I looked…well…good.
I’m not a clothes shopper. It’s just so darn much trouble. I get irritated at salespeople and nothing ever seems to work the way I think it should. How could Violet pick out something like this just by deciding it would be right?
“Okay, I like it,” I admitted as I returned to the living room. “How much do I owe you?”
Violet’s gaze was out the sliding door to the back of Dwayne’s cowboy hat. Her face was wistful. “It’s a gift,” she said distractedly.
“No,” I argued without much strength. I was afraid to look at the price tag.
“Just wear it some time when we’re out together,” she said, turning back to me and smiling.
Here’s the thing—I think she really likes me. Not in a weird way, just as a friend. Which makes me feel like a heel because I don’t want to like her.
She didn’t wait for more arguments but headed outside. I glanced toward the sky, but the clouds were holding back further precipitation. As she moved into Dwayne’s line of vision, she smiled at him even more warmly than she’d smiled at me.
My cell phone buzzed.
“Hello,” I answered, my gaze zeroed in on the two of them.
“This Jane Kelly?” a flat male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Hey, it’s Sean Hatchmere. You called?”
I sat up straighter. Unbelievable. Dwayne was right; I’d just gotten my first break. Sean was Roland’s son. I’d left messages on his cell phone explaining who I was—just like I’d left messages on Gigi’s phone and Roland’s wife Melinda’s and many others’—but I’d assumed Sean wasn’t interested in me any more than any of the rest of them were. “I sure did.”
“You’re trying to help Violet, right? My sister said you were.”
He didn’t bring up Gigi slamming the door in my face, so maybe he didn’t know about her response. I said cautiously, “More like I’m trying to figure out what happened.”
“Isn’t that what the police are doing?”
There was noise in the background. Some kind of unidentifiable music? Techno-rock? I couldn’t tell. But it was loud and Sean’s flat voice was mere microdecibels above it, barely enough for me to make out what he was saying.
“Yes.” One thing I’ve learned in my brief foray into the P. I. business: answer as truthfully as you dare but don’t offer up any more information than necessary. Let whomever you’re talking with develop their own conclusions. Those conclusions might surprise you, more often than not.
“Yeah, well, if you wanna see me you can come down to the Crock pretty much any night.”
“The Crock?” I repeated, surprised.
“You know it?”
“Sure do. How about I stop by tonight? What time will you be there?”
“We start about midnight and go till two or three.”
I paused a beat before saying, “Okay.”
I hung up, my momentary excitement at finally breaking through the Hatchmere wall taking a nosedive. The idea of starting anything at midnight made me inwardly groan. I’d been a bartender for a number of years, but I’d lived a different lifestyle then, becoming by necessity a “night person” and sleeping during the day. I’d effectively switched fully to the daylight hours in the time since, so I knew I would struggle to stay awake tonight. Napping always sounds like a good alternative, but, except for that bartending era when my days and nights were completely flipped, I’ve never been able to master it.
But Sean Hatchmere had given me a gift.
As I squeezed my way to the dock, I was just in time to hear Violet say, “What is it with you and those binoculars?” in a peeved voice.
I smiled inwardly, seeing Dwayne’s obsession in a positive light for the first time. Especially when he answered, “Darlin’, you have no idea what you can learn. See that house over there? The one under construction? Do Not Enter’s got some serious teen parties happening every weekend.”
“Teenagers,” Violet responded derisively.