"Did I say I was talking dirty to truckers?" she asked. "They talk dirty to me. I like to listen. Don't be lecturing me on my hobbies, either. I'm an old woman."
"An old woman, my ass," I said. "You're worse than someone a third of your age."
She laughed. "Growing old is freeing, dear," she said. "As it should be."
"Okay, Nana." I tried to get her back on track, thinking I was surely going to regret my next question, but unable to keep myself from asking. "What did you hear on the police scanner?"
"Oh yes. The scanner. Well, that's the thing. The sheriff-I don't think you know him, Jed Easton -" She didn't wait for my response. "He's a real piece of work. As dirty as a pig in shit, always has been. I never liked him, even when he was a kid. Jed called in an incident at the Saint house."
"Okay. So what?" I asked. My voice was nonchalant, but my heart was caught in my throat. Silas wasn't even here, I told myself. He was in Vegas.
"So," she said. "I thought you knew the Saint brothers, Silas in particular. So I thought you might be interested. There was apparently some kind of altercation, and Jed Easton arrested one of them. It was a few hours ago."
"Did they say which one?" I asked.
"Of course not. Just 'the suspect' this, and 'the suspect' that," she said. "But I thought, it possibly being someone you know, you might be interested in going down to the jailhouse and offering your assistance."
"I knew them a long time ago," I lied. It had been days since I knew Silas.
In the most biblical of ways.
Heat rose to my cheeks at the thought of Silas' breath on my neck, his hands pinning my wrists above my head. My heart beat rapidly.
What if it were Silas who had been arrested?
No, I told myself. The thought was ridiculous. I'd just left Silas in Vegas. Even if he were staying in West Bend, the likelihood that he was here right now was infinitesimally small.
Still.
"Uh-huh," Letty said.
"What kind of assistance am I going to offer at the jailhouse, anyway?" I asked.
"Well, Molly," she said, using my alias. "I don't know. But I figure you can work that out for yourself, being a hotshot attorney from Los Angeles and all."
"Nana," I said. "How did you get that information?" This was classic Letty - so impaired when it came to technology she couldn't use a damn internet search engine, yet able to find out everyone's business the moment anything happened in this town.
"What?" she asked. "I can't hear you. My ears, they don't work so good anymore."
I laughed. "You heard me just fine," I said.
"Oh, I've got to go. My girls and I, we're about to play some bridge. I won't expect to see you here this afternoon, dear."
I sighed at my grandmother's not-so-subtle hint that I should go down to the jail. "Don't have too much fun, Nana."
"I won't," she said. "I have to make sure my ticker still works. I would hate to keel over and leave all these men here ripe for Ethel's picking."
I hung up the phone, reeling from what she'd said.
It wasn't Silas who's gotten himself arrested. He was still in Vegas. He would have mentioned it, if he were returning to West Bend.
The same way I'd mentioned I was coming here?
Silas was part of my past.
I told myself that, even as I put together what I would need to go down to the jailhouse.
"You're fast," said the woman in uniform behind the desk, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun. "I didn't know we had ambulance chasers in West Bend. Did you, Daryl?"
A man in uniform with a stomach that protruded well over his waistband sat at a desk across the room, checking sports scores on his computer. He grunted a response without looking away.
I gave her my most professional smile. "That's what happens when you have an attorney on retainer," I said. "And I'd like to know what my client's being charged with."
"Well, Ms. McAdams," she said, leaning forward, her arms on the desk. "Being an attorney, you know that it takes time to process the prisoners. Silas Saint is not processed yet." I exhaled when I heard his name. So it was Silas. The way she talked about him made him sound like a turkey in the oven, like he wasn't finished cooking. "You haven't even shown me your credentials. And you don't look old enough to be a lawyer. And you're wearing jeans."
"Well, Ms. Edwards," I said, reading from her nameplate and mimicking her tone. "Imagine being on vacation from LA, here in this idyllic little town, enjoying a croissant and the escape from the constant demands of your law firm. Then, imagine you learn that a client of yours - a dear client, one of your best clients - has a brother in law who's been unjustly arrested."