Jesus Christ, old lady, do not sneak up on people!
I turn to find Mrs. Galvin glaring at me from her side of the yard, which is nothing new. The old woman is crabby, ruthless, and skeptical of everyone.
“Oh. Hello there, Mrs. Galvin, how are you this evening?”
She purses her wrinkled lips, and I shoot up thanks to my agent for already mailing her those football tickets so I don’t have to hear about it. Then pat myself on the back again for getting her those gift cards to her Skillet Café or whatever the hell it’s called before I’d left.
“She’s not here,” she repeats.
“Um. Do you know where she is?”
Mrs. Galvin turns up her nose, which I interpret as ‘Yes, I know where she is, but the information is going to cost you.’
I sigh. “What do you want, Mrs. G?”
“I hear Costco has the most amazing bamboo bed sheets.”
I mull it over, debating the wisdom of locking myself into a healthy pattern with Posey’s neighbor, knowing that I’ve fed the beast, and she only gets hungrier.
Still. I’d rather know where Posey is so I can go speak to her than wait outside all night—I can’t sneak in, and she moved the key, and I know if I climb in through the window, this old bird will be watching me and probably call the police.
She’s shaking me down for bedroom linens? “Fine.”
“I’d like white, and I have a full-sized mattress.”
The little con artist!
I swear I can feel my nostrils flaring as I nod. “Where’d she go?”
Mrs. Galvin crosses her thin arms. “At a place called Waldorf Social with some of her girlfriends, got all dressed up and everything.” She doesn’t smile when she adds, “You missed her by about ten minutes.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Saw her waltzing by the window when she left all dolled up, wearing rouge and a dress that was too short to be decent, so naturally, I had to come outside to investigate.”
Naturally.
“Waltzin’ by the window?” I laugh.
“Yes, sashaying past in heels I don’t approve of.”
“Thanks for the intel.” I sigh, shifting the bag from one shoulder to the other. “Guess I’ll set this down and call myself another ride back to the city.”
She nods, her gray coif bobbing. “Feel free to borrow the car.”
The offer makes me laugh. “Lady, I’m runnin’ out of money payin’ you for all your favors.”
She huffs indignantly as if I’ve insulted her. “I didn’t ask for a payment to borrow the car!”
Yeah, but she’s asked for a payment for everything else! “So I can borrow the car, no strings attached?”
“Naturally.”
“Forgive me for being sus, given our history.”
“Keys are in the ignition.”
“In the ignition? Are you trying to get your car stolen?” Granted, I can’t imagine who would want a thirty-year-old Buick with an eight-track tape player, but I suppose someone desperate would.