Lie of the Needle(52)
“Really?”
“She used to complain that he called her fifty times a day—to check up on her, asking her what she was doing, even if she was just out with a girlfriend for lunch.” Dottie pursed her lips. “If she turned her phone off, he’d show up at the restaurant. Total control freak.”
“Guys like that have a lot of repressed anger,” Martha said. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out he was the one who killed Roos.”
Eleanor nodded toward Althea Gunn, who was manhandling a trestle table across the room by herself. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something bitchy this way comes.”
“Excuse me,” Althea snapped as she passed us, the table’s legs screeching against the floor.
I hurried to help her, but she’d already swung it into place. I walked back to my compatriots, raising my hands in the air.
“All that religion, but I can’t see as how it’s done her much good,” Eleanor muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever met such a miserable person.”
“Someone tried to rob her house once,” Dottie said. “She tied him up and beat the crud out of him before the police got there. The guy told one of the officers he’d never been so glad to see anyone in his life.”
* * *
After church, I told Joe I had some errands to run. Time to put my plan into action to see if I could find any trace of Cyril. I headed over to Sheepville and went to all the places I could think of—the supermarket, Laundromat, library, bank, and hardware store. It was sunny, but frigid. So cold that taking a breath of air hurt the back of my throat.
I’d brought a notebook with me, and for a while I diligently noted who I spoke to and the date of the last sighting, but it didn’t take long to realize I was following in Serrano’s footsteps. For as much as Serrano had seemed nonchalant about this whole situation, it was obvious he’d done his homework.
After an hour or so, I was dragging, so I stopped in at Jumpin’ Java Mama, a coffee shop on Porter Street near the library. On a chilly day like this, I wasn’t the only one with a yen for a hot beverage, and the little café was doing a roaring business. I claimed a cozy spot near the windows by slipping my coat over the back of one of the mismatched yellow-painted chairs. The round table was decoupaged with old postcards and bathed in the weak rays of the afternoon sun.
There were works from local artists for sale on one wall, and an antique coffee table with a chessboard sat in front of a sofa stuffed with yellow-and-red batik pillows. People were busy on their laptops, and a couple of kids were squeezed into one of the large armchairs, contentedly sipping hot chocolate.
I went up to the counter, where a sign said SAVE THE DRAMA FOR YOUR MAMA. The cheerful steel drums of Caribbean music mixed with the buzz of conversation and the laughter of the young hippie-type baristas. I could picture Eleanor being right at home working in a place like this in her day. I ordered a latte and was tempted by the Rocket Fuel Brownies, but I decided I’d save room for dinner. I’d just sat down at the table and was about to take a sip of the frothy concoction when I looked up to see what I was sure was the back of Cyril Mackey as he slipped out of the shop.
I banged the cup down on the table and scrambled out after him onto the sidewalk. I stood there for a minute, heaving for breath, looking up and down Porter Street in both directions, but he was gone.
I trailed back into the café, my heart racing, my body still shaking from adrenaline.
Was it really Cyril, or just wishful thinking on my part? And if it was him, why the hell didn’t he stop to talk to me?
Oh, Daisy, it could have been any other guy with long gray hair. You only caught a glimpse.