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AS RETTA DISAPPEARED into the welding shop I petted Mollie, who was more relaxed now that the car was still. In the front seat, Barb stared out the window, and I sensed her mind had gone somewhere else. She was obviously puzzling out a problem, so I let her think.
As I waited, I studied the F&F property, Oscar’s small house and the cement-block garage that housed their business. Years of gunk had built up on the walls of the welding shop, so they were greenish brown at the bottom and progressively lighter as they rose. The roof was rusty tin, and the half-open bay door had more dents than my first car. An exhaust pipe traveled up one corner, and one of those outdoor wood stoves sat a few yards from the building. They take just about anything for fuel, I’d heard—
“Faye, I’m the Grammar Nazi.”
I jumped, causing Mollie to give a little yip of alarm. “What?”
“It’s me. The Grammar Nazi or Ninja or Vigilante. Whatever it’s called, I’m it. I’m sorry I never told you, but I didn’t want you to have to cover for me. It’s gone on longer than I expected, and I should stop, I know, but there’s always another one, always something that makes me a little crazy when I pass, a misspelled word, an extra apostrophe, or a pronoun that doesn’t fit. It’s—” Barb repeated, “I’m sorry.”
“Honey,” I said gently, “did you think I didn’t know?”
I’d noticed early on that my sister sneaked out of the house at night from time to time. Once she and Rory got together, I realized she wasn’t going out to meet a man. Then rumors started circulating about corrected signs. I thought immediately of Barb: her need for written things to be done according to the rules, her intense dislike of sloppy grammar, and her tendency to avoid any confrontation that might become emotional. It had been settled for me on a trip to the U.P. during our first real case, when a sign that said Puppy’s for Sale had miraculously become Puppies for Sale while I was at the cooler choosing a drink. Now who else would have done that?
In the dark I couldn’t see her face, but I said, “I’ve been onto you for some time.”
When she spoke there was unexpected humor in her tone. “First Dale, then Rory, and now you. I’m not a very good covert operative.”
Things were a little strange for a while. Barb kept apologizing, and I kept saying it was okay. She seemed particularly upset that Retta had been in on her secret when I wasn’t. “She didn’t figure it out like you did. She actually caught me correcting a sign.”
That reminded me. “She’s been in there a while.”
Barb checked her watch. “You’re right. We need to get in there.”
Wrapping Mollie in Styx’s blanket, I told her to “Blieb.” We left the car running, closed the doors quietly, and started across the yard.
Instead of going directly to the doorway, Barb circled to the side of the building. I followed, standing back as she bent forward to peer through a very dirty window. In a whisper she said, “I don’t see Retta.”
“What?” Stepping up beside her, I looked in. Only a man I assumed was Oscar Farwell was visible, moving around the room in panicky haste. Then Retta’s face appeared at a square foot of wire mesh in the door of a metal cube in the corner. “He locked her in the tool crib.”
Farwell opened a drawer in a metal file cabinet and pulled out a cashbox. Setting it on a table, he worked at the dials, swearing and wiping his hands on his overalls when he screwed up the first time. Finally he got the box open and began removing bills from the compartments, stuffing them haphazardly into his pockets.
Barb said what I was thinking. “He’s going to run.”
“We have to get in there and help Retta!”
“No,” said a voice behind me. “You have to join her.”
