“Grocery shopping.”
She would have to wait until Mrs. Jeffords returned and, hopefully, gave her something coherent. The thought of entertaining Jeffords until then was less than thrilling, but she had done heavier duty for smaller rewards than this story promised.
Then she looked in his face and knew what his Problem was. She had seen it before, and the only mystery was why it had taken her so long to figure it out.
The recording on the telephone was an old one—a year, maybe two years or more.
Charlie Jeffords had Alzheimer’s.
Her next thought chilled her even as she thought it.
She was thinking of the gunplay the night of the break-in, and what Eleanor had said.
She thought of Mrs. Jeffords and the temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees. Goose bumps rose on her arms and she hugged herself and leaned forward in the chair.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to wait for your wife.”
“Aren’t you gonna bring Nola Jean back?”
“I’d like to. Would you like to help me?”
He didn’t say anything. She took a big chance and reached for his hand.
He looked into her eyes, his lips trembling.
“Nola,” he said.
She squeezed his hand and he burst into tears.
He sobbed out of control for a minute. She tried to comfort him, as much as a stranger could. She held his hand and gently patted his shoulder and desperately wanted to be somewhere else. This was the curse of Alzheimer’s: even as it eats away your brain, you have times of terrible clarity. Charlie Jeffords knew exactly what was happening to him.
“Mr. Jeffords,” she said.
He sniffed and sat up and released her hand.
“The night the trouble happened. Can you tell me about that?”
He didn’t say anything. She pushed ahead. “That girl who broke in. Do you remember what she wanted?”
“Her book.”
“What book?”
“Came for her book back.”
“What book?”
“She wanted her book back.”
“What was the book?”
“I been holding it for her.”
“Whose book was it?”
“Nola’s.”
“Wasn’t it Grayson’s book? Wasn’t that Darryl Grayson’s book, Mr. Jeffords?”
“It’s Nola’s book. Gave it to me to hold.”
She leaned forward. He tried to look away but she wouldn’t let him.
“I’m tired,” he said.
Damn, she thought: don’t know what’s real anymore.
She tried again. “Mr. Jeffords…”
But that was as far as she got. Through the front curtain she saw a pickup truck pull into the yard.
Mrs. Jeffords was home.
