Part 20 (1/2)
”She's in fifth grade,” Meghan frowned. ”It wouldn't have killed her to miss part of a day. I took her out for Walter's funeral on Monday.”
”So she would have missed school for the second time in a week.”
”Well, I guess that bothered me. But what really got me was how... off it sounded. Richard said his mother got in town Sunday. And he had Erin last weekend but brought her home on Sat.u.r.day. He could have picked her up again on Sunday if he'd wanted. I don't know, maybe Grace was tired when she got in. But he also said his mother would be visiting for a week. Then she says she's leaving in two days. Either way, they could have spent the afternoon with her after school, so why take her out of school for lunch?”
I said, ”His charming mother seems to decide what she wants, and she demands it immediately.”
”I wish I knew what she wants. The way she acted with Erin tonight. It wasn't...”
”Grandmotherly,” I said.
”No” Meghan looked at Ambrose. ”So I don't have any proof of anything. I just felt scared.”
He shook his head. ”I'm not going to argue with a mother's fear. And you were well within your rights if you're the custodial parent.”
”I'm so glad you came when you did. Does your presence always diffuse situations like that?” Meghan asked Ambrose.
”Rarely,” he said with a wry expression, scooping the last of his chili into his spoon.
”They sure scooted out of here in a hurry,” I said, glad he took Meghan's instincts seriously, and hoping he'd take my story about the truck seriously, too.
”Yeah, I noticed that.” He finished off the corn bread.
”Want more?” I asked.
”No, thanks. That was great, though. Good chili's hard to come by.”
I set a mug of coffee in front of him. ”You take anything in it?”
”No, this is fine. Thanks.”
Meghan stood up and gestured toward the living room. I limped behind them, carrying two more mugs of coffee. I sat on the sofa, and Ambrose sat beside me. Meghan took the armchair at one end of the coffee table.
”Now, what's this about someone attacking you, Sophie Mae?”
I hesitated. ”Attacking?”
His eyes narrowed. ”You weren't attacked?”
It wasn't the word I would have chosen, but I supposed it was accurate enough. So I told him. I'd been crossing Avenue A in the middle of the block. I'd checked for traffic first, but had lowered my head as I crossed, because of the rain. I'd heard the squeal of tires in time to see the pickup barreling toward me and had jumped out of the way, falling between the two parked cars.
Ambrose's face creased into a frown as I spoke, and I finished and waited for him to tell me it was all in my imagination, that I must not have looked where I was going. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket.
”You said she'd been attacked, Ms. Bly. But a near hit-and-run? You neglected to mention that.”
”Sophie Mae didn't think you'd put much stock in what happened. Being almost run down sounds a bit... dramatic.”
He looked at both of us. ”But that's what happened, right?”
We nodded.
”Good G.o.d,” he muttered. ”Who else saw what happened?”
”No one,” I said.
”No one? So close to downtown?”
”The street was empty. There may have been traffic a few blocks up, or someone could have been looking out a window. But the only person I saw was a young guy on a cigarette break. Works at the insurance office. He says he didn't see anything and made it pretty clear about not wanting to be involved. I got his name, though.”
”Good. What is it?”
”Wait-I wrote it down when I got home.” I got up and went into the hallway, returning with a sheet off the memo pad by the telephone. His lips thinned as he watched me limp back. I handed him the name.
”Have you seen a doctor about that ankle?”
I shook my head. ”It's not my ankle. I hit my hip on the curb when I fell. I'm bruised, but nothing's broken.”
Ambrose looked like he wanted to say more, but changed his mind.
”Tell me about this truck. Did you see the license plate number? What make was it?”
”I would have told you already if I'd seen the number,” I said in a testy voice. Meghan coughed. I wiped the edge from my tone and continued. ”And I couldn't tell the difference between a Chevy or a Ford or anything else, just by looking.”
”Okay. That's fine. What color was it?”
”Blue”
”Bright? Dark?”
”Dark. And kind of dirty.”
”Dirty dark blue,” Ambrose said, writing it down. ”Was it a truck you'd see on a new car lot?”
”Oh no. It was old. It seemed, um, wider than the newer trucks? Boxier. And there were rust spots. And the front grill was dented.”
”But it wasn't a really old truck-like a cla.s.sic.”
”Huh uh. Maybe something from twenty years ago. Maybe older. Real square looking.”
”Good. And the driver? What did you notice about the driver?”
”Nothing,” I said, feeling defeated. ”I didn't see the driver at all.”