Abby went to the closet and opened the door. “Lucy’s not ten years old anymore.”
“There should be plenty of hangers in there.”
I moved closer to inspect. “If you need more…”
“This is fine.”
“There are towels, toothpaste, soap in the bath.”
I started to show her.
She had begun unpacking and wasn’t paying any attention.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
Abby carried suits and blouses into the closet. Coat hangers screeched along the metal bar. I watched her in silence, experiencing a prick of impatience.
This went on for several minutes, drawers sliding, more coat hangers screeching, the medicine cabinet in the bathroom wheezing open and clicking shut. She pushed her suit bag inside the closet and glanced around, as if trying to figure out what to do next. Opening her briefcase, she pulled out a novel and a notebook, which she placed on the table by the bed. I watched uneasily as she then tucked a .38 and boxes of cartridges into the drawer.
It was midnight when I finally went upstairs. Before settling into bed, I dialed the number for the 7-Eleven again.
“Ellen Jordan?”
“Yeah? That’s me. Who’s this?”
I told her, explaining, “You mentioned to me last fall that when Fred Cheney and Deborah Harvey came in, Deborah tried to buy beer, and you carded her.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Can you tell me exactly what you did when you carded her?”
“I just said I needed to see her driver’s license,” Ellen said, and she sounded puzzled. “You know, I asked to see it.”
“Did she get it out of her purse?”
“Sure. She had to get it out so I could look at it.”
“She handed it to you, then,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Was it inside anything? Inside a plastic window?”
“It wasn’t in nothing,” she said. “She just handed it over and I looked at it, then I gave it back to her.”
A pause. “Why?”
“I’m trying to determine if you touched Deborah Harvey’s driver’s license.”
“Sure I did. I had to touch it to look at it.”
She sounded frightened. “I’m not in trouble or anything, am I?”
“No, Ellen,” I replied reassuringly. “You’re not in any trouble at all.”
15
Abby’s assignment was to see what she could find out about Barry Aranoff, and she left for Roanoke in the morning. The following evening, she returned just minutes before Marino appeared at my front door. I had invited him to dinner.
When he discovered Abby in the kitchen, his pupils contracted. His face turned red.
“Jack Black?” I inquired.
I returned from the bar to find Abby smoking at the table while Marino stood before the window. He had cracked the blinds and was staring sullenly out at the feeder.
“You won’t see any birds at this hour, unless you’re interested in bats,” I said.
He did not reply or turn around.
I began to serve the salad. It wasn’t until I was pouring Chianti that Marino finally took his chair.
“You didn’t tell me you had company,” he said.
“If I had told you, you wouldn’t have come,” I replied just as bluntly.
“She didn’t tell me either,” Abby said, testily. “So now that it’s been established that we’re all happy to be together, let’s enjoy dinner.”
If I had learned nothing else from my failed marriage to Tony, it was never to engage in confrontations if it’s late at night or time to eat. I did the best I could to fill the silence with light conversation. I waited until coffee was served before speaking my mind.
“Abby’s going to be staying with me for a while,” I said to Marino.
“It’s your business.”
He reached for the sugar.
“It’s your business, too. We’re all in this together.”
“Maybe you ought to explain what it is we’re all into, Doc. But first” – he looked at Abby – “I’d like to know where this little dinner scene is going to show up in your book. Then I won’t have to read the whole damn thing. I can just turn to the right page.”
“You know, Marino, you really can be a jerk,” Abby said.