When I wake in the morning, with my head still pounding, I discover Guy tying his tie with quick, jerky movements. He’s overslept, he says, has a big meeting, and doesn’t even have time for breakfast. I climb out of bed and we kiss good-bye. We’ve talked about possibly going out for dinner tonight, and he says he shouldn’t be any later than seven. Everything seems okay between us, back to normal after the little blowup last night. But the incident with the matches is still weighing on me, as if it never left my mind as I slept.
Before I even make coffee, I grab my bag and search the pockets, just to be sure I didn’t stuff the twenties in one of them. Nope. I also check the pockets of the jeans I wore yesterday into town. Nothing, just the receipt from the ATM.
There’s one more place I need to investigate. I head to my office, where the matchbox is still sitting on my desk, a dozen burnt sticks scattered around it. Cringing, I scoot the matchsticks back into the box and set it aside. Then I tug the desk drawer all the way out, making certain the cash hasn’t gotten bunched at the back along with the unused note cards, paper clips, and pens I’ve stored in there.
I’m inclined now to trust my initial instincts. Certainly about the money. One of them took it. As for the burnt matches, there’s a message there. Maybe none of them knew about the car accident, but there’s an inherent threat: Don’t play with fire or you might get burned.
So the next step is deciding what to do about the situation. It seems I have only two choices: Move on and try not to dwell. Or confront Eve about what happened. I go with the latter, because I know I’ll dwell endlessly if I don’t.
While I’m downing a second cup of coffee, I look up the address for her company. It’s not far from the center of town, on a street I’m familiar with. I won’t have any trouble finding my way there.
It’s breezy today, and as I button a light jacket, I consider what tactic to take. I know I can’t box her into a corner—she looks like the type who might bite if you tried that—so I’m going to have to execute a subtler approach. I stuff the matches in my bag and go.
As anticipated, I find the place easily enough. It’s in a small blue clapboard house, a single-family home, but as soon as I step onto the porch, I can see through the windows that the entire first floor has been gutted and much of it turned into a large kitchen.
Just as I’m reaching for the handle, the main door swings open, and a guy steps out. It’s Conrad, I realize, the older of the two waiters from last night. I tense at the sight of him. There’s not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and I realize that out of the context of my house, he hasn’t registered it’s me.
And then in a split second I see him make the connection.
“Hello,” he says, locking eyes with me. Confident, sure of himself. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Eve actually.”
“She’s inside.”
“Thanks.”
As I reach for the door, I hear the sound of his footfall on the porch steps, and yet I can almost feel him turning and looking back at me.
The kitchen is impressive. Not state-of-the-art, but quality appliances, including a couple of restaurant stoves, a large work island, and three steel racks on wheels, with trays for food. Despite all the metal in the room, there’s a bit of a kitschy country feel to the space—a raffia wreath on a wall, and a red-and-yellow rooster clock.
Two young women are at work in the space, both in jeans and white aprons, one chopping carrots using a large butcher knife as a fulcrum, the other tugging a piece of Saran wrap from a mounted metal holder. They look up in unison as I step inside.
I’m about to ask for Eve when she strides into the kitchen from a back room. I see her body straighten when she recognizes me. She’s in an apron herself, the upper half folded over and tied around her waist. On top she’s wearing a tight pink scooped-neck sweater that reveals more than a little of her ample cleavage. Channeling her inner Giada, I guess.
“Yes?” she says, walking toward me and not bothering with even a smile. She knows something’s up, that I haven’t stopped by to ask her if she’ll share the recipe for the mango-flavored crème br?lée she served last night.
“Do you have a minute?” I say. “There’s a matter I need to discuss with you.”
“Is it about the dinner last night?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“All right. Why don’t you come this way?”
I have to hand it to her. She doesn’t read the least bit flustered.
I follow her, watching her long butter-blond braid bounce against her back. The two women return to their work, but I sense them on alert, maybe even exchanging a look. Trouble’s brewing, they can tell.
Eve enters a decent-sized office with me right behind her. There’s just one desk in the room—hers, I assume—and there’s a small table with a desktop computer, used perhaps by whoever keeps the books. The rest of the space is taken up with filing cabinets, a couple of folding chairs, and plastic storage boxes. Eve rests one cheek of her butt on the front of the desk, not bothering to offer me a seat.
“Is there a problem?” she asks.
“Actually yes.”