I don’t appreciate is your trying to scare me into buying ninety dollars’ worth of services I don’t really need.”
“Ma’am?”
She crossed her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with my fluids. Or my filter, for that matter, and we both know it. I came here for an oil change, just like the two men you serviced before me. How come you didn’t try to up-sell them with all this crap?”
The mechanic backed away, belatedly deciding he didn’t want a confrontation. She whipped out her wallet.
“I’d like the bill, please,” she said. “And my keys.”
Rowe intercepted her a few minutes later, just as she was opening the door to her black Beetle. “Kate Kepler?”
She shot him a glare. “What now? You want to sell me some snow tires?”
Rowe slid his hands into his pockets. “Do I look like a tire salesman?”
Her brown eyes skimmed over his dark suit. “Hmm, not really. But let me save you some time here. I’m also not in the market for life insurance or Amway.”
He smiled. “I’m not selling anything. I just want to talk.”
Her eyes became wary suddenly, adding years to her age. Now she looked old enough to vote.
“Who are you?”
“Special Agent Mike Rowe, FBI.” He extended his hand and watched the lightbulb come on. “The guy you’ve been dodging the last twenty-four hours?”
She glanced at his hand but didn’t take it. “How’d you find me here?”
“I talked to your roommate.”
“How’d you get my address?”
“I talked to your editor.”
She slid behind the wheel, muttering something about the Patriot Act. When she started the engine, Rowe’s easygoing mood disappeared.
“I’m in a hurry,” she said. “You’ll have to make it quick.”
He didn’t have to make it anything, but he decided to use finesse instead of force. “This shouldn’t take long. How ’bout I buy you a cup of coffee?”
She squinted at him, as if deciding what to do. What was it with this girl? Most people—the innocent ones, at least—jumped at the chance to be interviewed by a federal agent. It made them feel important. Kate Kepler was different for some reason, and Rowe wanted to know why.
“There’s a Java Stop on Twelfth and Lamar,” she said. “It’s mostly joggers and cyclists, though. You’ll be the only suit.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Actually, he did mind. Wearing a coat and tie every day was one aspect of his job he’d never liked. Typically he dressed down on weekends, but he’d been to mass earlier.
“You know how to get there from here?” she asked.
“No, but I have a feeling you do.”
“Follow me.” She put her car in gear. “And I’m not kidding, I only have a few minutes.”
CHAPTER
5
C elie stood in the Bluebonnet House kitchen and dumped a giant envelope of orange Tang into about four gallons of tap water. She felt a tug on her dress and looked down into a pair of glistening blue eyes.
“Miss Celie?” Three-year-old Kimmy Taylor’s cheeks were wet with tears.
Celie scooped the little girl up onto her hip. “What is it, sweetheart?” She braced herself for what might come out of the child’s mouth. Given Kimmy’s background, the possibilities were daunting.
“Miss Celie, why’d we have to kill all the eggs?”
“The eggs?”
Kimmy toyed with the tiny white buttons on the front of Celie’s dress. “The Easter eggs,” she said. “Why did Miss Chantal and everybody kill ’em yesterday?”
Kill them…?
“You mean dye them? Why did we dye them yesterday?”
Kimmy nodded sadly, and Celie gave her a hug.
“Oh, sweetheart, dyeing the eggs is like painting them. We didn’t hurt the eggs. We just made them pretty colors, that’s all. After a while we’ll have the egg hunt!”
Kimmy frowned. Clearly, the concept of an Easter egg hunt was foreign to her.
“But first, we’re having cupcakes!” Celie pointed with false enthusiasm to several large boxes from the grocery store.
Kimmy’s face perked up. “Can I have
“Ma’am?”
She crossed her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with my fluids. Or my filter, for that matter, and we both know it. I came here for an oil change, just like the two men you serviced before me. How come you didn’t try to up-sell them with all this crap?”
The mechanic backed away, belatedly deciding he didn’t want a confrontation. She whipped out her wallet.
“I’d like the bill, please,” she said. “And my keys.”
Rowe intercepted her a few minutes later, just as she was opening the door to her black Beetle. “Kate Kepler?”
She shot him a glare. “What now? You want to sell me some snow tires?”
Rowe slid his hands into his pockets. “Do I look like a tire salesman?”
Her brown eyes skimmed over his dark suit. “Hmm, not really. But let me save you some time here. I’m also not in the market for life insurance or Amway.”
He smiled. “I’m not selling anything. I just want to talk.”
Her eyes became wary suddenly, adding years to her age. Now she looked old enough to vote.
“Who are you?”
“Special Agent Mike Rowe, FBI.” He extended his hand and watched the lightbulb come on. “The guy you’ve been dodging the last twenty-four hours?”
She glanced at his hand but didn’t take it. “How’d you find me here?”
“I talked to your roommate.”
“How’d you get my address?”
“I talked to your editor.”
She slid behind the wheel, muttering something about the Patriot Act. When she started the engine, Rowe’s easygoing mood disappeared.
“I’m in a hurry,” she said. “You’ll have to make it quick.”
He didn’t have to make it anything, but he decided to use finesse instead of force. “This shouldn’t take long. How ’bout I buy you a cup of coffee?”
She squinted at him, as if deciding what to do. What was it with this girl? Most people—the innocent ones, at least—jumped at the chance to be interviewed by a federal agent. It made them feel important. Kate Kepler was different for some reason, and Rowe wanted to know why.
“There’s a Java Stop on Twelfth and Lamar,” she said. “It’s mostly joggers and cyclists, though. You’ll be the only suit.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Actually, he did mind. Wearing a coat and tie every day was one aspect of his job he’d never liked. Typically he dressed down on weekends, but he’d been to mass earlier.
“You know how to get there from here?” she asked.
“No, but I have a feeling you do.”
“Follow me.” She put her car in gear. “And I’m not kidding, I only have a few minutes.”
CHAPTER
5
C elie stood in the Bluebonnet House kitchen and dumped a giant envelope of orange Tang into about four gallons of tap water. She felt a tug on her dress and looked down into a pair of glistening blue eyes.
“Miss Celie?” Three-year-old Kimmy Taylor’s cheeks were wet with tears.
Celie scooped the little girl up onto her hip. “What is it, sweetheart?” She braced herself for what might come out of the child’s mouth. Given Kimmy’s background, the possibilities were daunting.
“Miss Celie, why’d we have to kill all the eggs?”
“The eggs?”
Kimmy toyed with the tiny white buttons on the front of Celie’s dress. “The Easter eggs,” she said. “Why did Miss Chantal and everybody kill ’em yesterday?”
Kill them…?
“You mean dye them? Why did we dye them yesterday?”
Kimmy nodded sadly, and Celie gave her a hug.
“Oh, sweetheart, dyeing the eggs is like painting them. We didn’t hurt the eggs. We just made them pretty colors, that’s all. After a while we’ll have the egg hunt!”
Kimmy frowned. Clearly, the concept of an Easter egg hunt was foreign to her.
“But first, we’re having cupcakes!” Celie pointed with false enthusiasm to several large boxes from the grocery store.
Kimmy’s face perked up. “Can I have
Similar Books
