thirty-nine

Cheski held the door of the food co-op open for me. All the amenities typically associated with large-scale food retailers were absent from the store. The co-op didn’t provide carts or bags. To hold costs down, lighting was dim and signage was limited. If you can’t recognize a carrot, you probably need to eat more went the theory. None of this seemed to bother Cheski.

Cheski looked around the store and smiled. “I like it here,” he said happily. We shopped the aisles and periodically Cheski picked up something interesting, sniffed it, and then put it back in place. “Did I ever tell you my grandfather owned a mom-and-pop grocery store in Queens? I used to bag groceries as a kid.”

“Then you’ll fit right in,” I said. I pointed to a man in a stained apron stocking fruit. “He’s one of the managers. Why don’t you start by talking to him about Barbara? I’m going to hang my sign.”

The woman at the customer service counter stamped my hastily prepared flyer and gave me the key to the glass-enclosed community board. I’d considered making the rounds with Cheski to inquire about Barbara’s whereabouts, but I figured I should stick to what I knew—sketching, Dumpster diving, farming, and jelly making. It bugged me that Frank had been “budgeting” for my behavior, as if I were a loose cannon, capable of blowing up his investigation at any moment.

I watched as Cheski moved easily through the store, listening patiently as people answered his questions. Cheski was an experienced cop, and it showed. Listening seemed to be one of my weaker qualities, and I noticed how Cheski gave ample time to each person he interviewed. By the time he got to the bread racks, he turned and gave me a thumbs up. I hurried over.

“So?” I asked.

“Barbara’s got relatives in Wyoming,” Cheski said.

“And you think you can find her? It’s a pretty big state.”

Cheski grabbed a loaf of whole grain bread and yanked off the end piece. “Easily. It’s a big state but also the least populated in the union. I’ll dig up her maiden name and start making calls.” He bit down on a chunk of bread and smiled. “Delicious.”

I handed Cheski a membership form, which he promptly filled out. As he dotted the I in his last name, his phone trilled.

“It’s Frank,” he whispered. “Harry Goldberg cracked. Your sketch of Cheryl did the trick.”