“It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”
“I’d rather take a punch to the balls.”
Okay, then.
Galimore turned from Providence onto Weddington Road, which soon veered southeast. Through my window I watched malls and subdivision entrances slide past. I pictured the pretentious homes beyond the flawlessly quaint signs, each trying to be Tudor, or Tuscan, or Provencal. A few years back the area had been farmland. Where had all the countryside gone?
Eventually we entered a stretch of woodland. Galimore made a right, then another, then a third into a driveway. An engraved wooden placard announced our arrival at CB Botanicals.
Through a stand of pines, I could see a bungalow, beyond it a greenhouse. Beside the greenhouse was a small pond.
The bungalow was old but well kept. The siding was blue, probably the kind that never needed painting. The door was red, the gutters and window trim white.
The gardens bordering the house were lavish with color. I recognized some flowers. Phlox, daisies, lilies, begonias. Most I didn’t.
A kid was up on a ladder, pulling leaves from a gutter along the house’s right side. He had wires coming from both ears and didn’t look up at the sound of our car.
Galimore and I got out and followed a walk bisecting a luxuriantly green lawn. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh-cut grass. From somewhere, I heard the
Galimore thumbed the bell. A muted chime bonged inside the house.
Seconds passed. Galimore was reaching out again when the door swung inward.
The woman was tall and weighed approximately the same as my purse. She wore black spandex shorts and an oversize tee atop a black sports bra. Which was not needed. She held a plastic water bottle in one hand.
“Yes?”
Galimore flashed some sort of badge, quickly jammed it back into his pocket.
“Sorry to disturb your workout, ma’am. We’re looking for Craig Bogan.” Sunny as could be.
“Why?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“Then so are his whereabouts.”
Galimore beamed a megawatt smile. “My bad. Let’s start again.” The woman took a long slug from the bottle. “You think my tits are saggy?”
“Far from it.”
“Craig does.”
“Then Craig needs corrective lenses.”
“He needs more than that.” The woman stuck out a hand. “Reta Yountz.”
They shook so forcefully, Reta’s bracelet jumped like a string of ladybugs doing a conga.
“Craig would be Craig Bogan?” Galimore asked.
Reta nodded.
“Your husband?”
“Jesus, no. We just live together.”
Reta tipped her head to one side and opened her lips ever so slightly. Her face had a sheen of perspiration that made her cheeks shine.
“Maybe I’ll get a boob job.” Looking directly at Galimore.
“A totally unnecessary expenditure.” Looking straight back.
I fought an impulse to roll my eyes.
As Galimore worked his charm, I studied Reta. Her hair was pulled carelessly up and held back by an elastic band. I guessed her age at around forty.
“We’d like to ask your boyfriend a few questions.” Galimore was oozing charisma. “Nothing big.”
“You’ll come back and see me afterwards?” Reta used the hem of the tee to wipe her throat, exposing a rock-hard midriff.
“You can count on it.”
“He’s in the greenhouse.”
The greenhouse was one of those glass and metal affairs that, from a distance, look like the skeleton of an actual building. This one was much larger than I’d expected, big enough to accommodate a couple of small planes.
When we entered, the heat and humidity felt like a living thing. The air was heavy with the smells of fertilizer, loam, and compost.
Overhead, the glass walls arched into a high dome. Underfoot, the ground was covered with gravel.
