That got rid of the smile.
“Saving this seat for anyone?” He assumed I wasn’t and sat down.
“So. . so you spoke to him,” said Zack.
“Just now.”
“Was he helpful?”
“In what way?”
Zack hesitated. “In whatever way you need help.”
There was something about the tone of his voice. He was worried.
“Yes and no.”
He waited for me to say more. His friends at the other table were watching us closely.
He tried again. “Have the police learned anything new?”
“I doubt it.”
“So what did McManus say?” he persisted.
“Nothing much more than you did.”
Two can play this game, I thought. I didn’t trust him.
Worse, I didn’t trust myself not to be suckered in by those deep-as-a-quarry, understanding eyes. I looked out the window.
When I glanced back, he was eyeing the maps I had spread in front of me. “What are you looking for?” he asked.
I shrugged and studied High Street again. “A lot of things.
A grocery store, a muffler shop, my aunt’s lawyer, a murderer.”
His hand rested on mine. “That’s a big list,” he said gently.
I pulled my hand away. “Yes.”
“It must be really hard for you.”
I looked him in the eye. “Not as hard as it is for Aunt Iris.
And not half as hard as it was for an old man whose property was being vandalized by spoiled kids.”
Zack sat back in his chair. There was a guarded expression on his face.
A quick glance told me the girl and guy at the other table were still watching us intently. “Do your friends lip- read?” I asked.
Zack turned, then nodded at them. I didn’t know what that gesture meant. Maybe he was telling his friends yes in response to some question they’d asked; maybe he was just acknowledging the fact that they were staring at us.
Turning to me again, he said, “I’ve got to get back to work,” then rose and left the cafe.
I shrugged off his abruptness. When he was gone, I gathered up my stuff and walked toward the small waterside park I had passed earlier. I found a bench close to the river and put in a call to the lawyer’s office. Her secretary gave me an appointment for three that afternoon, plus directions to a food store and a local gas station, one that would fix mufflers. I was feeling better now, more in control, working down my list of things to do. For a moment I relaxed, gazing out at the river, listening to the clink-clink of a line against the mast of an anchored boat. I watched a sailboat tack, its triangle of white shifting, becoming dazzling against the blue.
Suddenly, I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I turned around.
He was sprawled under a tree, the guy I had seen at Tea Leaves, the one sitting with Zack’s girlfriend. I turned back to the river. It’s a park, I reminded myself; people come here to sit and gaze at the river. But I felt uneasy. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was here because I was.
I exited the park, acting as if I hadn’t noticed him. As I walked up High Street, I glanced once over my shoulder, but I didn’t see him, not till I doubled back to check what was playing at the movie theater. He slowed to a stop and found something interesting in a store window.
I moved on. He moved on. I crossed the street. He crossed the street. Did he think I wouldn’t notice him, or did he hope I would? Maybe this was harassment; after all, he knew I could identify him as Zack’s friend. This was just a game.
Game or not, I was getting ticked. I longed to confront him, but city living had taught me that you don’t confront people you don’t know. I darted up a set of steps and into a shop. If he followed me into a place with a shopkeeper and some kind of security, then I’d take him on.
Looking down from the shop window, I saw him stop in the middle of the brick sidewalk. His long, thin mouth shaped itself into a smile, as if he were amused by the fact that his rabbit had found a hole. He glanced up. At first I thought he saw me, but he was looking higher, at the words painted on the window. It took me a moment to decode the backward letters: ALWAYS CHRISTMAS. It was easy, however, to read his response: the F word. I wondered why his amusement would change so quickly to anger. He moved on. I hoped he was giving up, not waiting out of sight.
“May I help you?”
I turned quickly, then stepped away from catastrophe: One swing of my backpack and I would have cleared a shelf of ceramic angels.
“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman asked, eyeing my backpack.
“This is a nice shop.” My response sounded lame.
“Thank you.”
I needed to buy some time, to encourage Zack’s friend to find another quarry.
“May I look around?”
“I’m not open for business on Mondays, but if you are careful, I see no harm.”
“I think I’ll put my backpack by the door.”
“Good idea.”
I had been in Christmas shops at Jersey and Maryland beaches, but boardwalk stores can be a little junky and usually smell like seawater and tar. In this shop aggressive air-conditioning made it as dry as winter; spicy smells gave it a holiday mood. The walls were painted in midnight blue, and carefully placed spotlights made snowflakes sparkle.
Figurines painted in old-fashioned clothes and antiquelooking angels perched and dangled everywhere. The shop created a once-upon-a-time Christmas — the kind everyone likes to “remember,” even though most of us haven’t experienced it. I looked at things I would never buy — not with those price tags — working my way around the store until I reached the cash register.
HELP WANTED, the sign said, and in small print, MINIMUM 3 YRS. RETAIL EXPERIENCE. I wondered if wrapping up bagels and sandwiches would be considered retail. It didn’t matter — I just wanted to use up time.
“I’d like to apply for the job.”
The woman looked up, surprised. “I require at least three years’ retail experience.”
“Are you the owner?”
The woman smiled a little. She had a sleek brown bob and light eyes accentuated by expert makeup. “I am.”
“I’d like to apply. Is there a form to fill out?”
She flipped open a book and pulled out an application form. I took my time filling it out, using Aunt Iris’s address and phone number, then handed it back.
She read the name and address and glanced up. “I should have known by the hair. You’re an O’Neill.”
“Yes.”
She held out her hand. “I’m Marcy Fleming.”
Fleming. “Zack’s mother?”
That’s why the stalker hadn’t liked my rabbit hole. He thought I was running straight to Zack’s mom — stepmom.
“Stepmother,” she corrected, then smiled. “I owe you for yesterday. Thank you for getting rid of our four- legged friends.”
I nodded.
