No more parfaits for me.
He glanced back and saw her tapping on her cell phone.
What’s she planning to do?
ELEVEN
The guard from the armored car company had agreed to talk to the FBI but insisted that Art accompany Mercy. Mercy didn’t mind, and Art seemed pleased he was wanted. During the two-and-a-half-hour sunny drive from Bend to The Dalles, they caught up on each other’s lives.
“You look good, Mercy,” he said during a break in the conversation. “This rural part of the state must agree with you.”
“You know I grew up here, right?”
“I don’t think I did. Getting you to talk about yourself was nearly impossible.” He shot her a serious look.
“Yeah. I still don’t. Well . . . I’m a little better than I used to be. I tried to keep a thick wall between work and my personal life.”
“You didn’t have a personal life,” he stated. “Shocked the hell out of me that you agreed to have dinner that one time.”
Mercy chuckled. “Shocked me too. But it was impossible to say no to you.” She took a deep breath. “You were very kind to me back then, Art, and I appreciate it. I know I avoided interactions with most people.”
“You were a challenge,” he admitted. “Rumors flew around about you, you know.”
“What?” Mercy clenched the steering wheel in surprise. “What rumors? Who spread rumors about me?” Her heart sped up.
“Calm down. Nothing earth-shattering. Private people always drive other people crazy with curiosity. They don’t understand why private people don’t share every crumb of their lives.”
“You still haven’t told me what they said.”
He turned his attention out the windshield of her Tahoe. “That you had a secret boyfriend . . . that you left town on the weekends . . . Some people were convinced you had a whole other life.”
“Trust me, I had no life. I spent my weekends . . . working on my home. I just didn’t like socializing.”
“I enjoyed our dinner,” he added, a question in his tone.
Here it is. “I did too.”
“Remind me why there wasn’t there a second?”
“I told you . . . friendship fitted us better.” She gave him a quick glance. “I wasn’t in a mental or emotional place to start something,” she said. “I can’t explain it better than that.”
“It appears you’re in a better place now. Congratulations.”
His sincerity was unmistakable. “Thank you. I’m very happy. I’ve changed a lot since I moved here—and all of it is for the better.” She pulled the Tahoe to the curb in front of a house. “Would you believe that my teenage niece lives with me?”
“A teenager?” His response was appropriately aghast, and his eyes crinkled with humor.
“I’ll fill you in after we talk to Gary Chandler.”
Gary Chandler lived in a tiny house. Mercy and Art carefully followed the broken concrete walkway to the front door. Tiny was a generous description of Gary’s home; it was a dollhouse. The lush green grass was in dire need of a mow, and the warped siding needed paint. More than likely the siding needed full replacement. The glorious day showed every sagging detail of the neglected home. An old minivan was parked under the carport, a faded JOHN KERRY FOR PRESIDENT 2004 bumper sticker peeling from its rear window.
“That might be a collector’s item,” stated Art, pointing at the bumper sticker.
Mercy doubted it. “Gary’s wife will be here, right?” she asked.
“He said she would be. Naomi.” Art knocked firmly on the door. Paint flaked off and fluttered down to the welcome mat that read GO AWAY.
“Not very welcoming,” Mercy commented.
“Gary’s not a fan of guests, but I think it’s supposed to be funny.”
The joke fell flat for Mercy.
The door opened inward, and a large woman blocked the entrance as she sized them up. She wore a shapeless housedress, and her graying hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her penetrating stare rivaled that of a starchy schoolteacher, and Mercy couldn’t pull her gaze away from the small turtle tucked under one arm.
“Evening, Naomi,” said Art. “This is Special Agent Kilpatrick. She’s in charge of the Gamble-Helmet Heist case these days.” He didn’t mention the turtle.
Mercy held out a hand, and the woman paused a rude two seconds before shaking it. “Keep it short. Gary’s not feeling great today, and talking about this only makes it worse.” Her expression indicated she’d hold Mercy personally responsible for giving her husband any grief.
“Not a problem,” answered Mercy.
Naomi stepped back and let them in. Embroidered cat faces decorated her slippers.
Pet lover?
It was dark inside. All the small windows were covered with heavy curtains, and the light from the lamp was too dim. Mercy wanted to fling open the curtains. Gary Chandler sat in a battered easy chair in one corner, a calico cat on his lap. The cat’s glare rivaled Naomi’s.
“Hey, Gary.” Art immediately stepped forward to shake his hand.
Gary was thin—skeletally thin—and he had a faded comb-over. The pictures in Mercy’s file showed a slender man with a full head of hair and a kind smile. He didn’t get out of his chair as he greeted the retired FBI agent. Art introduced Mercy, and the odor of marijuana reached her as she shook his bony hand. His pupils were larger than they needed to be, even for the darkened room.
It’s legal. It probably helps his anxiety.
Hopefully it wouldn’t influence their conversation.
Gary’s knees nearly poked through the fraying fabric of his jeans, and he had several days’ worth of stubble. Sunken cheeks and eyes made her wonder if he struggled with a physical illness. One of his hands never left the cat’s back. Naomi stood with her arms crossed, a sentry between the tiny living room and the rest of the home. Mercy glanced around to see where she’d set the turtle down. No turtle.
Art gestured for Mercy to take the chair closest to Gary as he pulled up a wooden chair from a corner.
Mercy sat after checking the chair for the reptile. “Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Chandler.”
“Gary, please.”
The powerful, low voice from the thin body startled her. He smiled, but it never reached his eyes.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Gary, so excuse me if I get right to my questions.” She felt as if Naomi’s eyes were stabbing daggers in the back of her skull.
“Appreciate it.”
“Would you mind giving me a rundown of what you remember the moment you first saw the robbers that day?”
Annoyance filled his face. “I’ve already told that dozens of times. There must be a half dozen recordings of my story.” Panic rose in his voice as he shifted in his seat and his gaze shot to Art. “You said you had something new to talk about. New information.”
Art leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and said reassuringly, “We do. The body of one of the robbers has turned up.”
Gary’s hand tightened on the cat’s back, and he looked suspiciously at Mercy. “That true?”
“Yes.”
“Body . . . So he’s dead.” Gary eyed Art this time.
“Yes,” Art said calmly.
“Good.” Gary exhaled and relaxed his shoulders. “Three more to go. Which one was it?”