Chapter 55

Enid Carmichael slowly opened her window, keeping her eyes on the well-dressed man to make sure he didn’t notice. The breeze felt pleasant. She settled back into her chair. She had already eliminated the Snowball problem with one of Frances Noonan’s soup bones she’d purloined for exactly this purpose. The small dog’s face was hidden in the marrow. She wouldn’t hear a peep from him anytime soon.

The front door gave its telltale opening squeak. If you had sharp ears. Fancy Bad Guy Man was down the street a bit. He stood still, staring at the front door. Mr. Glenn came into view.

The man gasped. Mrs. Carmichael heard him, but Mr. Glenn did not. Mr. Glenn started down the sidewalk. He used to be stooped and shuffling. Now he walked straight upright. He was still slow, but weren’t they all.

He was slow enough that Bad Guy was across the street in no time. Mr. Glenn, with his lack of awareness of his surroundings and inferior hearing, obviously didn’t know he was a target. Fancy Bad Guy Man headed straight for him.

Should she call out? Warn him? What if this suit-man was a killer? But what if he wasn’t? He’d know she was here. She had waited in her duck blind for months for the denouement to this man’s story. She couldn’t miss it now by giving herself away.

She held her tongue. Bad Guy held out his hand in a “Hold on a minute there” sign. Mr. Glenn stopped. They were at the edge of her view.

Mrs. Carmichael was on her feet, leaning as far as she could out the slim window without losing her balance and tumbling out. She held tight on to the window trim, but her fingers were not strong enough to hold for long. She dropped to her knees, bones grating on the hardwood floor, and stuck her head out the window. Much safer. And she could see everything.

Fancy Man had obviously asked Mr. Glenn the time. What a lame opening. Everyone knew a man his age would have a pocket telephone with the time printed right on it. But Mr. Glenn wasn’t as astute as she was, and he fell for it. He pushed his jacket sleeve back and twisted his wrist toward the man so he could read the watch.

“Thanks,” Bad Guy said. His eyes were locked on Mr. Glenn’s. Mrs. Carmichael could feel the intensity all the way up on the second floor.

Mr. Glenn must have finally noticed because the two men stood there staring at each other. How long could this go on? Why weren’t they talking?

“Albert Glenn?” the man finally asked.

“Lionel?” Mr. Glenn said.

“What?” Mrs. Carmichael shrieked. Her upper body catapulted forward like a clown spring-loaded in a box, arms flailing helplessly in the air, body held in place by the wall and the windowsill.

Both men gaped at her, but she didn’t care. The Glenn’s long-lost Lionel had returned.