“The widow on line five,” Wilma Hansen announced.
“The widow?”
“Yeah. You know. The runner. Kimber Carson. Would you like me to monitor the call?”
“That won’t be necessary.”’
“She’s a suspect, right?”
“That’s questionable.”
“What if she were to say something incriminating?”
“That’s not likely, Wilma.”
She soldiered on, her intention being to rile me, an ongoing effort which never failed to please her. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, and if she weren’t happily married, I’d think she had a crush on me. Maybe she does have a crush on me. Who knows? But I nonetheless enjoy her jibes. Even when they’re at my expense. Taking shots at the boss works wonders for morale. And every so often, they’re hilarious.
“But what if she did say something incriminating? Be better to have another pair of ears on the line.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You could live to regret this decision, Buddy.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay. It’s your call. But when push comes to shove, don’t say I didn’t offer,” she said and clicked off.
“Kimber?”
“Buddy?”
“Yes.”
“Is this out of line?”
“Is what out of line?”
“My calling you like this.”
“Not at all.”
“Would my asking you to dinner be out of line?”
“Are you asking me to dinner?”
“Yes. A home-cooked dinner.”
“You want to cook dinner for me?”
“Are you always this obtuse?”
“Obtuse?”
“Listen, Buddy. I’m inviting you to dinner. At my house. I’m prepared to whip up my world-class pot roast along with roasted potatoes and mixed veggies. I thought it would be better if we met in private. Nobody around to spy on us.”
“You’re really serious about this?”
“Totally.”
“Okay. When?”
“Tonight?”
“Okay.”
“Drinks at seven.”
“Okay.”
“Dinner to follow.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Okay. What can I bring?”
“Your appetite. Seven o’clock.” She ended the call.
After I placed the receiver onto its cradle, I leaned back in my chair and quietly chastised myself. “Buddy,” I muttered, “you may be nuttier than a fruitcake.”