“Almost.”
“That’s good. I was taller than my first husband and it never bothered me that much, but when I remarried, I realized how nice it was to be able to look eye to eye with my second husband.”
“I understand.” Mercy did. She’d been taller than a majority of the guys she’d gone to high school with. Few were willing to take an interest in a girl they had to look up to.
“Doesn’t really matter in bed, though, does it?”
Mercy kept a straight face. “I guess not.”
“Your police chief reminds me of my second husband. Tall and dark with kind eyes and a nice smile.”
Her own smile spread across her face. “Yes, that’s Truman.”
“You’ve got that look about you,” Tilda said thoughtfully, scanning Mercy’s face. “When you said his name, I could see how important he is to you. You looked like a woman in love. I remember that feeling.”
Mercy caught her breath. She and Truman still hadn’t said those three little words to each other. Several times she’d felt as if he was waiting for her to say it, and she’d been convinced he was going to say it during their discussion last night.
He hadn’t. Was I disappointed?
A bit. Part of her wanted to hear it, and the other part screamed that she wasn’t ready.
Because if he said it, then she should too. Right?
Am I ready?
She recalled the bit of taped cotton she’d ripped from the crook of her arm in the shower a few hours ago. She’d led Truman to believe the blood draw was intended to check her nonexistent alcohol level. But when Mercy couldn’t swear she was not pregnant in preparation for the X-rays, the doctor had ordered the quick test. “Better to play it safe,” the doctor had said.
Mercy had spent the next few minutes in fear that she was pregnant.
She wasn’t.
“But then there’s times where you want to hit them in the head with a shovel and bury them deep in the back pasture because they pissed you off,” Tilda continued with a grin. “That usually leads to makeup sex. And then everything is better until you want to brain them again.”
Mercy took a drink of her tea, still at a loss for words.
“But you’re not here to talk about your man, you want to know if anything else has occurred to me about that fire.”
Relief swamped her. “Yes. Anything new?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Tilda took a big swig of tea. “I remember when your parents moved to town, you know. We lived out their way for quite a while. In fact, my man helped your dad dig fence post holes one year.”
“I didn’t know that.” Tilda needs some gossip time, not an opportunity to talk about the fire. She wondered how to steer the conversation back to the crime.
“I remember them being young and motivated and out to protect themselves from the world.”
“That sounds like my parents.”
“They weren’t nutty like some preppers are. Never saw them practicing drills with gas masks or digging a bunker to protect against radiation. They seemed to want to get back to a simpler time when people relied on themselves.”
“That was exactly what they wanted to do.”
“They were good neighbors. We moved to the other side of town right after your mama had her first baby. My husband liked to move a lot. It was always a pain in the ass. Seemed like I always had to do most of the packing and unpacking.” She sighed. “I guess it’s time to do that again. Maybe I’ll hire some strong young arms to do that part for me.”
“You’re moving?”
“I’ve had a good offer for this property.”
“I didn’t realize it was for sale.”
“It’s not. But when someone knocks on your door and offers money for your home that has been feeling way too big, you take it as a sign from the good Lord above.”
“Where will you go?”
The woman tipped her head and looked off in the distance. “I think it’s time I find myself one of those old-people homes. The ones where you live on your own, but someone is always available to help you when needed. Sort of like an apartment complex, but specially run for us old biddies. I know how old I am. I’ve thought about what could happen if I slipped and broke a hip. I think that offer for my property came at a good time, and I intend to follow up on it. I hope he understands it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
“You already told him you wouldn’t sell?”
“I did. I admit it was an emotional reaction. I didn’t care for him marching up to my front door and talking to me like I was some infirm old woman. I sent him packing. He came back a few days later and was politer, but I still wasn’t interested. He left his phone number. I’ll mull it over a few more days and then give him a call.”
“Only if you’re ready. And get the property appraised. He might believe he can get it for a steal.”
“No problem on that front. I’ve got a grandnephew who’s a Realtor. He’ll take care of me.”
Tilda’s earlier frankness had thrown Mercy for a loop, but talking real estate had helped get her brain back on track. “I read over the notes from your first interview, and you mentioned that the only person who’d come to the door recently was looking for a lost dog. How long ago did the man make the offer for your house?”
Tilda’s eyes widened. “Well, aren’t you a sharp one. You’re absolutely right. I forgot to mention that visitor to your man and that other FBI agent. The buyer first stopped by at the beginning of November. I remember because he commented on my fall wreath on my door. I’d already taken down the Halloween cat that’d been hanging there for a decoration.”
“Would you mind sharing the name of who made you the offer?”
“Not at all. I’ll find his card.” She stood stiffly but strode out of the room with the energy of a younger woman. Mercy glanced at the picture of the German shepherd on the fireplace, remembering how Truman said she’d claimed at the beginning of their interview that the dog was alive. She seems sharp as a tack today.
“Well now, I’m not sure where I put that number,” Tilda said as she returned. She scanned the room, looking for the offending piece of paper. “I swear I left it right by my phone. I threw it away at first, but I fished it out of the garbage thinking I might change my mind at some point.”
“Do you remember his name?”
Tilda tapped a finger on her chin as she thought. “I don’t. It was on the card. I hadn’t met him or heard of him before.”
It probably isn’t relevant. But it niggled at her. Arson had occurred on Tilda’s property after she’d refused to sell. It warranted a closer look.
“I’ll keep looking.”
Ready to leave, Mercy pulled out her card and handed it to Tilda. “Don’t lose this one. Call me when you find the other. I want to know who your eager buyer is.”
“You don’t think he set the fire to scare me away, do you?”