if I had a reservation.
“No,” I said, mechanically producing a smile. “Just one for dinner, please.” I glanced over my shoulder, checking to see if anyone was coming in the door behind me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, miss, but we’re completely full just now. If you’d like to wait …” His eyes fell to my bandaged thumb. He tried to glance away, but the thickness of the gauze drew his gaze like a moth to the flame.
“How long might it be?” I asked, falling into my starchiest English.
The young man looked perturbed on my behalf. “It might be as much as forty minutes. We’re usually not open on Sundays, but there’s a special event across the way there, and well, you know.” Then, with a teasing smile, he added, “If you’d like to tour the house while you wait, you might even meet one of our resident ghosts to pass the time with. We have a history of the mansion here in the menu.”
Ghosts. That was all I needed. The clinking of glassware and odd riffs of laughter that issued from the rooms full of jolly diners all around me began to further fray my nerves. “You got a phone I could use?”
The maitre d’ directed me farther back into the mansion. I dialed the number on the card Officer Raymond had given me and waited. When a dispatcher came on, I said, “This is Em Hansen. Officer Raymond gave me this number to call if I needed help. I’m a law-abiding citizen who’s gotten balled up in the George Dishey murder investigation, and I’d like to know if that’s your guy who’s tailing me.”
“Hold, please.”
I held for three minutes and was about to hang up when I heard not Raymond’s calm baritone but the caustic drawl of Detective Bert. “Emmy! What’s up?”
I breathed hotly into the phone. I had prepared to say that
someone was following me, but this creep would delight in letting me know just how melodramatic that sounded. So instead, I said, “What’s up? Not me. You want to pull your tail off me? Why don’t I just call in and tell you where I’m going, so you don’t have to follow me around like a goddamned criminal. You know, maybe save the poor taxpayer a buck.”
Bert’s reply dripped with sarcasm. “You have a tail? What’s it look like, tiger? Black-and-yellow stripes?”
“Listen, cut the shit,” I said, before I got a grip on myself. He had asked what the tail looked like. That meant it might not be his. “He’s driving a tan sedan, late model, midsize American make. Don’t know exactly what kind—they all look alike. It was too far away to read the plates, except that they were Utah. One guy on board, couldn’t see him clearly. White male with a long beard and high cheekbones.” Kind of like the helicopter pilot in the vietnam picture. Except not really. And it wasn’t just the beard. This man was just not as handsome. Something different in the brow … “Wearing gloves, maybe,” I added, remembering the thick fingers on the steering wheel. Gloves? In this weather? Wait a minute—is that to cover evidence? “He yours?” I demanded, trying to sound more angry than frightened.
“And you are calling from the Chart House restaurant,” he said.
“Yes, but I’m not staying. Got any recommendations for a place that’s open on a Sunday night that doesn’t have a half-hour wait?” I asked, trying to sound cool.
He laughed softly. “I don’t get out half enough. But drive around, enjoy yourself. In a town this big, you’re bound to find something open.”
“Great.” I volleyed. “Hope your guy has a full tank.” As in, This is your guy, right?
I hung up and stalked back out the door to my car, cranked the engine, tore around the plaza, and waved to the driver of the tan sedan as I sped past him. My shadow fell in behind me, half
a block back. He wasn’t even trying to stay out of sight. So that means he’s a cop, right? Or it means he’s not a cop, and not altogether bright, which is a truly scary thought, because stupid people can be more
“No,” I said, mechanically producing a smile. “Just one for dinner, please.” I glanced over my shoulder, checking to see if anyone was coming in the door behind me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, miss, but we’re completely full just now. If you’d like to wait …” His eyes fell to my bandaged thumb. He tried to glance away, but the thickness of the gauze drew his gaze like a moth to the flame.
“How long might it be?” I asked, falling into my starchiest English.
The young man looked perturbed on my behalf. “It might be as much as forty minutes. We’re usually not open on Sundays, but there’s a special event across the way there, and well, you know.” Then, with a teasing smile, he added, “If you’d like to tour the house while you wait, you might even meet one of our resident ghosts to pass the time with. We have a history of the mansion here in the menu.”
Ghosts. That was all I needed. The clinking of glassware and odd riffs of laughter that issued from the rooms full of jolly diners all around me began to further fray my nerves. “You got a phone I could use?”
The maitre d’ directed me farther back into the mansion. I dialed the number on the card Officer Raymond had given me and waited. When a dispatcher came on, I said, “This is Em Hansen. Officer Raymond gave me this number to call if I needed help. I’m a law-abiding citizen who’s gotten balled up in the George Dishey murder investigation, and I’d like to know if that’s your guy who’s tailing me.”
“Hold, please.”
I held for three minutes and was about to hang up when I heard not Raymond’s calm baritone but the caustic drawl of Detective Bert. “Emmy! What’s up?”
I breathed hotly into the phone. I had prepared to say that
someone was following me, but this creep would delight in letting me know just how melodramatic that sounded. So instead, I said, “What’s up? Not me. You want to pull your tail off me? Why don’t I just call in and tell you where I’m going, so you don’t have to follow me around like a goddamned criminal. You know, maybe save the poor taxpayer a buck.”
Bert’s reply dripped with sarcasm. “You have a tail? What’s it look like, tiger? Black-and-yellow stripes?”
“Listen, cut the shit,” I said, before I got a grip on myself. He had asked what the tail looked like. That meant it might not be his. “He’s driving a tan sedan, late model, midsize American make. Don’t know exactly what kind—they all look alike. It was too far away to read the plates, except that they were Utah. One guy on board, couldn’t see him clearly. White male with a long beard and high cheekbones.” Kind of like the helicopter pilot in the vietnam picture. Except not really. And it wasn’t just the beard. This man was just not as handsome. Something different in the brow … “Wearing gloves, maybe,” I added, remembering the thick fingers on the steering wheel. Gloves? In this weather? Wait a minute—is that to cover evidence? “He yours?” I demanded, trying to sound more angry than frightened.
“And you are calling from the Chart House restaurant,” he said.
“Yes, but I’m not staying. Got any recommendations for a place that’s open on a Sunday night that doesn’t have a half-hour wait?” I asked, trying to sound cool.
He laughed softly. “I don’t get out half enough. But drive around, enjoy yourself. In a town this big, you’re bound to find something open.”
“Great.” I volleyed. “Hope your guy has a full tank.” As in, This is your guy, right?
I hung up and stalked back out the door to my car, cranked the engine, tore around the plaza, and waved to the driver of the tan sedan as I sped past him. My shadow fell in behind me, half
a block back. He wasn’t even trying to stay out of sight. So that means he’s a cop, right? Or it means he’s not a cop, and not altogether bright, which is a truly scary thought, because stupid people can be more
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