"Maybe we should go around and talk to the neighbors," Kelly suggested. "Somebody might have seen something."
At the first two houses they approached, no one responded to the front doorbell. The third bell they rang was Mrs. English's, and she answered the door promptly.
"You're Kelly Anderson!" Mrs. English said excitedly, after taking one look at Kelly. "You're wonderful. I see you on TV all the time." Mrs. English was a diminutive, silver-haired lady who looked like the quintessential grandmother.
"Thank you," Kelly said. "Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?"
"Am I going to be on TV?" Mrs. English asked.
"It's a possibility," Kelly said. "We're researching a story."
"Ask away," Mrs. English said.
"We're curious about your neighbor across the street," Kelly said. "Tracy Reggis."
"There's something strange going on there," Mrs. English said. "That's for sure."
"Oh?" Kelly questioned. "Tell us about it."
"It started yesterday morning," Mrs. English said. " Tracy came over and asked me to watch her house. Now, I watch it anyway, but she was very specific. She wanted me to tell her if any strangers came by. Well, one did."
"Someone you've never seen before?" Kelly asked.
"Never," Mrs. English said unequivocally.
"What did he do?" Kelly asked.
"He went inside."
"When Tracy wasn't here?"
"That's right."
"How did he get in?"
"I don't know," Mrs. English said. "I think he had a key because he opened the front door."
"Was he a big man with dark hair?"
"No, he was average-height with blond hair," Mrs. English said. "Very well dressed. Like a banker or lawyer."
"And then what happened?" Kelly asked.
"Nothing. The man never left and when it got dark, he didn't even turn on a light. Tracy didn't come back until late with another blond man. This man was bigger and had on a white coat."
"You mean like a doctor?" Kelly asked. She winked at Brian.
"Or a butcher," Mrs. English said. "Anyway, Tracy didn't come to talk with me like she said she would. She just went into the house with the second man."
"And then what happened?"
"They were all inside for a while. Then the first man came out and drove away. A little while later, Tracy and the other man came out with suitcases."
"Suitcases like they were going on a trip?"
"Yes. But it was a strange time to go on a trip. It was nearly midnight. I know because it was the latest I've stayed up for as long as I can remember."
"Thank you, Mrs. English," Kelly said. "You've been most helpful." Kelly motioned for Brian to leave.
"Am I going to be on TV?" Mrs. English asked.
"We'll let you know," Kelly said. She waved and walked back to her car. She climbed in. Brian got into the passenger seat.
"This story keeps getting better," Kelly said. "I wouldn't have guessed in all the world, but Tracy Reggis has apparently decided to go on the lam with her fugitive former husband. And to think she seemed like such a sensible person. I'm blown away!"
By three o'clock the chaos of the lunchtime rush finally faded in the Onion Ring restaurant on Prairie Highway, and the exhausted day shift gathered up their things and left: everyone except for Roger Polo, the manager. As conscientious as he was, he couldn't leave until he was sure there was a smooth transition to the evening shift. Only then would he turn things over to Paul, the cook, who acted as the supervisor in Roger's absence.
Roger was busy installing a new tape in one of the cash registers when Paul arrived at his station behind the grill and began arranging the utensils the way he liked them.
"Much traffic today?" Roger asked while snapping the register's cowling shut.
"Not bad," Paul said. "Was it a busy day here?"
"Very busy," Roger said. "There must have been twenty people waiting to get in when I opened the doors. and it never let up."
"Did you see the morning's paper?" Paul asked.
"I wish," Roger said. "I didn't even have a chance to sit down to eat."
"You better read it," Paul said. "That crazy doctor that came in here Friday murdered a guy out at Higgins and Hancock last night."
"No kidding!" Roger blurted. He was genuinely dumbstruck.
"Some poor Mexican guy with six kids," Paul said. "Shot him through the eye. Can you imagine?"
There was no way Roger could imagine. He leaned on the countertop. His legs felt wobbly. He'd been mad about being struck in the face; now he felt lucky. He shuddered to think of what might have happened had the doctor brought a gun when he'd come to the Onion Ring.
"When your time's up, it's up," Paul said philosophically. He turned around and opened the refrigerator. Looking into the patty box, he could see it was almost empty.
"Skip!" Paul yelled. He'd seen Skip out in the restaurant proper emptying the trash containers.
"Do you have the newspaper?" Roger asked.
"Yeah," Paul said. "It's on the table in the employee room. Help yourself."
"What's up?" Skip asked. He'd come to the outer side of the counter.
"I need more burgers from the walk-in," Paul said. "And while you're at it, bring a couple of packages of buns."
"Can I finish what I'm doing first?" Skip asked.
"No," Paul said. "I need ' em now. I only have two patties left."
Skip muttered under his breath as he rounded the counter and headed to the restaurant's rear. He liked to finish one job before starting another. It was also beginning to bug him that everybody in the whole place could boss him around.
Skip pulled open the heavy, insulated door to the freezer and stepped into the arctic chill. The automatic door closed behind him. He pushed back the flaps of the first carton on the left but found it was empty. He cursed loudly. His colleague equivalent on the day shift always left him things to do. This empty carton would have to be cut down for recycling.
Skip went to the next carton and found that one empty as well. Picking up both cartons, he opened the door and threw them out of the freezer. Then he walked into the depths of the walk-in to locate the reserve patty cartons. He scraped the frost off the label on the nearest one he could find. It said: MERCER MEATS. REG. 0.1 LB HAMBURGER PATTIES, EXTRA LEAN. LOT 6 BATCH 9-14. PRODUCTION: JAN. 12, USE By: APR. 12.
"I remember this baby," Skip said out loud. He checked the flaps. Sure enough, the carton had been opened.
To be certain there weren't any older patties, Skip scraped off the frost from the label of the final carton. The date was the same.
Grabbing the first carton by its flaps, Skip dragged it to the front of the freezer. Only then did he reach inside to pull out one of the interior boxes. As he'd expected this box had been opened as well.
Skip carried the patty box back to the kitchen, and after squeezing by Paul who was busy scraping the residue off the grill, Skip put the patty box in the refrigerator.
"We're finally using those burgers I opened by accident a week or so ago," Skip said as he slammed the refrigerator door.
"That's cool as long as the other ones are finished," Paul said, without looking up from his labors.
"I checked," Skip said. "The older ones are all gone."
The large wall clock on the wall of the WENE newsroom gave Kelly the exact time. It was 6:07. The local news had been on since five-thirty. Her segment was scheduled to begin at 6:08, and the technician was still fumbling with her microphone. As usual Kelly's pulse was racing.