Carter stopped pacing and stared at me. “This is no time for assassin humor.”
“There’s nothing we can do. You know that. I know that. You just don’t like it and neither do I, but I’ve had longer to process it.”
“Why is it taking the CIA so long to catch that guy?”
I sighed, completely understanding his frustration, but I knew Harrison and my boss, Director Morrow, were doing everything possible to get me back to my real identity.
“Because he’s really, really good,” I said. “And unless they can figure out who the mole is, he’s got someone inside the CIA helping him stay one step ahead.”
I could have told him about Harrison’s message that something was in the works, but I didn’t want to give him false hope. It was bad enough that I was feeling hopeful. Disappointment sucked. No use in both of us feeling it when one would suffice.
“There’s got to be something we can do,” Carter said.
“The only thing we can do is sit tight and hope that the CIA gets Ahmad and that Celia doesn’t make good on her threat. Trust me, I’ve rolled a million different ideas through my head, and there’s nothing else.”
“I swear to God that woman has turned this town into her own personal war zone. I wish she’d do everyone a favor and leave.”
“She won’t do that. She’ll stay here until the day she dies, trying to get revenge on the people she believes ruined her life.”
“Her life was ruined by a series of stupid choices. The only one who won’t admit that is Celia.”
I shrugged. We both knew the score. Beating a dead horse wasn’t going to change who Celia was. I was fairly certain nothing would change Celia at this point.
“Anyway,” I said. “I didn’t bring it up to get you riled. I just wanted you to keep an ear open…just in case.”
“Of course. And I will. If you think of anything I can do to help—anything legal, or close to it—let me know.”
“I will.”
Carter leaned over and kissed me, then sighed. “I best get back to it.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
He smiled. “You’re already doing it.”
I watched as he walked away, feeling a tiny bit guilty about the whole explosion thing. I hated lying to him, but until we knew for certain that something was going on, I couldn’t see any reason to bring him into it. Not to mention he would never approve of my involvement with Big and Little. That one was something we’d have to discuss at some point. Because if I was ever free to try this whole PI thing, this probably wouldn’t be the last time I used that connection to my own advantage.
For whatever reason, they liked me and were willing to help with our escapades. It might not be the smartest relationship to form in terms of the law, but it was useful in so many other ways that I thought it was worth the risk. The CIA worked with plenty of criminals to get the intel or access we needed to bigger fish. All law enforcement did, at some point.
All this thinking about the explosion and the PI thing brought me right back around to Celia. What I needed was a diversion. Something that drew her attention away from me and set her sights on something else. I just had no idea what that would be.
But I had friends who might be able to come up with something.
Ida Belle, Gertie, and I decided against cooking or reheating that night and opted for Francine’s instead. Ida Belle hoped that given what had happened with Hot Rod, more people might be out and about, which meant more gossip making its way around. The second-best place in town to get the local gossip was Francine’s. The first place being Ida Belle’s house.
But this time, Ida Belle’s sources were coming up blank. Aside from periodic updates from Ida Belle’s hospital contact about Hot Rod’s condition, no one had anything to report. And that seemed strange. Usually there was speculation at the least, especially in a small town. There was always the guy who wore the funny hat or stared at people too long or never looked you in the eye. But not now. For the first time since I’d arrived in Sinful, lips weren’t moving.
Ally was working the evening shift and hurried over when she saw us come in. “Your table in the back should be open in a couple of minutes if you want to wait.”
Ida Belle scanned the café and shook her head. “The one in the middle will do fine.”
Ally gave her a knowing look. “You want to see if there’s any scuttlebutt.”
“And?” Ida Belle said.
Ally frowned. “It’s weird, but no. I figured by now, Celia would have gotten half her followers convinced that Fortune was to blame for the attack on Hot Rod.”
“Why is it always my fault?” I asked. “Ida Belle’s the one who bought a vehicle from him.”
“Why would that give me a reason to crack him over the head?” Ida Belle asked.
“You didn’t want to pay the note?” I asked.
“Huh,” Ida Belle said. “I suppose it would be as good a theory as any, but I paid cash.”
“Then I guess it wasn’t you,” I said.
Ally smiled and walked to the table with the menus. We took our seats and gave Ally our drink order. As soon as she headed into the kitchen, one of the women at the table next to us tapped Ida Belle on the shoulder. I recognized her as a member of the Baptist choir.
Midfifties. Five feet six. A hundred sixty pounds. Surprisingly decent muscle tone. With training, could probably produce a good left hook.
Her husband, a big beefy man, sat next to her, a sour expression on his face.
Late fifties. Five feet ten. Two hundred forty pounds. Muscle tone long gone. Personality gone with it. If it had ever been there to begin with.
“Have you heard anything about Hot Rod?” the woman asked.
Ida Belle told her what little we knew, and the woman shook her head. “It’s so awful,” she said.
Her husband cleared his throat. “What’s awful are those death machines that man sells to unsuspecting citizens. He’s going to get people killed with that tomfoolery.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ralph, I’m sure those automobiles are so much more dangerous than the man who cracked Hot Rod over the head with a tire iron.”
Ralph turned a bit red in the face and pushed himself away from the table. “I’m going to go outside and get some air.”
The woman watched until he was a good ten feet away, then turned back to us. “If he goes outside still running his mouth with all that nonsense, he’ll just make it hotter out there.”
I smiled, somewhat surprised that she was willing to talk about her husband that way, but then maybe after decades with the same person, you stopped making excuses for their obvious personality flaws.
The woman looked at me and stuck out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Lucinda Fleming. That surly, pompous ass that just walked outside is my cousin Ralph.”
“Cousin? Oh.” I nodded.
“You thought he was my husband and that I was being indelicate with my comments, did you?” Lucinda asked.