“Your husband.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t need any.”
“Must be a lot of wax,” Lula said.
“Dirk!” I yelled. “Where’s Dirk?”
“Dirk! Don’t know. Don’t care,” she said. “I’m moving on. I’m gonna find myself a new boy toy. Dirk was too old for me anyway.”
“That’s the spirit,” Lula said.
“What?” Stella yelled. “What did you say?”
Lula and I screamed good-bye to Stella, we got back into the car, and I drove to Ernie’s house. I didn’t think Dirk was living with Ernie, but I thought Ernie might be talking to him.
“What time is it?” Lula asked. “I might need a doughnut. Is it doughnut time?”
“I’m thinking about eating healthier,” I said. “More vegetables and fewer doughnuts.”
“What’s that about?”
“I don’t know. It just came over me.”
“It’s a bad idea. What do I look like, Mr. Green Jeans? How would it sound if I said it’s vegetable time? People would think I was a nut. Nobody gets a craving for a vegetable. And I’m on the one diet. What am I gonna do with one carrot or one asparagus? They’re not mood enhancers, if you see what I’m saying.”
“I see what you’re saying, but there aren’t any doughnuts between here and Ernie’s house.”
“I guess I could wait. And maybe you’re right about the healthy eating. I’m gonna get a carrot cake doughnut.”
I drove a block, pulled over, and called Ernie. I had a feeling he’d be more helpful if I got him away from his wife. My guess was his wife wouldn’t be happy to learn he was still palling around with Dirk the bigamist.
Ernie answered and I introduced myself.
“Is your wife home?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said.
“Would she be upset if she knew you were still friends with Dirk McCurdle?”
“What’s this about?”
“I can knock on your door and talk to you in front of your wife, or we can meet somewhere for just a couple minutes. I need to find Dirk.”
“Okay.”
“Just go out in your car or go for a walk, and I’ll follow you.”
“Okay.”
And he hung up.
Five minutes later, a car pulled out of the Wilkeses’ driveway and headed for Olden. The car pulled to the curb after three blocks and Ernie Wilkes got out.
“I don’t know anything about Dirk McCurdle,” Ernie said to Lula and me. “We used to be friends, but I don’t see him anymore.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?” I asked.
Ernie hesitated a beat. “A long time ago.”
“Try again,” I told him.
Ernie blew out a sigh. “A couple days ago. He’s got a new wife. At least, he says she’s a wife.”
“Do you know her name? Do you know where she lives?”
“Her name’s Dolly. I don’t know her last name. He said they met at the Senior Center on Greenwood. And he said she has a house close by there.”
“Does Dirk have his own place?”
Ernie shook his head. “Not that I know about. He’s always lived in his wives’ houses. I tell you, he’s a real character.”
I thanked Ernie, gave him my card, and Lula and I took Olden to Greenwood.
“Hold up here,” Lula said. “There’s a bakery on the right, and I bet they’ve got healthy doughnuts. Like maybe they got a whole wheat and green bean cruller.”
SIX
I PULLED INTO the small lot and waited while Lula ran in. I had my window down, and I was in a zone, staring into the bakery, not thinking. My skin prickled at the nape of my neck and a rush of heat fluttered through my stomach. I caught a hint of Bulgari Green shower gel and knew the reason for the heat. Ranger.
He bent to talk to me through the open window. “There’s a problem in the Atlanta office,” he said. “I’m on my way to the airport. I should be back sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, call Tank if you need help. I’ve asked Chet to report Gritch’s travels directly to you.”
Tank was Ranger’s next in command. He was the guy who watched Ranger’s back. His name said it all.
“Thanks,” I said. “Be careful.”
Ranger smiled at that. Hard to tell if he was smiling because someone cared enough to say be careful, or if he thought the idea was funny.
Minutes after Ranger left, Lula hauled herself up into the Jeep. “The best I could do was blueberry,” Lula said. “They didn’t have no vegetable doughnuts. And I got a strawberry jelly-filled, and a pumpkin spice, and a banana scone. Wait a minute. Is pumpkin a vegetable? Does that count?”
“You must have eight hundred calories in that bag.”
“Yeah, but the diet says I can have one of anything.”
“One doughnut! Not one of each kind.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Lula said.
“Have you lost any weight on this diet?”
“No. I gained a couple, but I think it’s water retention.”
THE SENIOR CENTER is in a big old house that was remodeled to accommodate bingo. It runs night and day and it smells like crackers. I’ve learned from past experience that it’s best to park on the far perimeter of the lot. At least half the seniors who come for pinochle or bingo are legally blind from macular degeneration, and they park by feeling their way along with their bumpers.
I left Lula in the Jeep with the doughnuts, and I crossed the lot and went straight to the admin office just inside the Center’s front door. An older woman in a turquoise smock was at the desk. She looked up at me and smiled.
“Yes, dear,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for my grandmother’s friend, Dolly.”
“You must mean Dolly Molinski. She isn’t here right now. In fact, I haven’t seen her for some time.”
“Do you know where she lives? Do you have a phone number?”
“No, I’m afraid not. We don’t keep any of that information. I know she lives close, because she would walk to bingo when the weather was nice.”
I returned to the Jeep and called Connie. “Dolly Molinski,” I said. “Can you get me an address?”
A couple minutes later, Connie came back on the line. “She’s on Stanley Street. Number 401 Stanley.”
“I don’t know Stanley,” I said to her. “I’m at the Senior Center. Can you give me directions?”
“She’s two blocks away. Take Applegate to Stanley.”
I drove two blocks down Applegate, turned at Stanley, and parked in front of 401. It was a tidy little white house with a postage-stamp front lawn presided over by a three-foot-tall ceramic gnome. Lula and I marched up to the front door, and I knocked. The door opened and a lady not much taller than the gnome looked out at me. She had short snow-white hair, a pleasant round face, and she was wearing shocking-pink yoga pants and a matching short-sleeved T-shirt.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Dirk McCurdle,” I told her. “Is he here?”
“Yes,” she said, “but he’s sleeping. Honestly, I don’t know how that man can sleep like he does. I’ve already
