She walked away.
Kim read the card in her hand. It said:
CHAPTER THIRTY
They used Roscoe’s car as far as the Margrave Police Station, and then they changed to their own Crown Vic and drove south toward town. The county road ran straight through Margrave. Now labeled Main Street, it was nothing more than potholes connected by multi-layered asphalt patches.
The GPS found a satellite. Gaspar said, “The directions look pretty simple. We stay on Main Street to Roscoe Place Drive.”
“Who knew Margrave was such a lovely place?” Kim said. Slow progress let her study peeling paint, broken windows, and ragged awnings. Small buildings faced each other on opposite sides of Margrave’s four-block commercial district. Vehicles waited for angled parking spots along both sides of the street as patrons came and went. Graffiti defaced walls and sidewalks sprouted hearty weeds from their cracks. Pedestrians simply walked around them.
November twilight meant store signs and interior activities were illuminated.
Teale’s Barber Shop was lined with benches where clients waited inside and out. Teale’s Pharmacy had a flashing neon sign promising that flu shots were still available. Teale’s real estate office windows were papered with colored flyers offering homes for sale or rent. Teale’s Mercantile & Sundry filled most of the storefronts in the center block. Its stenciled windows boasted discounts and closeouts on everything from baby clothes to toilet paper. Shoppers rooted through bargains piled on long tables, pushing and shoving as they competed for the best deals.
“Easy to see why the Teales might think they own Margrave,” Gaspar said.
“Roscoe’s right,” Kim said. “Surprising she’s lasted this long on the wrong side of anybody named Teale.”
In the third block, Kim recognized a standard construction single story brick U.S. Post Office, circa 1960. Vehicles lined up to park as folks filed in and out before closing. A tall flagpole out front flew the stars and stripes as required, with an illuminating floodlight at its base, but the other poles along Main stood bare of colors.
“Want to stop and check out the P.O. Box question?” Gaspar asked.
“They’re too busy right now. Let’s put that on tomorrow’s list.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
At the south edge of town a village green similarly in need of an increased maintenance budget sported a statue of a long-dead city father on a flat patch of long-dead brown grass, dandelions, and overgrown hydrangea bushes. Birds had defaced the statue in the usual way making it difficult to identify the bronze under the white slop.
“Roscoe should take a lesson; the birds know how to handle those Teales,” Kim said, and Gaspar laughed.
Off one side of the statue’s roost, a residential street ran west. Beckman Drive, its barely visible green sign asserted. A tired white church with an empty gravel parking lot filled a larger unkempt circle between Beckman and Roscoe Place Drive, the opposite residential street pointing east, where a convenience store serving coffee and conversation adorned the corner.
When the GPS instructed, Gaspar turned left into near darkness brightened only by the moon. This had been farmland once. Roscoe said her family had lived in Margrave a hundred years, probably here on the farm once upon a time.
Roscoe Place Drive opened up to a quiet residential lane unbounded by hedges or fences. Lawns rolled from the pavement up to red brick homes settled on multi-acre parcels. Built within the past twenty years. Not ostentatious, but stately. Well kept.
Kim counted three driveways as they passed. Each with solar lights along the drive to mark the way, and mailboxes enclosed by brick housings at the road. Each box was numbered. 7, 17, 27.
The Crown Vic’s headlights revealed the house at the end of the road. Same vintage, similar construction. Number 37. Nobody home. Gaspar said, “Nice shack. A step up from what I can afford on my paycheck. Still think Roscoe didn’t pocket some of those Kliners?”
Kim said, “Lets get connected. Let’s find out what we can before Roscoe gets here.”
Gaspar popped the trunk and stood aside while she collected her bags. He stretched like a cat. Bent over at the waist in three directions. Walked around a little. Retrieved his stuff and plopped it down by the front walk. “You’ve got the key, Sunshine. Turn on some lights. I’ll stow the car.”
Roscoe’s key unlocked the double front door which opened into a wide carpeted hallway. Kim flipped light switches as she moved through. Fifteen feet in, French doors faced each other on either side. A formal dining room on the left, guest bedroom on the right. She placed her travel case just inside and continued through the archway entrance.
A staircase leading to the second floor rested against the guest bedroom’s wall, open rails and spindles on the great room side. The rest of the first floor was spacious openness.
Even uninhabited and chilly, the room was an inviting place to nest. On the right, a family room with hardwood floors, fireplace, and comfortable furniture. On the left, an expensively appointed kitchen. The two living spaces separated by a ten-foot cooking island containing a fashionable sink and pricey accoutrements. Big bay window on the front.
“Let’s meet back here in twenty?” Gaspar suggested. “I’ll make coffee. Whoever gets back first finds some food. OK?”
“Perfect.” By the time Kim pulled out her toilet kit, fresh clothes, and entered the guest bath off the kitchen, brewed coffee’s heavenly aroma floated everywhere. A shower, and the promise of coffee, food and sleep. She almost swooned in ecstasy. Ten minutes later she was dressed in black jeans, red sweater and ballet slippers, wet hair loose around her shoulders, holding a cup of black coffee and working at her laptop on the kitchen table. She barely registered Gaspar’s return.
“You’re fast for a girl,” he said. He opened his own laptop.
“So I’ve been told.” She didn’t look up from her work.
“My suit’s a goner,” he said. “We’ll have to stop for a new one somewhere in our travels.”
“How about Teale’s? They have a closeout, don’t they?” He’d dressed in casual clothes similar to hers, but lighter weights acquired for his Miami life.
“Find anything to eat?”
“Didn’t look. Got distracted.”
“By what?” He poured his coffee, opened the sub-zero fridge for cream and searched amid the neatly organized pantry until he found a bag of sugar and a measuring cup.
“Sylvia and Harry’s tax returns. We also have the Roscoe/Finlay Kliner Foundation testimony. And images of whole Kliner bills.”
“Where’d that stuff come from?” He continued searching cabinets for dinner, moving Roscoe’s staples around.
“I’m guessing the boss made it happen. I found them waiting when I opened up my secure connection.”
“So he’s got a guilty conscience?” Apparently Gaspar found nothing to his liking among the foodstuffs because he’d now returned his attention to the refrigerator.
“Or something,” she said, sourly.
“You know we can’t finish this job without his help. You don’t have to like it, but prepare yourself to make that happen.”
“That’s what I have you for, number two.” She returned to the screen, absorbed again.
After a while, enticing aromas. Her nose began to twitch. Stomach flip-flopped in happy anticipation. But she
