Page 52 of Now or Never

“Maybe I can help. I’m excellent with computers. I’m like a computer guru.”

“Thanks for the offer, but this isn’t difficult. It’s just time-consuming.”

“I guess I’ll go then. I have a couple errands to run, and I need to go home and get ready for tonight. Martin Goodman’s viewing is tonight at the funeral home on Hamilton. Maybe you’d like to go with me. I could pick you up in my Prius. Have you ever ridden in a Prius? They’re excellent cars.”

“No. Sorry. I have plans for tonight. I’m meeting a friend.”

“That’s too bad,” Herbert said. “I think this will be a nice viewing. Martin Goodman made a fortune in pharmaceuticals. The legitimate kind. He had wealthy friends. I expect the flower arrangements to be exceptional. I’m not a big flower person, but some people are, and it’s an important part of the death ritual. I’ll text you when I get home and fill you in on the viewing. Unless you want me to come over later and I can tell you about it in person.”

“Coming over wouldn’t be a good idea. I’m not sure when I’ll be getting home.”

“I stay up real late sometimes. You could call me anytime if you want me to come over.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, walking him to the door.

He stepped out into the hall. “I’ll sleep with my clothes on just in case you call and I need to get over here fast.”

I had no idea how to respond to this, so I gave Herbert something between a smile and a grimace, closed the door, threw the dead bolt, and slid the chain across.

I looked into the kitchen. “He’s gone,” I said to Rex. “Everyone is gone, and it will be quiet now.” Rex didn’t say anything. He was inside his soup can, snuggled into his bedding. Rex had the good life.

I returned to the dining room and slumped in my chair. This wasn’t working. I should have found the house by now. I opened the file Connie had printed out for me. There were a bunch ofpages paper-clipped together with a sticky note on the top page.Credit bureau profiles on the four safe house prospects. Haven’t had a chance to read them.

I pulled the profile on the lawyer. Anthony Bordelli. No litigation. No derogatory comments. No car loans. No mortgages. Good credit score. Sixty-seven years old. Married to Charlotte Loch Bordelli. Two adult children. No mention of the house in North Fork, Long Island. Office in Trenton. Residence was listed as 1762 Loury Road, Makefield, Pennsylvania. Holy crap. I’d been scrolling through Makefield. I typed the address into Google Maps and there it was in the perfect location. I must have passed over it a dozen times. The problem might have been that the gated driveway was completely obscured by trees and the horse paddocks weren’t obvious. The house with the circular driveway, the garages, and the paved single-lane road that ended at the open field were just as I remembered.

So now I was pretty sure I knew where they’d taken Jug. The big question was, how long would they keep him hidden? And the next question was, how bad did I want to make the capture? If I could grab the vampire, I could afford to wait awhile for Jug. If I didn’t bring one of them in, I was looking at financial disaster.

I went to a couple streaming news feeds. Nothing helpful there. It looked like everyone was still camped out in front of Jug Produce. Just for giggles, I mapped out the drive from Trenton to the vineyard on Long Island. It was no surprise that it was an ugly trip with horrible traffic. At least it was manageable in one day if everything went right. It was too late to go today, and I had Ranger scheduled for tonight. If by some stroke of luck I found Zoran tonight, I was golden. If not, I’d set off for Long Island tomorrow morning.

I read through the rest of Connie’s background material and did some research on the vineyard and the lawyer. At five thirty I pushed back from the dining room table and went into the kitchen to make myself a nutritious meal. After five minutes of staring into the refrigerator, I called my mom and said I was coming over for dinner.

My father looked at the casserole dish in the middle of the table. “What’s this?”

“We tried something new,” Grandma said. “It was on television on one of those cooking shows and it won the award.”

“It looks like dog food,” my father said. “It’s all brown. Where’s the potatoes? Where’s the meat?”

“That’s the good part,” Grandma said. “It’s all there, mixed together. It’s a one-pot-wonder recipe.”

“Food isn’t supposed to be mixed together,” my father said. “It’s supposed to be all separate on the plate. You got the meat, the potatoes or pasta, and the corn or peas or beans. That’s the way it is. And there’s supposed to be gravy. I like gravy.”

“What about lasagna?” Grandma said. “It’s all mixed together.”

“It’s in different layers,” my father said. “You can see the meat and the pasta. And the peas are separate.”

“There’s peas in the casserole,” Grandma said. “If you look close you can see them.”

“I don’t want to look close,” my father said.

My mother was at the other end of the table self-administering anesthesia in the form of whiskey. The casserole was directly in front of me, so I took my father’s plate, spooned food onto it, and gave it back to him.

“Good news,” I said to my father. “I saw an apple pie in the kitchen.”

I helped myself to some mystery meal and passed the casserole dish to my mother. “What’s this called?” I asked Grandma.

“Humdinger Helper,” Grandma said. “You’re supposed to make it in one of those giant iron skillets, but we don’t have any.”

I took some for a test drive. “It’s good,” I said. “Actually, it’s delicious.”

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