Midnight Crossroad

7

Manfred was hunched at his computer, telling a woman in Reno that her husband was uncertain about the location of a wristwatch she’d given him the year before he died—and why the hell was a bereaved widow fixated on finding a damn wristwatch?—when there was a knock on the door.

This was unusual, especially in the morning. Manfred assumed his caller would be Fiji, either bringing him something she’d baked or asking him to attend another wedding—though since the first time she’d visited, Fiji had been careful to call in advance. When he opened the door, he was looking at a woman he’d never seen before. She was in her forties, stout, wearing what Manfred characterized vaguely as an office pantsuit. She had a business card in her fingers.

“Yes?” Manfred said, in a none-too-friendly voice.

“Hi, I’m Shoshanna Whitlock,” the woman said, smiling in a professional way. “Here’s my card.” She thrust it at Manfred, who took it and stared at it.

“A private detective?” he said. “What do you need from me?” Nothing good, he concluded.

“May I come in?” Her chin, which was definitely on the aggressive side, led the way forward, but Manfred didn’t move. She stopped, thwarted in her progress.

“I don’t think so,” Manfred said. “I work at home, and I don’t like to be interrupted.”

“I’ll only take a moment of your time,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of her sincerity. “I just want to ask you a few questions on behalf of my clients. Would it help if I told you that they’re Aubrey Hamilton’s parents?”

“Not at all,” Manfred said, and closed the door.

She hadn’t expected that, either, and he could hear her say, “What the hell?” She didn’t leave right away—no heel thock! against the rock of the porch—so he leaned against the door, half expecting the force of her exasperation to blow it open. After almost a minute, he heard her walking off. He stepped over to the window to watch Shoshanna Whitlock march across the road to Fiji’s cottage.

Perhaps the detective didn’t notice that Fiji’s place was a business, since Fiji’s yard sign was so modest. Ms. Whitlock knocked at the door. Fiji answered it very quickly and stepped out of the door with her purse on her shoulder. Manfred could see her headful of curls bob from side to side as she shook her head. Fiji was saying “no” to something, that was for sure.

The detective kept talking, trying to wear Fiji down, but Fiji was locking the door of her cottage behind her and marching over to her car, parked on the driveway. The older woman stepped briskly after her, her tailored pantsuit, sleek leather purse, and neat shoes a sharp contrast to the permanently disheveled Fiji.

Manfred wondered if he should pop out to run interference. Fiji seemed so flustered . . .

And then the detective got very close to Fiji, who was trying to get into her car. Though Manfred couldn’t see his neighbor’s expression clearly, he saw that her body went rigid with irritation. Fiji’s hand reached out to Whitlock and gripped her shoulder.

The detective froze in place. Her mouth was open, one foot in front of the other to take a forward step. But Whitlock couldn’t take that step; she couldn’t move at all.

Manfred realized his mouth was hanging open, just like Shoshanna Whitlock’s.

Fiji popped into her car and backed out of her driveway, leaving the detective standing in her awkward pose. Manfred was sure Fiji didn’t even glance at the frozen woman again.

“Damn,” said Manfred quietly.

He waited, checking his watch from time to time. For the next five minutes, pigeons could have landed on Shoshanna Whitlock’s head and she would not have been able to do a thing about it. After the five minutes had passed, Whitlock whipped her head from side to side and staggered a little. Then for a while she stood still, obviously unsteady, patting herself as if to make sure all her parts were there and functional. She looked up and down Witch Light Road, clearly at a loss as to how her target had disappeared. Manfred almost smiled as he watched Mr. Snuggly stroll up to give the detective a long stare. Whitlock looked down at the cat and flinched.

Manfred would have given a lot to know what she was seeing.

Maybe Whitlock would be frightened enough to leave Midnight? But no, the detective was made of sterner (or more foolish) stuff. After a minute or two, she regrouped and resumed her march. This time she went to the chapel, which was open, as always. She went inside without knocking. By now nothing would have startled Manfred, so he merely nodded to himself when she ran from the chapel as if a tiger were on her trail.

That proved to be the end of Manfred’s free entertainment. After Shoshanna Whitlock got into her car (parked in front of the pawnshop, Manfred noted), she drove away without looking back. And ten or fifteen minutes later, Fiji returned. She climbed out of her old car, looking around her—presumably to make sure Whitlock was gone—before she walked to the front door, where Mr. Snuggly was waiting for her. The witch and the cat went into the house together.

Though he sat in his office chair and prepared to work, Manfred sat for some time, lost in thought. Until Shoshanna Whitlock’s visit, it had never occurred to him that there was any mystery about Aubrey’s leaving Bobo. In Manfred’s eyes, the only odd thing about it was why any woman would leave a handsome, affable guy like his landlord. He’d only picked up the bare bones of the story: Aubrey Hamilton, Bobo’s live-in girlfriend, had left him. Chuy had promised to tell him about Aubrey someday, but that day hadn’t come around so far.

Now a private detective was asking questions.

Had Shoshanna Whitlock really been who she said she was? Manfred looked down at her card. He’d just ordered his own business cards online. He knew from experience that he could have claimed to be a professional ice skater or John Wilkes Booth and had a card printed to “prove” it. Therefore, he didn’t attach much weight to the printed words on her tastefully simple rectangle. There was a line with her name, then underneath, Texas Investigation Service, which sounded just quasi-official enough to impress a potential witness. Probably the point, Manfred figured. The two lines of type were followed by a phone number. No address.

Briefly, Manfred considered walking next door to Midnight Pawn and handing the card to Bobo. Maybe he ought to give his landlord a heads-up.

But he decided not to, for a cluster of reasons.

He wasn’t sure that whatever the “detective” was after was any of his business. If he saw a good opportunity, he could tell Bobo tomorrow, the day of the picnic. And surely, Fiji would report Whitlock’s mission to Bobo before that. The last thing Manfred wanted to do after this morning was to get in Fiji’s way.

He didn’t think he’d look good as a statue.