“Who’s that?” Charlie asks.
“Detective Sloate.”
“Same one who called you at my house?”
“Yes.”
Rafe is at the living room drapes now. He parts them, looks out into the street.
“Did he tell you to lie to me?” Charlie asks.
“Yes. What blonde?”
“The guard told me a blonde woman was driving the Impala. Is that who you’ve been talking to?”
“I don’t know.”
“She still sound black to you?”
“She could be black. Or simply Southern. I don’t know.”
“What does she want?”
“Quarter of a million dollars.”
“Jesus!”
“By ten tomorrow morning. I’m supposed to leave the money—”
Sloate is out of his chair. He starts to say, “You’re jeopardizing your own—” but just then Rafe turns away from the drapes.
“Red convertible pulling into the driveway,” he says. “Blonde at the wheel.”
“Who…?” Alice starts, but she hears a car door slamming outside. “I have to go,” she tells Charlie. “I’ll call you back,” and hangs up and goes instantly to the front door. Looking through the peephole, she sees Jennifer Redding loping from the driveway to the walk, still wearing the white bell-bottom pants she had on yesterday, still showing her belly button and a good three inches of flesh, but with a blue cotton sweater top this time.
“Who is it?” Sloate asks.
“The woman who ran me over yesterday.”
“Get rid of her.”
Alice opens the door, and steps outside. Bugs are flitting around the light to the left of the entrance steps. Jennifer stops on the walk, looks up at her in surprise.
“Hi,” she says. “How’s your foot?”
“Fine,” Alice says.
“I brought you a little get-well present. I hope you like chocolate.”
“Yes, I do. Thanks.”
“Everybody likes chocolate,” Jennifer says, and hands her a little white box imprinted with the name of a fudge maker on The Ring. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind a piece right now,” she says, smiling. “If you’re offering, that is.”
“Sure, help yourself,” Alice says, and breaks the white string holding the box closed. The aroma of fresh chocolate wafts up past the open lid of the box. Jennifer delicately grasps a piece of fudge between thumb and forefinger, lifts it from the box.
“Wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee, either,” she says. “If you’ve got some brewing.”
“Gee, I’m sorry,” Alice says. “I’d ask you in, but I have company.”
Jennifer looks at the truck parked at the curb and gives Alice a knowing look. She pops the square of fudge into her mouth, chews silently for a moment, and then swallows and says, “That’s too bad. I was hoping we could talk awhile. Get to know each other a little better.”
She is looking directly into Alice’s eyes. Searching her eyes. Alice remembers what Charlie just told her on the phone. A blonde woman was driving the Impala.
“Some other time maybe,” she says.
“Anyway, I wanted to thank you for not calling the police,” Jennifer says.
She is still studying Alice’s face intently.
“Or did you?” she asks.
“No,” Alice says. “I never got around to it.”
“I think it would look much better if I reported the accident, don’t you?”
“Probably.”
“Since I was driving the car and all.”
“I guess so. But I think there’s no-fault insurance down here, isn’t there?”
“I don’t know,” Jennifer says. “I’m a recent import myself.”
“Jennifer,” Alice says, “you have to forgive me…”
“I’ll call my insurance people when I get home, ask their advice.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” she says, and hesitates. “Alice,” she says, her voice lowering, “I’m sorry for what happened, truly.” She offers her hand. Alice takes it. “Later,” Jennifer says, and smiles, and swivels off toward her red Thunderbird convertible.
Alice watches as she pulls out of the driveway.
Jennifer waves good-bye.
“Sweet chassis,” Rafe says. “The car,” he adds, and grins.
Alice says nothing.
“Who is she?” he asks.
“Woman named Jennifer Redding. She’s responsible for the foot.”
He takes her elbow, leads her away from the door. Across the room, the law enforcement people are gathered in a tight little knot, conferring.
“You think these people know what they’re doing?” he whispers.
“No, I don’t.”
“I gather they’re planning to pay the ransom with counterfeit money, is that right?”
“That’s the plan, yes.”
“You gonna let them do that?”
“I want my kids back.”
“Seems like a sure way not to get them back.”
“What else can I do, Rafe?”
“Give them what they want. Go to the bank and—”
“And what? Where am I supposed to get a quarter of a million dollars?”
Rafe looks at her.
“You told Carol there was insurance,” he says.
“They haven’t paid yet.”
“It’s been eight months, Alice.”
“Don’t you think I know how long it’s been? They haven’t paid yet.”
“Well… when will they pay?”
“Rafe, do me a favor, okay? Get in your truck and go wherever you have to go. You’re not doing any good here.”
“I’m just trying to help,” he says, almost plaintively, but she has already moved away from him to where a wall phone hangs over the kitchen counter. She picks up the receiver.
“Who are you calling?” Sloate asks at once.
“Charlie.”
“He’s done enough damage already. Asking questions…”
“He found out she’s a blonde!” Alice snaps. “You sit here with your earphones on, and your expensive equipment, twiddling dials, while a fifty-six-year-old artist—”
“We already know she’s a blonde,” Sloate says.
“What?”
“We already—”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she says, slamming the phone onto the hook. “These are my children! Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”
She realizes she is screaming at him. She clenches her fists, turns away. She wants to punch Sloate. She wants to punch anyone.
“I’m calling Charlie,” she says, and picks up the phone again.
“This is a mistake,” Sloate says.
But she is already dialing.
“Hello?”
“Charlie? It’s me.”
“What does the blonde want you to do?”
“Bring her the money.”
“Have you got it?”
“Phony bills, yes.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“I know, but…”
“They’re not locals,” Charlie says. “The blonde was driving a rental car.”
Sloate’s eyes open wide.
“How do you know?” Alice asks.
“Guard saw an Avis bumper sticker. I went to the airport, checked on it—”
“Jesus!” Sloate says.
“—they wouldn’t tell me anything. But now that the cops are all over you, maybe they can find out who rented that Impala.”
“Maybe.”
“Where’d that woman ask you to leave the money?”
“Don’t tell him!” Sloate warns.
“The Shell station on Lewiston and the Trail.”
“What time?”
“Don’t…”
“Ten tomorrow morning.”
“Good luck, Alice.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
She hangs up, looks Sloate dead in the eye.