“I suppose,” the woman said. “Who’s your friend, who shops here?”
“Ms. Snelling,” I said, gambling that if Trixie had been in here, and if she had given her name, it might have been that one.
The woman shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She was here last Thursday. Probably getting something for her daughter. About five-four, dark hair, very pretty.” I thought of Hector’s description of what she’d been wearing that day. “Would have probably been wearing a long leather coat, these high-heeled boots.” I thought about showing her the picture of Trixie from the newspaper, but that would put a totally different spin on the nature of my questioning.
“Oh yes, I remember her. But I didn’t get her name. She always pays cash.”
“Yes, that sounds like her,” I said. “Likes to keep those credit card charges down. So she comes in regularly?”
The woman was holding up some sort of jumper thing in blue. It didn’t look big enough to hold a shih tzu. “The odd time, but not very often. But I don’t think it could be the same person. She doesn’t buy for her own daughter. She likes to buy presents for the Bennets’ little girl when she’s up this way visiting. I think she must be her aunt or something.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “I meant niece. Not daughter.”
The woman gave me a look, like she thought something funny was going on, but I kept smiling and maintained eye contact, and she seemed to let it go.
“She is just the most adorable little girl. I think her aunt spoils her,” the woman said.
I felt a charge going through me. “The Bennets, they still have that place down the road a ways?”
“Well, if you call Kelton down the road a ways,” she said. “How about something like this?” She’d matched the jumper to some booties and socks and the whole outfit looked a bit fussy, to tell you the truth.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Last time I dropped in on the Bennets, must be six years or so. Don’t think I could find their place if my life depended on it.”
“They’re still on County Road 9, can’t miss them,” she said. “Hang on, I think I have her on my mailing list. I could check for you if you’d like.”
I felt an adrenaline rush, but stayed calm. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble.” She dug out a book from under the register. “That’s right, County Road 9, just north of Kelton. Would you like their phone number?”
I wasn’t sure I needed it, but took it just the same. All I wanted to do now was burst out of the store, check my map, and find County Road 9.
“I’ll take this,” I said, pointing to the jumper and booties. I figured that to back out on the sale now would start raising suspicions again.
“Would you like it done up in a gift bag?” she asked.
I said that would be fine. I thought it would take forever, her arranging the tissue paper, scoring the string with the blunt edge of some scissors to make it go all curly, helping me pick out a card.
It was all I could do not to run out of the store. But once I was out the door, I made a mad dash to the car.
24
I GOT OUT THE MAP. If I’d had the smarts to figure out the GPS system in Trixie’s car, I could have looked up Kelton and County Road 9, but finding it on a piece of paper not only seemed simpler, but a hell of a lot faster.
Using Trixie’s pencil, I followed the route west out of Groverton, up to Kelton, which was barely big enough to warrant a dot, then found County Road 9 heading due north from it. I turned the key, heard the engine’s powerful but understated roar—not the sort of thing I was used to behind the wheel of my hybrid Virtue—and started heading out of town.
It was only slightly after noon, and I could have used some lunch, but I felt that I was so close to finding Trixie, and to learning what was going on, that I didn’t want to stop. But as I drove, I found I wasn’t thinking of food anyway. I was burdened with doubts that finding Trixie would actually accomplish all of the things I hoped it would.
She’d already run away from me once. And she’d shown herself capable of taking desperate measures to make sure I didn’t come after her. But maybe this time, if we could have a conversation in a less unsettling environment—in other words, without a dead man in the room—she’d be more inclined to tell me what was going on.