Clarence cleared his throat. “Eight fifty-five. She’s particularly fond of the disrobing part.”
“Clarence!”
But he was gone before I could snatch anything but a small tuft of hair from his bobtailed butt.
8
Monday afternoon
With several hours to kill and the itch to find the bombing culprit seeping deeper into my skin, I decided to check in on Sylvie.
Not that I was concerned, because I barely knew the woman.
And if she’d been the target, the bomber would have placed the device in her home.
And if she was still upset, she had friends to look after her. She was probably still wrapped in Mrs. Gonzalez’s motherly embrace.
As I changed my undershirt and tossed on a clean button-down, I considered my first and then second impressions of Sylvie Baker and modified that last assumption. She was likely back home scheduling contractors to repair her shed and not upset at all.
Either way, my appointment with Ginny the peeping ghost was hours away. I didn’t have anything more pressing to fill my time. And if Sylvie called me a lunatic for claiming to talk to dead people and slammed the door in my face, well, at least I’d know she wasn’t bawling in her bedroom and that she hadn’t been snatched by an evil bomber.
Not that I truly was worried about either of those possibilities.
“I thought we weren’t going to bother her,” Clarence said as I finished buttoning my shirt.
“You’re not. And get off my bed.” I started to tuck in my shirt.
“Leave it untucked. That kind looks better untucked.”
I glanced in the mirror. “Really?”
“Trust me. And roll the sleeves, like a guy who lives in Texas in this decade.”
Shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, but sans Clarence, I headed out the door three minutes later—after debating a shave and deciding against (on Clarence’s advice) and brushing my teeth (to the sound of Clarence’s catcalls).
It turned out that Sylvie was neither wrapped in Mrs. Gonzalez’s ample arms nor contacting contractors. When she answered her door, she had a glass of wine in hand and a board game tucked under her arm. “I was going to call you. Well, I was going to call Cindy—you know Cindy Eckhardt from down the street?—but she has her daughter by herself this evening, and then I remembered how nice you were.”
“I was?”
She nodded. “So then I was going to call you.”
“Ah. You don’t have my number, and it’s not listed.”
She tipped her wine glass at me. “And then I realized I didn’t have your number.” Red wine sloshed precariously near the rim of her glass as she toasted me. After taking a sip, she stood very still. “I’m glad you’re here now.”
“Sylvie?” I watched her list to one side—subtly, but still . . . “Are you tipsy?”
She slugged the last of the wine and beckoned me inside. “I certainly hope so. I’ve had three glasses of surprisingly good boxed wine.”
I trailed behind her as she led the way to the kitchen. And indeed, a box of red wine waited on the kitchen table, along with a second glass.
After setting the board game on the table, she refilled her glass. She tapped the game, her finger landing on the “O” in Ouija. “Target. If you’re ever in a pinch and need help reaching the great beyond, Target is the spot. Wonderful place.”
“I’m hoping you managed that trip before all three of those glasses of wine.”
Her forehead crinkled. “Of course. Where do you think I got the box of wine?” She turned back to the table and pointed at the glass there with a startled look on her face. “Right. So rude of me. Would you like a glass?”
I shook my head. “You’re expecting someone?”
“I told you: I was expecting you, until I didn’t call you. But then I was going to fetch you. Maybe after another glass. Wine makes me brave.” Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. Then she tapped the board game again and leveled me with an intent look. “You’re going to find that sorry son of a gun ex of mine.”
Sorry. Really, really sorry. So sorry.
That wouldn’t be difficult, because Bobby was back, recharged and hollering in my ear.
All options considered, there really was only one answer. Maybe I was opening up Pandora’s box, maybe complicating my life, but Sylvie looked so lost. “He’s here, and he’s sorry.”
Really, really sorry.
Eyes closed, I repeated, “Really, really sorry.”
“Where?” She spun around in a circle, miraculously spilling only a few drops of bright red liquid on her kitchen floor. “If this is your fault, Bobby, I will not forgive you. They blew up my shed. My shed, Bobby. My shed is really close to my h-h-home.” She swallowed. “The firemen were here for two hours.”
Was she about to cry?
I touched her shoulder, which startled her enough to slosh wine down the front of my shirt. And I’d put on a new shirt just for the occasion. Lesson learned: threadbare T-shirts were not only considered stylish, but were also practical, especially for drunk Sylvie visits.
How I’d predict the drunk part, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just best to invest in a few more decent shirts.
Sylvie tugged on my shirt tails, pulling me closer.
“Wha—”
Then she did it a second time.
I clamped my mouth shut and stood six inches from her, not daring to move a muscle. Then she started to unbutton my shirt. From the bottom. “Whoa.”
She stopped, the backs of her hands practically brushing my fly. “What? Don’t tell me you’re shy. It’ll stain if we don’t rinse it right away.”
Bobby cackled with glee in the background. A shame. I’d forgotten he was here.
I grasped her hands, squeezed them, then let go. “Thank you. I’ve got it.”
“Okay.” She shrugged, but—was that disappointment on her face, or just wishful thinking?
Not that I needed that kind of entanglement. I’d only been retired a few weeks and had barely acclimated to being human again. Given this situation and how uncomfortable it made me, I
