“I saw your photo on TV, also some footage of you with your father and your mother.”
“Amabel assures me that no one in The Cove will realize who I am. She says no one besides her has a TVexcept for Thelma Nettro, who’s older than dust.”
“You don’t have to worry that I’ll shout it around. In fact, I promise to keep it to myself. I was in the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop when I met your aunt. A Sherry Vorhees mentioned that you were visiting. Your aunt didn’t say a word about who you were.” Lying was an art, he thought, watching her assess his words. The trick was always to lean as much as possible toward the exact truth. It was a trick some of the town’s citizens could benefit from.
She was frowning, her hands clasped around the glass. Her foot was tapping on the linoleum.
“Who is after you?”
Again she gave him a smile, but this one was mocking and underlaid with so much fear he fancied he could smell it. She fiddled with the napkin holder, saying while she straightened the napkins that had dumped onto the table, “You name someone and he’d probably be just one in a long line.”
She was sitting across from one of those someones. Damnation, he hated this. He’d thought it would be so easy. When would he learn that people were never what they seemed? That smile of hers was wonderful. He wanted to feed her.
She said suddenly, “The strangest thing happened the first night I was here, just two nights ago. I woke up in the middle of the night at the sound of a person’s cry. It was a person, I know it was. I went into the hall upstairs to make sure something wasn’t happening to Amabel, but when the cry came again I knew it was from outside. Amabel said I’d imagined it. It’s true that I’d had a horrible nightmare, a vivid memory in the form of a dream, actually, but the screams pulled me out of the dream. I know that. I’m sure of it. Anyway, I went back to bed, but I know I heard Amabel leave the house after that. You’re a private detective. What do you make of that?”
“You want to be my client? It’ll cost you big bucks.” “My father was rich, not me. I don’t have a cent.” “What about your husband? He’s a big tycoon lawyer, isn’t he?”
She stood up like a shot. “I think you should leave now, Mr. Quinlan. Perhaps it’s just because you’re a private detective and it’s your job to ask questions, but you’ve crossed the line. I’m none of your business. Forget what you saw on TV. Very little of it was true. Please go-”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be in The Cove for another week. You might ask your aunt if she remembers two old folk named Harve and Marge Jensen. They were in a new red Winnebago, and they probably drove into town to buy some of the World’s Greatest Ice Cream. Like I told you, the reason I’m here is because their son hired me to find them. It’s been over three years since they disappeared.” Although he’d already asked Amabel himself, he wanted Sally to ask her as well. He’d be interested to see if she thought her aunt was lying.
“I’ll ask her. Good-bye, Mr. Quinlan.”
She dogged him to the front door, which, thankfully, was still attached to its ancient hinges.
“I’ll see you again, Sally,” he said, gave her a small salute, and walked up the well-maintained sidewalk.
The temperature had dropped. A storm was blowing in. He had a lot to do before it hit. He quickened his step. So her husband was off-limits. Was she scared of him? She wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but the evidence of one had been in that thick white line on her finger.
He’d really blundered-that wasn’t like him. Usually he was very cautious, very careful, particularly with someone like her, someone fragile, someone who was teetering right on the brink.
Nothing seemed straightforward now that he’d met Susan St. John, that thin young woman who was terrified of a dead man who had called her on the phone.