Friday
The word that best describes Susan Siler is “style.” It’s part of her DNA. I’ve never seen her with her strawberry blond hair out of place. Tall and willowy, she wears the perfect outfit for every occasion. Her house is beautifully decorated, and she has a lovely family. She’s also a gourmet cook, and she has a calm, wise perspective on life. I’ve seen her lose her cool only once, when someone outbid her for a Louis XVI chair at an estate auction. Susan is my closest friend, which gives meaning to the adage that opposites attract.
It was unusually mild for late February—blue skies and temperatures in the forties, thanks to a buckle in the jet stream or a high-pressure system or whatever the weather bloviators say to explain a beautiful day—so we decided to walk. Of course, winter in Chicago is relative. Snow, now mottled and dirty, was piled on lawns and curbs, and any hint of spring was weeks away. But we bundled up in hats, scarves, boots, and gloves, and set out from my house.
As we rounded the corner—my house sits on the edge of a cul-de-sac—we approached the Schomers’, which, due to Mr. Schomer’s stroke and his wife’s cancer, was now for sale. They’d lived on the block more than fifty years, and the place needed work. A dirty green pickup was parked out front. Inside were two men in bulky jackets and wool hats pulled low on their foreheads. The man in the driver’s seat gave us a penetrating stare, then conspicuously looked away.
“Do we have some abnormality that makes us look strange?” I asked.
“Well, we are walking outside in the middle of winter,” Susan said. “And with all this gear, we probably look like Eskimos.”
“Eskimos, okay. But the abominable snowman? Did you see that guy’s expression?”
“They’re workmen.” Susan pointed to the “For Sale” sign. “Was there an open house?”
I nodded. “I heard a family with four kids is interested.”
“Really.”
“The block is turning over. Soon there are going to be tons of kids, and I’ll be the crazy old lady at the end of the street.” Susan grinned as if she was going to speak.
“Don’t you dare,” I said.
She laughed. “Okay. But you do have the best Halloween candy in the village. Ben used to say that all the time.” Ben is Susan’s now twenty-eight-year-old son.
As we passed the pickup, something about the men nagged at me. They were just sitting there, not making any attempt to gather their tools or equipment and proceed to the Schomers’ front door. I turned around and took in the license plate. Illinois. I repeated it a few times, then pulled out my cell, opened my Notes app, and entered it.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Susan narrowed her eyes but let it pass.
During the walk we analyzed the new grocery store inventory—some major brands weren’t in stock. Then we considered the recent mayoral primary, which would end in a runoff, despite the fact the election was in Chicago. Then we moved to the global economy, deploring the state of Greece, Portugal, Italy, even poor, sunny Spain.
Twenty minutes later, we realized it was too cold to make our usual three-mile trek around the village, so we turned around and headed back. We were both quiet, the frigid air having sapped our energy.
As we rounded the bend on my street, the pickup was still there. So were the two men.
“That’s odd,” Susan said. “They must be freezing their butts off.”
“And look at that.” I jutted my chin.
About thirty yards away, another vehicle, an SUV, with two men inside, was just pulling up.
Susan checked the time on her cell. “Someone is late.”
I looked at her. “Huh?”
“Whoever’s in charge of these guys.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly the driver of the pickup gunned the engine, pulled out, and raced off down the street.
It was Susan’s turn to frown. “Now, what is that all about?”
I peered at the SUV, took in the plate, and entered it in my Notes app. Susan watched me. “Ellie, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I tried to sound cheery.
“Nope. Not buying it. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Really, it’s nothing.”
Susan pursed her lips and shot me a glance that was puzzled, disappointed, and maybe a little angry all at once. But what could I say? That I’d spent another sleepless night hungover, obsessing about the flash drive and Charlotte Hollander? That I realized the woman bought me drinks, not because of any contrition on her part or the desire to make amends but because she wanted to pump me about the flash drive, which she probably already knew about? That I really didn’t like being manipulated and had no desire to produce a video for her even if she plied me with wine and paid me a fortune for the work? And, most important, that given what happened to Parks, I was beginning to be concerned about my own safety?