last week covering one of my overdrafts.”
I feigned indifference. “Go for it. Maybe she knowswhat’s going on with the bank. You can wheedle it out of her during pillow talk.”
The ensuing silence wasn’t awkward, which I found reassuring. Having finished his drink, Leo was drumming his fingers on the table and studying the menu. I already knew what I was going to order. Our waitress returned, and we put in our requests. Leo asked for another Scotch. I tried not to notice.
“She’s backed off,” he said suddenly.
Puzzled, I took a sip of bourbon. “Who? Linda? The waitress?”
Leo shook his head. “Liza, my ex. I think she’s going to marry that guidance counselor SOB. His divorce is final about now.”
“Oh.” I made an effort not to know too much about Leo’s California past. He and I had met the previous summer while I was vacationing in Port Angeles. His car had broken down while he was there. He had broken down, too, passing out drunk in the local library. Somehow, I had been sufficiently foolish—and good-hearted—to give him a lift into Seattle. I’d never expected to see him again. Then I had received the letter from Tom Cavanaugh, recommending Leo for Ed Bronsky’s vacant job. I hadn’t told Leo much about my private life and nothing about my profession. He had returned the favor, but had expanded somewhat on his immediate background, which included the defection of his wife and getting fired from his job. It shouldn’t have surprised me that he had ordered a second Scotch.
“How do your kids feel about Liza remarrying?” I asked, feeling obligated to show a minimum of interest.
“Damned if I know,” Leo answered, lighting up again. “They don’t call or write. They still hate me for causing their mother to walk out after twenty-seven years. Demolition Dad, they call me. Or something likethat.” Leo’s brown eyes had a faraway look, and he held his head with the hand that didn’t hold the cigarette.
“You and Liza should have tried a marriage counselor,” I said, and immediately wished I’d kept my mouth shut. “I mean, if she felt you didn’t pay enough attention to her, she shouldn’t have let it get to a point where her only option was to leave.” Inwardly I berated myself. I sounded as if I were sticking up for Leo. I’d never intended to get that involved in his private life.
Leo’s eyes had narrowed and he was giving me a knowing smile. Ed Bronsky not only couldn’t read a rate schedule, he definitely wasn’t capable of reading my mind. “Bingo!” Leo exclaimed, though he kept his voice down. “That occurred to me, too, but unfortunately it was six months later. Liza was already cozied up with Pete the Greek Geek Guidance Counselor.”
Desperately I wanted to change the subject. We were sitting by the window that faced Front Street, because it had been the closest vacant booth to the door. Ordinarily I preferred a more private table, but I hadn’t wanted Leo hobbling to the rear of the restaurant. Now I was grateful for our proximity to the street: Through the window, I saw Andy Cederberg, still carrying his briefcase, and heading for the Venison Inn.
I leaned across the table and hissed at Leo. “Hey, let’s collar Andy. Trip him with your crutch.”
The door swung open, but the lanky man with the briefcase was not Andy Cederberg. Indeed, I had never seen the new arrival before in my life. He was built like Andy, he had a long dark overcoat like Andy’s, and his snap-brim cap was the same style as Andy wore. But up close, he was ten years older, much swarthier, and smacked of the Big City.
Leo and I gawked as the hostess showed the man to a table on the other side of the room.
“Stop the presses?” Leo murmured.
I gave a little shake of my head. “I don’t know. He may be passing through from Eastern Washington.”
Leo waited for the waitress to deliver our salads. “Do people driving the pass usually go a mile off the highway to have dinner
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