Theo glanced toward the kitchen, saw Michelle working at the sink, and then pulled out a chair and straddled it while he waited
for the other Carson brother to arrive.
Michelle had decided she needed to get busy so she could take her mind off of Theo. She filled the stainless steel sink with hot water and soap, put on rubber gloves, and started scrubbing. Her father had already cleaned the kitchen, but she went over every surface again.
When she was removing her gloves, she noticed a spot of grease up on the copper overhead exhaust. She spent the next half
hour taking the unit apart and cleaning every nook and cranny. Getting it back together took twice as long because she had to
keep stopping to check the bar in case a customer wanted something.
On one of her trips, she saw Gary Carson come in, flanked by his attorneys.
She returned to the kitchen and scrubbed some more. Then she washed her rubber gloves-how compulsive was that? she wondered, and realized she was more revved up now than weary. What she needed, she decided, was a good, long surgery.
When she was cutting, nothing got in her way. She could block the conversation swirling around her, the lame jokes, the laughter-everything but Willie Nelson because he soothed her-and she and Willie stayed in that isolated cocoon until she'd
put in the last stitch. Only then did she let the world intrude.
'Get a grip,' she muttered.
'Did you say something?'
Noah was standing in the doorway. He went to the sink and put three glasses on the counter.
'No, nothing,' she said. 'What time is it?'
'A little after one. You look tired.'
She blew a strand of hair out of her eye as she dried her hands on a towel. 'I'm not tired. How much longer do you think Theo
will be?'
'Not long,' he said. 'You want me to take you home? Theo can close up.'
She shook her head. 'I'll wait.'
Noah started to leave, then turned. 'Michelle?'
'Yes?'
'Monday's a lifetime away.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As soon as Monk was back in his motel room, he called New Orleans.
Waking from a deep sleep, Dallas answered the phone, 'What?'
'The surprises just keep on coming,' Monk said.
'What are you talking about?'
'There's an FBI agent here with Buchanan.'
'Oh my God. Give me the name.'
'I don't have it yet. I heard some guys talking about him when they came out of the bar.'
'So do you know what he's doing there?'
'Not yet, but it looks like they were talking about fishing.'
Apprehensive, Dallas said, 'Just hang tight, and I'll get back to you.'
'Oh, by the way,' Monk said, 'I have some other information that may come in handy.'
'It better be good,' Dallas answered.
Monk gave an account of the Carson brothers and the two bone breakers who had gone into the bar.
'I heard one of the men tell the policeman that he wasn't going to kill Buchanan. He just wanted to hurt him. With a little
planning, we might be able to use the Carsons as a scapegoat if necessary.'
'Yes. Thanks.'
'My pleasure,' he answered sarcastically.
Monk hung up the phone, set his alarm clock, and then closed his eyes. He fell asleep thinking about the money.
For the first time in her life, Michelle couldn't sleep, and it was all Theo Buchanan's fault. Everything, including the national
debt, was his fault when it was the middle of the night and she was sleep-deprived because she couldn't stop thinking about him.
She tossed and turned, beat her pillows, then tossed and turned some more. Her bed looked as though a cyclone had hit. To
take her mind off her lustful thoughts, she changed the sheets, then took a long, hot shower. Neither chore made her sleepy.
She went downstairs then and drank warm milk-she could barely get the vile stuff down and wondered how anyone could
drink milk warm when it tasted so much better cold.
Theo hadn't made a sound since he'd closed his bedroom door. He was probably sound asleep and dreaming the dreams of
the innocent. The big jerk.
Michelle crept back upstairs so she wouldn't disturb him, brushed her teeth again, then opened one of her
bedroom windows so she could hear the sounds of the approaching thunderstorm.
She put on a pink silk nightgown-the green cotton one felt scratchy against her shoulders-then slipped between the sheets
and vowed she wasn't going to get up again. Her nightgown was bunched up around her hips. She smoothed it down, adjusted
the spaghetti straps so they wouldn't droop down over her arms. There, everything was perfect. Folding her hands together
over her stomach, she closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths. She stopped when she got dizzy.
She felt a wrinkle in the bottom sheet under her ankle.
Another fifteen minutes passed and she was still wide awake. Her skin was hot, the sheets felt damp from the humidity, and she was so tired she wanted to cry.
Desperate, she started counting sheep but stopped that game as soon as she realized she was racing to get them all accounted for. Counting sheep was like chewing gum. She never chewed gum because, in a subconscious attempt to get finished, she would chew faster and faster, which of course defeated the whole notion of chewing gum in the first place.
Lord, the things a person will think about when that person is losing her ever-loving mind. She should have specialized in psychiatry, she decided. Then maybe she could figure out why she was turning looney tunes.
Television. That was it. She'd watch television. There was never anything good on TV in the middle of the night. Surely someone was selling something on one of the channels. An infomercial was just what she needed. It was better than a sleeping pill.
She threw the sheet off, grabbed the afghan from the bottom of her bed, and dragged it across the room. The
