Once they were safely ensconced in his Oldsmobile Cutlass, Lou insisted on giving them a tour of the town. Robin tried to claim the backseat, but Evan was too quick for her, smirking when she maneuvered her way into the front next to Lou. Her skirt was too damn short—not only was she freezing, but she could hardly keep the thing from riding up. It was a wonder they didn’t drive headlong into someone, since Lou couldn’t take his eyes off her legs.
They drove past the Grizzly Grill and Saloon, the municipal center (where, Lou said to her knees, and through a mouthful of Rolaids, they would have lunch tomorrow at the Lion’s Club), and past Sears twice before heading to the outskirts of town. Lou was hauling ass now, and came barreling to a stop in front of a red, corrugated steel building, proudly labeled Peerless Packing Supply in big yellow letters. He jumped out, ran to the glass doors leading into the offices of the building, and flashed a gap-toothed grin at Robin’s breasts as she hurried past.
Inside, Evan shoved his hand through his hair in an attempt to repair it and lied, “Great-looking place!”
“Yep!” Lou said, beaming. “Same since 1972.”
No lie, Robin thought as they walked into the middle of a small suite of offices and cubicles. A brillo pad of hair popped up above one cubicle, beneath which a pair of humongous frames peered at Robin. The woman who owned them stepped out of her cubicle—she wore red pants, a sweatshirt that had a moose painted across the chest, and black Easy Spirits. She eyeballed Robin up one side and down the other, taking in her hair (still atrocious), her St. John suit (ridiculous choice for this weather), and her Feraggamo pumps (already killing her). Then the woman affixed her gaze to Robin’s Hermès purse.
“This is Barbara Gates, head of our accounts payable section!” Lou said loudly. Barbara nodded as she tried to read the little gold tag on Robin’s purse. They moved through the accounting section, and two more Jack-in-the-box heads popped up in the cube farm. Barbara followed closely behind, her eyes on Robin’s purse, as if she thought it might disperse a Jolly Rancher or two.
In the warehouse, they stood amid giant spools of bubble wrap, cardboard wrapping, pallets, and conveyor belts while Lou explained what they were seeing. In the course of it, Barbara leaned into Robin and said, “I like your purse.”
“Thanks.”
“What kind is it?”
“Hermès.”
The woman nodded knowingly. “Seen that at Penney’s.”
They moved on through the warehouse, finally reaching Lou’s office, where they began to talk numbers. Robin had to hand it to Evan—he was as smooth as he was smart. He managed to get the most pertinent information out of Lou about gross sales and receipts, sales volumes, and the details on the larger accounts. Lou, who in spite of appearances to the contrary, was pretty savvy himself, openly sizing Evan up, skirting his more delicate questions with a joke. At the end of the afternoon, however, Robin had a pretty good handle on Peerless Packing.
Lou drove them to a low-slung highway hotel later that afternoon. Robin lugged her bag to her room, shut the door against the howling wind, and noticed, with a shudder, the big, hand-lettered sign: Please do not clean game or fish in room. An hour later, she was in the lobby where the free complimentary breakfast would be served the next morning, dressed in linen slacks and jacket.
Evan came a moment later, wearing jeans and a more serviceable navy-blue blazer. “You don’t have anything more substantial?” he asked, checking out her outfit. When she shook her head, he cracked a smile and threw an arm around her shoulder. “Then I’ll just have to keep you warm.” At her withering look, he laughed. “I’m just kidding. Can’t you take a joke? Come on, I called a cab.”
Their destination was The Hunter’s Lodge, which Evan said he chose for local flavor. Local flavor was right—blanketed by a thick haze of smoke, various parts of elk, moose, and longhorn sheep adorned the walls, and in the middle of the dining area, a stuffed wild turkey welcomed them. They were shown to a booth by a very cheerful young woman who reminded Robin of Lindy. Actually, everyone reminded her of Lindy. Even the cheeseburger she ordered reminded her of Lindy.
“Cheeseburger? What’s gotten into you?” Evan scoffed after ordering the salmon (lightly sautéed in butter).
Jake Manning, that was what. It appeared that he was completely, totally, and firmly lodged under her skin. “What’s wrong with a cheeseburger? When was the last time you had one?”
“Nineteen seventy-four,” Evan said disdainfully.