“I’m using your town as a sort of central point. I’ll search out from here. Perhaps you remember these old folk coming through, ma’am-”
“My name’s Thelma, I told you that. There’s lots of ma’ams in this world, but just one me, and I’m Thelma Nettro. Doc Spiver pronounced me deader than a bat some years ago, but he was wrong. Oh, Lordy, you should have seen the look on Ralph Keaton’s face when he had me all ready to lay out in that funeral home of his. I near to scared the toenails off him when I sat up and asked him what the hell he was doing. Ah, yes, that was something. He was so scared he went shouting for Reverend Hal Vor-hees to protect him. You can call me Thelma, boy.”
“Maybe you remember these old folk, Thelma. The man was Harve Jensen, and his wife’s name was Marge. A nice older couple, according to their son. The son did say they had a real fondness for ice cream.” Why not, he thought. Stir the pot a bit. Be specific, it made you more believable. Besides, everyone liked ice cream. He’d have to try it.
“Harve and Marge Jensen,” Thelma repeated, rocking harder now, her veined and spotted old hands clenching and unclenching on the arms of the chair. “Can’t say I remember any old folk like that. Driving a Winnebago, you say? You go over and try one of Helen’s peach ice cream cones.”
“Soon I will. I like the sign out there at the junction of 101 and 101 A. The artist really got that brown color to look just like rich chocolate ice cream. Yeah, they were driving a Winnebago.”
“It’s brought us lots of folk, that sign. The state bureaucrats wanted us to take it down, but one of our locals-Gus Eisner-knew the governor’s cousin, and he fixed it. We pay the state three hundred dollars a year to keep the sign there. Amabel repaints it every year in July, sort of an anniversary, since that’s when we first opened. Purn Davies told her the chocolate paint she used for the ice cream was too dark, but we all ignored him. He wanted to marry Amabel after her husband died, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He still isn’t over it. Pretty tacky, huh?”
“I’d say so,” Quinlan said.
“You tell Amabel that you think her chocolate is perfect. That’ll please her.”
Amabel, he thought. Amabel Perdy. She was her aunt.
The stocky gray-haired woman behind the counter cleared her throat. She smiled at him when he turned back to her.
“What did you say, Martha? Speak up. You know I can’t hear you.”
Like hell, James thought. The old relic probably heard everything within three miles of town.
“And stop fiddling with those pearls. You’ve already broken them more times than I can count.”
Martha’s pearls did look a bit ratty, he thought.
“Martha, what do you want?”
“I need to check Mr. Quinlan in, Thelma. And I’ve got to finish baking that chocolate decadence cake before I go to lunch with Mr. Drapper. But I want to get Mr. Quinlan settled first.”
“Well, do it, don’t just stand there wringing your hands. You watch yourself with Ed Drapper, Martha. He’s a fast one, that boy is. I noticed just yesterday that you’re getting liver spots, Martha. I heard you got liver spots if you’d had too much sex when you were younger. Yes, you watch what you do with Ed Drapper. Oh, yes, don’t forget to put walnuts in that chocolate decadence cake. I love walnuts.”
James turned to Martha, such a sweet-looking lady, with stiff gray hair and a buxom bosom and glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was tucking her hands in her pockets, hiding those liver spots.
James laughed and said, knowing the old lady was listening, “She’s a terror, isn’t she?”
“She’s more than a terror, Mr. Quinlan,” Martha said in a whisper. “She’s a lot more. Poor Ed Drapper is sixty-three years old.” She raised her voice. “No, Thelma, I won’t forget the walnuts.”
“A mere lad,” James said and smiled at Martha, who didn’t look as if she’d ever had any sex in her life. She was tugging on those pearls again.