He shrugged and sipped his new water.
“You’re good,” I said. “The whole rueful, self-deprecating manner. Bet most of the time it works pretty well.”
He started to laugh and snorted out a bit of the water.
“Sorry.” He was patting his shirtfront and the counter dry with his napkin. He looked up and grinned at me. “Yeah, normally it does.”
Nondescript looking but definitely charming. I was almost tempted to suggest that a PI who was the right age to be a student at Caerphilly College might have had a better chance of slipping under our radar.
Almost tempted.
“And you’re right,” he was saying. “The Evil Lender, as everyone around here likes to call my client, hired me to find out how Mr. Throckmorton is getting his supplies. At first they just thought he stocked up for a siege before they took possession of the building, but every week that’s getting harder to buy. They’re wondering what’s going on.”
“A lot of people are wondering the same thing,” I said. Which wasn’t a lie. A lot of people were wondering, just not a lot of people in town.
Except, of course, for the Pruitts, who had brought the Evil Lender down on us in the first place.
“I really thought my cover was pretty good,” he said. “I mean, why wouldn’t people want to talk to a freelance writer trying to do a sympathetic story on the Siege of Caerphilly?”
“Last I heard, they were talking to you,” I said. “They just weren’t telling you what you obviously want to know. Because if anyone’s sneaking supplies into the courthouse basement, they’re not going to admit it. And if they know that someone’s doing it and how, they’re not going to rat their neighbors out. Not to a reporter any more than a PI. Not to anyone who’s not from around here. I mean, tell the press and you might as well just march up and tell the Flying Monkeys.”
“The what?”
I winced.
“The Flying Monkeys,” I repeated. “It’s what we call the new security service. Someone started calling them stormtroopers, but then we all decided that was a little fraught and melodramatic, so we settled on Flying Monkeys. It’s the uniforms.”
“I see.” His mouth was twitching.
Muriel appeared, coffeepot in hand, and refilled his cup.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat to her.
Muriel was torn between responding to his courtesy and maintaining her righteous indignation. She settled for a curt nod.
“I have to admit, this has been a humbling experience,” he said, as he added sugar to his new coffee.
“Normally by now you’d have cracked the case?”
“Not necessarily.” He took a swallow of the coffee and sighed with contentment. “What I mean—you see, it’s standard operating procedure for PIs to vet our clients before taking on a job. Make sure we’re not going to be aiding and abetting something illegal or unethical. This one seemed like a no-brainer—potential client has a squatter on their property and wants to figure out how to cut off his supplies so he’ll give up and come out. They showed me the legal documents. Seemed on the up and up. But the more I hang around this town…”
He let his voice trail off, clearly trying to draw me out.
My chili arrived.
“Things aren’t always the way they seem at first glance.” I picked up my spoon and dug into the chili.
“No, they’re not,” he said. “And I’m beginning to think maybe this time I’m not playing on the side of the angels.”
“Good insight,” I said over my shoulder as I applied myself to my chili.
A business card slid next to my bowl: Stanley Denton, private investigator; a P.O. box in Staunton, Virginia, and a phone number with a 540 area code.
“If you think of anything that might persuade me I should quit this assignment and go home, I’d be happy to listen,” he said. “Have a good day.”
I glanced up to see that he was tossing a few bills on the counter as he swallowed the last of his coffee.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he called to Muriel.
I heard several sighs of relief as the door closed behind him.
“Overtipped me as usual,” Muriel growled.
“Silly me,” I said. “I thought it was undertipping that you wanted made a capital offense.”
“Thinks he can buy me with a few lousy dollars,” Muriel muttered as she cleaned off the place where Denton had been sitting. She shoved his dirty dishes through the hatch to the kitchen as if she’d rather toss them in the Dumpster, and scrubbed the entire vacant stretch of counter as if trying to eradicate all traces of some dire contagion.