“At the moment, it’s a toss-up between Bobby and R.W.”
I sent our love to them and promised we’d call that night even if there was nothing new to report. As long as I had a phone in my hand, I decided to call the farm.
Daddy hates talking on the phone, so I knew I could give him the facts and get off and that he’d spread the word to the rest of the family.
“I’ll tell ’em,” he said. “And Deb’rah?”
“Sir?”
“You and Dwight, y’all don’t need to take no chances, you hear?”
“We’ll be careful,” I promised.
At the time, I really meant it.
There didn’t seem to be any coffee in Jonna’s kitchen and Dwight confirmed that she was a tea drinker, so we finished dressing and found a pancake house that was open for breakfast.
The waitress offered coffee before she even handed us a menu, then brought it immediately and left the carafe.
My kind of waitress.
Over sausage and scrambled eggs, we planned the day.
I was torn. I wanted to tackle Jonna’s two best friends right away, but we also needed to check out her work- space at the Morrow House.
“Should we split up?”
“Not right away,” said Dwight, slathering grape jelly on his biscuit. “It’s Sunday, remember?”
“So?”
“So where do proper ladies spend their Sunday mornings?”
“Oh,” I said. “Right. And me without a single pair of dress gloves in my suitcase.”
He grinned. “I said
It was almost like our normal banter, but I heard the worry beneath.
“Sunday’s also one of the days the Morrow House is open during the winter,” he said, pulling out his phone.
“Let me see if I can get the director to open it up early.”
From Dwight’s side of the conversation, I gathered that Mr. Mayhew wasn’t thrilled to have been awakened before eight on a Sunday morning. Nevertheless, he agreed to meet us there at nine.
I gave Dwight my biscuit and half my grits and we lin-gered over a third cup of coffee while the restaurant became busier with the pre-church breakfast crowd. As three women passed our booth on their way to a table at the back, one of them paused.
“Major Bryant?”
She was an attractive woman, late forties or maybe early fifties, with soft brown hair that was beginning to go lightly gray.
Dwight automatically came to his feet even though she kept saying, “No, no, please don’t get up,” as if that would stop a son raised by Emily Bryant.
Her face was concerned and she held out her hand to him. “I don’t want to interrupt your meal, but I heard about Mrs. Bryant and I’m so worried about Cal. Is there any word?”
“Nothing yet,” he said.
Her hazel eyes went to me and Dwight said, “This is 19 my wife, Miss Jackson. Deborah, Miss Jackson is Cal’s teacher.”
The woman’s smile widened in genuine warmth.
“You’re Cal’s Miss Deborah? A judge, right? I’m so pleased to meet you. Cal’s had such nice things to say about you.”
“Really?” I was absurdly pleased to hear her say that because I so want him to like me and you never really know what’s going on in an eight-year-old’s head. Her two friends were already seated in a booth on the far side of the restaurant and had begun taking off their heavy winter coats but I scooted over on the seat. “Won’t you join us for a cup of coffee or something?”
“Oh, no. I’m—” She gestured toward the others, then hesitated. “On the other hand, I did plan to get in touch with you, Major Bryant. It’s probably nothing, but still—”
“Please,” I said, and Dwight signaled to the waitress for another cup.
“Okay. Just let me tell them what to order for me.”
Unbuttoning her gray wool car coat as she went, she left it with her friends and soon rejoined us. Yet once she was there, with a cup of steaming coffee before her, she seemed unsure how to begin. “I hope you won’t think I’m gossiping. But if the children trust you, they’ll sometimes tell you things that I’m sure their parents would be embarrassed about if they knew.”
Again the hesitation.
“Was Cal worried about something?” I asked.
