Part 32 (1/2)
”He was cute.” A guy two tables away snapped his fingers at her. ”Yeah, yeah, I'm coming,” she called. She turned back to us. ”Like I said, cute. Bit of stubble, dark hair all slicked back in a ponytail and one of those jackets sailors wear.”
Maggie looked blankly at me.
”A peacoat?” I asked.
”Yeah, that's it. But he was a jerk. Figured he knew way more than me because I'm just a dumb waitress. And he stiffed me on a tip.”
”Thanks, Jamie,” Maggie said. ”Any time you want to come for a few cla.s.ses, they're on me.”
She gave Maggie a one-armed hug. ”Thanks. I might do that.”
Finger-Snapping Guy was at it again. Jamie made a face. ”Your guy's nice, you know, for what it's worth.”
”I'll keep that in mind,” I said. ”Thanks.”
We elbowed our way back out and slid across the parking lot to the car.
”How do you know her?” I asked Maggie.
”Jamie? She was in my tai chi cla.s.s last winter. She has great balance. I think her hair was blue then, though.”
I waited while she negotiated the car out of the cramped parking spot before I said anything else. ”Any idea who the other guy was?” I asked.
”No,” Maggie said. ”I was hoping you did.”
”Problem is, whoever it was doesn't even have to live in Mayville anymore. All Susan knew was that Eric used to be our mystery guy's sponsor.”
Maggie nodded. ”Stubble, a ponytail and a peacoat isn't much to go on.”
”Maybe Roma will come up with something as far as the trucks,” I said.
”What if you just laid it all out for Eric?”
”He won't tell Susan who he was with,” I said. ”What makes you think he'll tell me? And when I did talk to him I didn't get anywhere.”
”What kind of support group is this where you can cover for someone who's committed a crime?” Maggie asked, flicking the switch for the heater up a notch. The inside of the car began to get warmer.
”I think it's more Eric's thing than any group's thing,” I said thoughtfully. ”Have you noticed how important loyalty seems to be to him?”
”What do you mean?” she asked, eyes glued to the road. A few flakes of snow were blowing around.
”Look at the staff of the cafe. He hires the same students in the summer. His regular staff's been there for years. He's done the library barbecue forever, according to Abigail. Even the year Susan was pregnant with the twins and couldn't get out of bed.”
”Good point,” Maggie said.
I sighed and s.h.i.+fted in the seat. I couldn't wait for Susan to talk to Eric. ”Maybe if he understands this is going to help Ruby . . .”
We talked about Winterfest the rest of the way home and how the rumors about Roma and Eddie Sweeney wouldn't die. But I was really giving the conversation only half my attention. I kept rolling Jamie's description of Eric's friend around in my mind. It could have been anyone. Anyone.
So why couldn't I shake the feeling that I should know exactly who it was?
25.
The next morning I was at the table, feeding Owen crunchy peanut b.u.t.ter, when Harry Taylor-the younger Harry-knocked on the back door. Owen was in an extra-good mood because Rebecca had stopped in for a minute to bring my newspaper, which had somehow ended up at her house instead of mine.
”Hi,” I said to Harry. ”I was going to call you this morning.” I'd changed s.h.i.+fts with Abigail, so I wasn't due at the library until lunchtime.
”Is something wrong?” he asked.
”No. Something might be right. Hang on a second.” I hustled into the living room for the baby-picture fragment. I'd put it in a small envelope. I handed it to Harry. ”This is for your father. There's no way to know for sure, but it's possible this is a picture of his and Agatha's child.”
He swallowed a couple of times. Slowly he slid the image from the envelope. ”Where did you get this?”
”Ruby ended up with a bag of Agatha's things. It was inside. It doesn't seem to be a picture of her son, David; it's not that old. I asked Rebecca”-I held up a hand-”without telling her why, and she didn't recognize the child. Maybe-and it's a big maybe-it's the baby.”
”Thank you, Kathleen,” Harry said, his voice suddenly husky. ”Dad will . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat, then looked at me. ”Thanks.”
”You're welcome,” I said, suddenly feeling my own throat tighten.
Harry shook his head. ”I almost forgot myself.” He held out a set of keys. ”These are for you.”
”For what?”
”For the truck sitting in your driveway.”
”Harry, I can't take a truck from you.”
”First of all, it's not from me; it's from the old man. And second of all, if you really don't want it you're going to have to tell him, because there's no way I'm doing it.” He swung the keys back and forth. ”He wants to do this for you. Do you really want to tell him he can't?”
”I . . .” I looked at him helplessly. ”All right,” I said, holding out my hands in surrender. ”But only until I find something for myself.” I took the keys.
”It's not fancy,” Harry said. ”But it runs well and has new tires. You'll have to call Gunnar about insurance.”
I nodded. ”Okay.”
Carefully he slid the envelope with the baby picture into an inside pocket of his jacket. ”Thank you for the picture.”
”I hope it helps,” I said. ”Thank you for the truck.”
”I hope it helps,” Harry said with a smile.
After he'd gone I pulled on my jacket and boots. I didn't have to coax either cat to come with me. We walked around the house, and there was the truck in the driveway. It was identical to Ruby's, sort of an ugly brown color. The only difference was that the right front fender had been replaced and it was primer red. I opened the driver's door. The inside was sparkling clean-no surprise, since the truck came from Harry's.