They were sitting at the kitchen table, with a plate of thinly sliced pound cake and an open jar of jam handy. Elsie put her hand to her lips. "Did he…?"
Lottie had to stop for a second to compose herself before she could continue. "Yes, Elsie, I'm afraid he did. Now this is in the strictest confidence, of course, and just between you and me, but he did his level best to slide his hand toward…Well, to actually touch poor Heather in a very private place that she shouldn't even touch herself, much less allow a man to touch. Heather is a good girl. If she wasn't, she certainly wouldn't have confided in me, her home ec teacher, would she? I don't worry about the ones who share their innermost private secrets with me. No, Elsie, I worry about the ones who don't!"
"Such as?" Elsie said as she spooned a bite of jam on a corner of the cake slice.
"Let me start us another pot of tea and then I'll tell you." Lottie smiled contentedly as she headed for the teakettle on the stove. It was so nice of Elsie to drop by, and even nicer to take such a deeply charitable interest in Lottie's students. And she knew she could rely on Elsie not to repeat a single word.
4
The count had roguish eyes and a dimple. I'd noticed him glancing at me as I sipped espresso on the hotel patio, but I'd pretended to be engrossed in a mystery novel. I wasn't staying at this particular hotel. The less pretentious hotel was perfectly adequate for my basic needs and well within the budget. The concierge (okay, page 314) had suggested I have coffee at one of the more grandiose places on the boulevard that ran beside the beach.
I noted out of the corner of my eye that the count was murmuring to the garçon, who was staring at me. I returned to my novel but allowed an enigmatic smile to dance across my face.
The telephone rang. I looked up quickly, but the count and the garçon were nowhere to be seen. The telephone would have to go, I thought sourly. Sure, this was a PD of sorts and I was its sole P, but that didn't mean I had to answer the telephone as if I was a receptionist in a front office. It occurred to me I could take my radar gun and travel guide and drive down the road a piece to a secluded, shady spot near the skeletal remains of Purtle's Esso Station. Then, if everyone had the decency to observe the speed limit, I could get on with more important things.
I finally picked up the receiver. "Oui?"
"Is there someone with you?" Ruby Bee said.
"Mais non," I said with a Gallic shrug. "C'est moi."
"You said we. Why'd you say that, and what was that other gibberish?"
"A small joke, Ruby Bee…a very small joke. What's up? Armed robbery in the bar and grill? Another hostage situation in the motel? Mold on the hamburger buns?"
"I swear, you have been in the dadgum strangest mood lately. I am not the only person in town to have commented on it, either. Ivy Sattering said you were talking to yourself in the launderette, and when you left, you said 'chow' to her instead of 'see you later' or 'have a nice day.' Why would you say something like that, Ariel Hanks? As your own mother, I think I'm entitled to an explanation."
"There's a lot you're entitled to," I said mildly. "Is this display of petty tyranny the purpose of the call? There is criminal activity afoot as we speak, and as the defender of the faith, the protectress of the little people, the-"
"Some days you sorely try my patience. I just wanted to tell you that the bar and grill is closed for lunch 'cause I've been having a terrible time with those big black ants and I'm going to have to seal the cabinets and put out that powder the exterminator left last time."
"Okay," I said. After a distinct lull, I added, "Is there anything else?"
"So what are you planning to do about lunch?"
"I have no idea. What difference does it make to you?"
"Why should it make any difference to me? I was just inquiring, for pity's sake. I didn't ask what time you got home after your date last Saturday night with that state trooper friend of yours, or why it was well after three in the morning-particularly when you told me beforehand that you all were going to the early picture show."
"No, you didn't ask that," I said, totally bewildered. "I'm not sure what I'll do about lunch, Ruby Bee. Maybe I'll pick up a cheeseburger and a lemonade at the Dairee Dee-Lishus and have a little picnic while I lurk for speeders out north of town. Is that all right with you?"
"Hold on a minute." She put her hand over the receiver, but I could hear a muffled conversation. I was about to hang up when she came back on. "No, don't do that. That's a terrible idea, Arly. There's a rumor in town that the Mandozes fellow is using a cheap grade of beef-if it is beef. We can't have you getting sick."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so, Miss Glib Lips. You just go on home and have some soup. That way you won't be courtin' botulism."
"Whatever you say," said, and hung up before she could say anything else equally peculiar. Ruby Bee and Estelle make me crazy. They always have an elaborate justification for involving themselves in my business, personal and official, and they involve themselves with more enthusiasm and dedication than teenagers toilet-papering a tree. They thrive on cop and private detective shows on television. Estelle once wrote a six-page letter to Tom Selleck pointing out a clue he'd overlooked, but he didn't respond, and after a few months she stopped grousing about it.
The telephone rang, but I managed not to hear it. I picked up my beloved travel guide, went into the back room of the PD (which has exactly two rooms: the front room and the back room) to get the radar gun out of the metal cabinet, and ambled out to the car. Botulism? Beef-if that's what it was?
Shaking my head, I opened the car door. It was very much like opening the oven door to see if the turkey was done. Earlier, I'd cleverly parked the car in the shade and uncleverly forgotten to roll down the windows. The shade was now over by the soda machine next to the door of the PD.
I went ahead and rolled down the window (barn doors and stolen horses here), then decided to go across the road to my apartment, where I could slump in front of the fan and cast enigmatic smiles at the count.
Roy Stiver was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the antique store, watching the traffic and thinking about whatever he thought about. "Yo, Arly," he said as I approached him. "You got yourself an out-of-town visitor. I went ahead and let him into your apartment."
My fingers tightened around the book, but I knew I hadn't quite worked myself up to that stage of schizophrenia, despite the recent exchanges with my mother. The sheriff and/or the friendly state trooper would have hunted me up at the PD. I couldn't think of any other men who might want to drop in on me. No editorials, please.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"I reckon it's supposed to be a surprise," Roy said, cackling like a damn hen. "I knew you wouldn't mind me using my key, Arly."
"I don't care whether you reckon it's supposed to be a surprise or not. Who is it?"
"Oops, I think I hear my phone ringing. I've been waiting all morning for a call from my broker. See ya later." He pushed himself up and went into his store, still cackling to himself. I was almost surprised there was no egg in the cane-bottom seat.
Roy's departure left me with a few options. I could chase him down to question him further, but I doubted I'd find out anything. I could stand there at the side of the highway until I was clipped by a truck. I could go back to the car, pick up lunch at the Dee-Lishus, and continue on with my original plan. Or I could climb the rickety stairs at the side of the building and find out what the hell was going on. It seemed obvious that Ruby Bee was behind it, which wasn't much comfort.
I finally opted for the last option. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear my television set blaring as I arrived at the landing. "Glad to see you've made yourself at home," I called angrily as I banged open the door.