“It’s ringing!” he hissed at Bonnie and me. He sat up straighter and tightened his grip on the receiver. “Hello? Yes, this is Bob Richardson. May I speak to Trixie, please? Oh, good, I’m so glad to have gotten hold of you. Your line seems to be busy all the time…Say, do you mind if I put you on the speakerphone? I wear a hearing aid and it's easier to use the phone that way…Thanks.”
Bonnie and I looked at each other. Hearing aid? “Great excuse to let us listen,” she whispered.
Apparently Trixie agreed, and Bob touched the button to turn on the speaker. “Can you hear me okay now?”
“I sure can.” The woman’s voice held a country sound. I could imagine her sitting at a farmhouse kitchen table covered by a red checked cloth. “I'm sorry, could you tell me who you are again?”
I perched beside Bonnie on the edge of her bed. We made shushing gestures at each other.
“My name is Bob Richardson. You don’t know me, but several days ago, someone left a matchbook at my house with your name and phone number written inside the cover…”
I could hear the instant defensiveness in her tone. “Well, and just what did you think you’d find when you called the number? Just ‘cause a woman gives her number to someone doesn’t mean—”
“Oh, no, please,” Bob jumped in. “I really didn’t make any assumptions. I’m trying to figure out who the heck had been in my house and left these matches. They’re from a bar I've never been to.”
“A bar, huh,” she said.
“I have a friend who needs to know I haven’t been going to places she might not like.”
She gave a laugh that came from the belly. “Oh, I got it. Your lady friend saw a book of matches from a bar with my name written inside and started gettin’ her exercise by jumpin’ to conclusions.”
Bob chuckled. “Something like that. So anyway, the matches are from a bar called The Last Resort—”
“Was the writing in purple ink?”
“Yes! Yes it was! Do you remember who you might have given it to? I'm hoping we can follow the trail and find out who left them at my house.”
“Well, the trail might be kinda short, because I do know whose matches I wrote on. Fella named Clay Harburn. His family owns that bar, and his grandma runs it. But she’s getting the Alzheimer’s so bad that the grandsons take turns bein’ at the bar when she’s there. Most of the time anymore she just thinks they’re another customer. It's awful sad, really. Clay takes the afternoon shift since he’s not workin’. I don’t think anyone’s ever gonna give him a job if he won’t learn to cover up that big ol’ tattoo on his arm. Anyway, I gave him my number to give to his brother, because he had something to sell that I was thinking about buying. And his brother works for the gas company. I don’t suppose you had anyone from the gas company out to your place around that time?”
Bob started laughing. “Yes! Yes! I had the furnace checked for the winter and the pilot light relit.”
“Well, that’s it then. Clay’s brother Harden must have been the one who was there and he used those matches to light the pilot and laid ‘em down and forgot ‘em.”
“That must be exactly what happened. So simple when you have an explanation. This is certainly a relief.”
“Unless Harden gave ‘em to a burglar, but I don’t think he hardly had time.”
“Probably not,” Bob agreed. “I was imagining all kinds of weird ways those matches could have gotten there. And Louisa has an even better imagination.” He gave me a private smile across the room. Bonnie poked me in the ribs. “I really thank you for talking to me. I know it must have seemed strange for me to call you.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, “as long as you didn’t think I was some kind of loose woman or something. It's kind of nice to actually talk to someone.”
“Really? Your phone line is busy so much of the time, you must have plenty of people to talk to.”
She laughed again. “You prob’ly think I'm the biggest ol’ gossip in the state, but it's my computer that’s been doin’ all the talkin’, not me. I buy and sell stuff on the Internet, so I'm online most of the time. I gotta get me a better connection one of these days.”
“I see,” Bob said.
“In fact, that’s why I gave my number to Clay to give to Harden. He inherited a collection of Barbie dolls from their aunt and I was goin’ to sell it for him. At least that’s what they say. They may be big ol’ country boys but I kinda think them Barbies might have been Harden’s all along.”
“Their secret is safe with me,” Bob promised. “Thank you so much for talking with me, Trixie. I hope our paths cross again sometime.”
“Maybe they will, you just never know. You take care now.”
“You too,” Bob said, and started to disconnect.
“Oh, and Mr. Richardson…”
“Yes?”
“That hearing aid of yours didn’t show up at all when they interviewed you on the news.” We heard her laughing as she hung up.
Bob pushed the button on the phone and looked at us. “I'd say game, set and matches to Trixie, wouldn’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The next day was a beautiful autumn Saturday: clear and crisp, festooned with colorful falling leaves. Bob and I held hands as we walked along Maple Street. Emily Ann paced demurely at my side, and Jack investigated the smells on the sidewalk.
“So Monday’s the big day?”
Bob nodded. “I’ve got a full schedule of appointments for the next month. All my Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday times are full. I've decided I won't take any for the end of the week. I'll mostly commute from here for now, though I’ll need to spend a night at my place in High Cross once in a while.”
“I hope they’re people who really need help and not weirdoes who saw you on the news.”
He shrugged. “Oh, some of them may be, but maybe those are the ones who need the most help. Once they see me in person they’ll realize how ordinary I am.”
We passed the store with the old radios, and the toy store. “I don’t know, I think you’re pretty extraordinary.” We exchanged a private smile. “And I've kind of gotten used to having you around. But at least Jack will get to spend the days with us.” Hearing his name, Jack looked up at me and wagged. “You’ll make a wonderful antique salesman,” I told him. “You can demonstrate couches like Emily Ann does. Or perhaps you could specialize in our overstuffed chairs.”
Bob squeezed my hand. “Oh, I’ll still be around,” he assured me, and the look he gave me sent an involuntary shiver down my back all the way to my toes.
We were on our way to the Bluebird for a late morning cinnamon roll. We had slept in, but the thought of sweet, spicy bread had pulled us out of my house and down to Maple.
As we neared the yarn shop across the street from Kay’s place I noticed a new display in the window, and we stopped to take a look. Three teddy bears wearing hand-knit sweaters in bright fall colors were having a picnic. Miniature dishes were spread on a beautiful woolen afghan, and the floor around it was piled with real autumn leaves in reds and yellows. The baby teddy reached for a leaf that was suspended in mid-air, and I gave a little chuckle when I saw it, for it wore bright emerald green angora mittens on its ears.
“Oh, look at the mittens,” I said to Bob. Then the morning air was split by my shouted name.
“Louisa! Oh, LEW-EEEE-SA! Is that you?” It was Doris, hailing me once more from across Maple Street.
“Oh. My. God,” I growled. I turned to see her hurrying toward us. “I don’t believe this. Does she never go home?” Bob’s grip on my hand tightened reassuringly.
“Well!” she said brightly when she reached us. “We meet again.”
“Yes,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m working for a client with interests in St. Joseph.”
“Ah.”
“It was a good opportunity to come back down here. I see you’re still with Mr. Dickson—”