“This is dead serious,” she persisted. “My sister is in grave danger.”
“Was she kidnapped?”
“Noooo, not exactly.”
“Is she being held against her will?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.”
He rolled his eyes. “How old is she?”
“Nineteen, but—”
“Oh good Lord! I mean, oh good gourd! Miss Stewart, your sister is an adult.”
“That’s questionable, but age has nothing to do with it. Celie needs help, no question about that. Her boyfriend—”
Uh-oh! The boyfriend crap! Parents don’t like the boyfriend, daughter runs away. Parents hire detective to bring spoiled child home. He put up a halting hand. “I don’t get involved in domestic disputes. I got the impression from the message left with my answering service that there was terrorism involved. Otherwise, an appointment wouldn’t have been scheduled.”
“There is, there is!” Quickly, she lifted a carry bag onto the desk and pulled out a thick folder, shoving it toward him.
Oh no! Not a folder. Do not open it, Cnut. She’ll think there’s a chance that I will take her case.
“This is the material that the private detective gathered about my sister, Cecilia Stewart. Celie, we call her.” Her voice wobbled as she spoke, and she took out a tissue, dabbing at her golden-brown eyes, which were now misted over with tears.
Oh no! Not tears. That is so predictable. “A detective?”
“Frank Randolph from West Chester. Do you know him?”
He shook his head. I think I’ll have Mexican for lunch today. That new take-out place on Chestnut Street. Maybe tacos and enchiladas.
“He’s supposed to be a really good detective.”
“And he located your sister?” With a side of rice and refried beans.
“Yes.”
“Then why isn’t he rescuing your sister?” Might as well have some tiramisu, too. Is it too early for a margarita? Naw, I’d rather have a beer, or three, anyhow.
“His exact words to my parents were, ‘I don’t get involved with terrorists. Especially ISIS. I value my head too much.’”
That got his attention. Looks like no lunch today. He sighed and flipped open the folder and examined some of the photographs. An attractive blonde woman, shorter and curvier than her sister. He could tell, even with the chef jacket hiding her assets, that Andrea Stewart was one of those skinny women with no breasts to speak of. Probably anorexic. Which made it doubly odd that he would be attracted to her. And he was, dammit. That would be really ironical. Him with a love of food and her with a hatred of food, if that was the case. But how could she be a chef and hate food? Nope. Must be something else.
In one of the photographs, Cnut saw the sister—Celie—wearing cut-off denims and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. In another, she wore a bikini, displaying an amazing number of tattoos. Then she was covered by a burqa with black eyebrows. He also skimmed over some of the detective’s findings.
“Here’s the deal, Miss Stewart—”
“Call me Andy.”
Never. “Andrea,” he conceded, “here’s the deal. Your sister is legally an adult. If she wants to run off with her boyfriend, Arab or otherwise, there’s nothing you can do. It’s her choice.”
“But it’s not,” she protested. “Not willingly. Not anymore. I don’t think.” She pulled a thin laptop out of her carry bag, set it on the desk, and opened the lid. Tapping a few keys, she apparently got to the page she wanted and turned the computer so that he could see the screen. “My father got this e-mail attachment three days ago. A video. His wife, my stepmother, forwarded it to me right away.”
A young woman in a black burqa, with a netted half veil covering her lower face, was speaking. “Daddy, I need some money. Can you send me fifty thousand dollars? It’s for a good cause. Honestly.” Suddenly, tears seemed to fill her eyes and she burst out, “Help! Help me, Daddy! I can’t get away!”
A male voice spewed out some expletives in Arabic, about the only Arabic Cnut recognized, bitch being the predominant one. The woman was yanked out of the picture, and the screen went black.
“We haven’t been able to contact her since then.”
“I repeat, why aren’t your parents here? I would think it was their responsibility.”
She shook her head. “No. Celie is my responsibility. She always has been. Daddy cares about her. He really does, but . . .” She waved a hand dismissively. “A long story.”
“I understand your concern, but this isn’t the kind of—”
Sensing that he was going to decline the job, the woman, who still reeked disconcertingly of vanilla and coconut, went on, “I know Celie must come across as a flake. She exercises bad judgment and has screwed up her life on more than one occasion,” she said, waving a hand toward the incriminating folder, “and it’s not the first time she’s become involved in a cult, but they were usually harmless in the past. Mostly. This . . . this ISIS connection, though, scares me to death. I mean, everyone has seen those beheading videos. Why would anyone in their right mind join them? Pfff! My sister apparently. But, really, what an anti-woman group! If anyone told me to wear a veil, I’d tell them where to stuff it, cult or not, religion or not.”