"Press the button if you got something to report. Clear," Delbert groaned. Amateurs. Female amateurs at that.
Hannah was the exception. She'd done a pip of a job getting that police report. He wished she could have deployed with them tonight, but being the rope tugging between him and Hendrickson wasn't fair. Besides, no telling what might slip out, pillow-talking with the sheriff.
After jamming the red walkie-talkie into his left hip pocket, Delbert keyed the blue one. "Team two. This is command central. Do you copy?"