“If he can find Devon, I think he’ll get it for you.”
“Should we ring him again? Devon, I mean?”
We could, but I doubt we’d get an honest answer. All we’d do is get his back up and put him on his guard. “Let’s leave it to Grumbler.”
“Well I hope he doesn’t take too long. I’ve seen a pair of shoes I want. Unless,” she waits until I put the plate away, then places her hand on my arm, “you could lend me the money?” She looks up and bats her eyelids.
“How much?” I ask, automatically.
“One hundred and fifty dollars.”
Did I say my daughter has expensive tastes? Tastes I don’t give in to. “Nope.”
It seems she hadn’t expected me to fork out that much, as she lets it go. “What’s for dinner?”
It’s Sunday, one of the only days I get time to cook. “Pot roast,” I tell her, almost triumphantly. See? I can be a real mom at times.
“Cool. Do you want any help?”
Now I raise my eyebrow suspiciously. “What do you want?”
She gives a theatrical shrug. “Nothing, why?”
Shaking my head, I respond, “Because, Alicia, daughter dearest, an offer from you to peel vegetables always comes with strings attached. Why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me what you want?”
Her lips purse. She looks down at her hands and picks at her fingernails. It’s a moment before she speaks. “Marisa has asked if I’d like to go over to her place tonight.”
After Grumbler had left yesterday, Alicia had been so amped up by the news she was able to share with her friends, she’d actually forgotten she was on lockdown for the weekend. With a proportionate lifting of her mood to the extent that we’d watched a movie together last night—a romantic comedy which had made us both laugh. But I’d grounded her for the two days and I’m not backing down. I’m not looking forward to reminding her of that.
I decide on a compromise. “Why don’t you ask Marisa to come here?”
“Because she’s got an Xbox, and she wants to show me a new game she’s got.”
I narrow my eyes, shrewdly. “You don’t like games.” It’s the reason she hasn’t got the same game box as her friend.
“Not normally, but this one sounds good, Mom. Please, can I go?”
Just as I’m about to say no, her phone rings. Her eyes narrow as she looks at the screen, then cautiously answers it.
“Hello?... Oh, hi… Yes, she’s here…” She holds the phone out to me. “It’s Grumbler.”
My eyes widen, then I realise he might be ringing with an update about Alicia’s money. I didn’t expect him to get results so fast. “Hi. It’s Mary.”
“Grumbler here.”
Even if Alicia hadn’t already warned me who it was, I’d recognise that gravelly voice anywhere. “Have you got news?”
“Yes and no.” It’s an enigmatic reply, and I wait for him to elaborate. “I suppose it might be good news that the fucker’s sold four more photos which we haven’t gotten paid for.”
I glance at my daughter, thinking again how photogenic she is and that it must be her that’s selling the photos. Then realise I’m biased. It could be Grumbler’s motorcycle.
“The bad news,” he continues, “is that the fucker doesn’t want to be found. We’ll find him but haven’t done so as yet. Personally, I’d like to have a look at his financials, see if we can find how many pictures he sells, and whether he’s got outgoing transactions showing he’s paying his model fees.”
“But he must be, surely. This could be a one-off, that he’s short of cash flow. And, isn’t that illegal? How can you check his bank account?”
Grumbler chuckles softly. “You’re right. We won’t be able to do that, not until we find him. But someone as evasive as him is probably scamming lots of people.”
“He wouldn’t get away with it. Surely models would see their pictures on books?”
“You a reader, Mary?”
“I read a bit. Lee Childs is one of my favourite authors. Stephen King too.”
“I’ve been talking to Patsy, our prez’s old lady. She’s told me about Indie books. You heard of them?”
“Sure. But I like to stick to the big names.”
“You’re missing out according to Patsy. But the thing is, Indie authors don’t have their books in stores in the main, some don’t even publish paperbacks. You won’t see their books in airports. The only people who’d see the cover are people who read that genre, in this case it’s something called MC romance.” If you could hear someone rolling their eyes, that’s what his voice sounds like.
“MC romance?”
“Motorcycle club romance.”
“And your prez’s mom reads it?”
“She’s his woman, not his mom.” Grumbler barks a laugh. “His ol’ lady.” Ah. The penny drops. I chuckle. “So you wouldn’t have seen it, Alicia’s probably too young for that type of book—they have sex and filth in them. I certainly wouldn’t read them, and I doubt Owen’s in the market for them either.”
“What you’re saying is there’s a limited pool of readers, so the chances are good the photographer can get away with it.”
“You fuckin’ got it, doll.” Doll? Where did that come from? I let it pass. “Anyway, just wanted to update you on the covers. I thought Alicia might do with another fix of fame. Might give you a break.”
Alicia has wandered off while he’s been talking. I prop myself up against the counter. “You’re not wrong there. Your call saved me from having to remind her she’s grounded and can’t go out tonight. If you tell me the titles of the books, she might forget to be annoyed if
