Part 5 (1/2)
”Lunch now, apparently,” I said. ”On my brand spanking new grandpappy.”
”Let me guess. You want the hot beef sandwich, right?” Donnie guessed before I could order.
”She'll have the diet plate,” Joe co-opted my fare choice. ”She's in training. I'll have the hot beef. Extra gravy.”
Donnie raised an eyebrow. ”One diet. One hot beef coming up.”
”And another pitcher of water, please,” I added.
”Donnie's right. A camel's got nothing on you,” Joe observed, watching me gulp another gla.s.s of water. ”Tandem troubles?”
I wiped the water from my chin and shrugged. ”I'm getting the hang of it,” I said. ”I'll be up to speed in no time.”
”That bad, huh?” Joe shook his head.
I made a face. ”How'd you guess?”
”The skinned elbow and the rock-encrusted trim on your s.h.i.+rt tipped me off. That not-so-subtle look of quiet desperation on your sweaty, dirt-streaked face cinched it.”
”Wow. Look at you. Going all Criminal Minds on me. Should Aaron Hotchner at the BAU be worried?” I asked.
”It doesn't take a profiler to figure out you've got tandem trouble, Missy,” Joe pointed out. ”Which brings me to Rick.”
Uh-oh. Here it came. Danger! Danger! Senior snoop on the scent!
”How do you make the leap from my sucking at tandem bike-riding to your grandson?”
”Rick's a top notch bike rider. He can train you. Help you keep your spokes steady.”
I made a face. It would take more than the ac.u.men of a certain ranger to see yours truly ”looking neat and oh-so-sweet on a bicycle built for two”.
”I'll keep that in mind,” I said, not ready to talk about Rick Townsend with anyone, especially Joe Townsend. The wily old coot had an uncanny ability to weasel admissions from me I never intended to blurt.
”Still mum on what transpired between the grandson and you on the final day of the cruise, huh? You know I'm gonna find out eventually, Toots, so you might as well save us both a lot of time and grief and just spill it now.”
”This is so...inappropriate. Do I interrogate you on your love life?”
”What do you want to know, blondie? Frequency? Technique? Duration?”
I put my hands on my ears. ”Stop! Stop, before I spew!”
The geriatric Joe Friday sat back in his seat and observed me with an appraising look.
”'Fess up, sister,” he said. ”How many times?”
I blinked.
He couldn't be asking...
”How many spills did you really take?”
I let out a relieved breath.
”Just the one,” I said.
”Please. Don't try to play a player,” Joe said.
I couldn't help but sn.i.g.g.e.r. Joe was such a legend in his own mind.
”I happen to know,” Joe went on, ”that you were observed getting up close and personal with the pavement on at least four separate occasions at the County Park this morning.”
”Are you stalking me, old man?” I asked.
”Of course not. Your grandmother informed me.”
I raised an eyebrow.
”Oh, really. And how did she happen by that information?”
”Hannah had a hair appointment at the Kut 'n' Kurl,” Joe said, as if that explained everything.
”Her hairdresser outted me?”
Joe shook his head back and forth. ”No! It was the gal who did her nails.”
”Her manicurist?”
Joe nodded.
”She's Drew Van Vleet's cousin.”
”Van Vleet told his cousin about our practice session?”
”Didn't have to. A picture speaks a thousand words.”
I frowned. ”You've so lost me.”
”Van Vleet texted pictures to his cousin.”
”Texted?”
”And there was this blog. And Facebook. Oh, and Instagram. And the Tweets.”
”Van Vleet posted pictures? Of me?”
”Some very unflattering ones of you tangled up in a bicycle, all arms and legs, with what Van Vleet touted as one serious-looking wedgie,” Joe said.
”Why, that...weasel!”