“Fishy … how?”
“He talks funny. If he’s a Texan, how come he doesn’t talk like one? There’s a story there. And you heard him last night. No way was he going to tell me where he fought in the war. Don’t you find that strange?”
“From what little I know of the men who fought in World War II, the experience was so horrific that a good majority of them chose never to talk about it. Maybe Victor falls into that category.”
He shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. I’ve got a good nose for sniffing out funny business, and I say Victor’s hiding something. All that rubbish about Solange and how haunting he found her eyes. Guys use that as a pickup line when they’re in their twenties, not when they’re the age of that old duffer. And never in front of the wife. What the hell was he thinking?”
“Speaking of Solange,” I said, taking advantage of the opening, “do you have any idea why she reacted to you the way she—”
“Mornin’, y’all! I’m thinkin’ that little chair next to the window has my name on it. Y’all mind if I make your twosome a threesome?”
I debated banging my forehead on the table until I knocked myself out, but I was pretty sure I couldn’t do it before Krystal seated herself, so what was the point?
“Come sit yourself down,” Woody boomed as he stepped into the aisle to let her by. “Would you look at me? Having breakfast with two beautiful women? They never mentioned this in the cruise brochure, but it’s a great selling point if they want to attract old codgers like me.”
“You gotta promise though,” Krystal insisted as she settled next to him. “None of that depressin’ talk about funeral plannin’, or I promise I’ll leave y’all and sit somewhere else.”
Pleeeease revert to your default setting … Pleeeease revert to your default setting …
“Where’s your girlfriends anyway?” Woody asked as he glanced around the dining room.
“They’re not my girlfriends,” she corrected in a tight voice. “Not after what they said last night.” She gathered her platinum locks in one hand and draped the long tail over her shoulder as if it were a giant python preparing to mate with her overly tight snakeskin top. “They know I’m a shoe-in for Victor’s bonus, so they’re miffed. And all’s they’re provin’ is what poor losers they are. No one has ever outsold me at Mona Michelle. I know it for a fact, and so do they.”
“Have you seen a spreadsheet comparing the actual sales figures?” I asked.
“I don’t need to see the figures, hon. I just know.”
Right. Kinda like the politicians who didn’t actually need to see the WMD to know they were there.
“Why’re you wearin’ sunglasses indoors?” She wrinkled her adorably upturned nose at me. “That’s kind of affected, idn’t it? Are you hopin’ someone’ll mistake you for a celebrity?” She giggled. “Big disappointment there!”
I took solace in the fact that breakfast was the quickest meal of the day. “The sun,” I said calmly as I pointed skyward. “It’s in my eyes.”
“Have you got sensitive eyes, darlin’?” She slapped her palm on the table. “Do I have a deal for you. Mona Michelle sells clump-free mascara for sensitive eyes, and if you apply enough coats, your lashes will get so voluminously long and stiff, you’ll never have to worry about seeing the sun ever again! I swear by the stuff. See?” She blinked several times to demonstrate the usefulness of stiff, overly long lashes. “You want I should write you up an order? It’s only $49.95, excluding postage and handling fees.”