Georgia picked up the phone Monday morning.
“Is Georgia Davis there?”
“Speaking.”
“Hi, Miss Davis. This is Rick Martin.”
Georgia frowned. “Who?”
“Rosebud Restaurant Supply?”
Comprehension dawned. The roly-poly guy she’d visited down in God’s country. “Sure. How are you?”
“Good, good.” He giggled. Actually giggled. “Hey, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been doing a little sleuthing.”
She groaned inwardly. When a civilian got involved in an investigation, it usually blew up. They thought everything worked the way it did on TV. The evidence would be clear. The bad guys would be caught. Justice would be served. Then she reminded herself that, technically, as a PI, she was a civilian.
“I’m not sure that was a great idea,” she began. “You could do more harm than good.”
“I figured that’s what you’d say. But I couldn’t help myself. You know.”
She didn’t, and his presumed intimacy grated. She’d met the guy only once.
“You wanted to track down that sandwich wrap,” he said. “Right?”
“I still do.”
“Well then, I think we’re good.”
“We?”
“Well, you know what I mean. You.”
“Uh-huh.”
He cleared his throat. “I checked through my catalogues, and I found a couple of companies that were in the ballpark. They had paper and a design that was similar. I was about to call them when I found the exact wrap.”
“You’re kidding.” Georgia figured it was a long shot.
“Nope,” he chirped. “It’s a company right here in the Midwest. In Michigan.”
“You’re sure it’s the same?”
“Absolutely. It wasn’t in the catalogue. I found it online in a little corner of cyberspace.”
“Impressive.” She had to give him that. “Thanks, Rick. What’s the name of the company? I’ll give them a call.”
“Macomb Paper. But—um—you don’t have to call them.”
Her stomach tightened. “Why not?”
“I already did.”
“Why the hell did you do that?” She knew her tone was sharp.
Suddenly he sounded tentative. “I—er—I just knew you’d be looking for restaurants in Chicagoland that used their paper and I wanted to save you the trouble.”
That’s what you get when you deal with amateurs. Georgia ran a hand through her hair, unsure whether to laugh or cry. She forced herself to breathe. To center herself.
“So what did you find out?” Her tone, however, veered toward acid.
“There were—are three.”
“Three what?”
“Three restaurants in the area that use the wrap from Macomb’s. Or did.” He paused. “I thought you’d want to know which ones.”
“You thought right.” She took a pen from an empty can of beer on her desk where she kept pens, pencils, scissors, and a matt knife.
“One is Tony’s, a joint in Joliet. But they closed six months ago. The economy, you know.”
“Go on.”
“The other is in Oakbrook. Susie’s Sandwich Café.” He paused again. “And the third is downtown. Just off Roosevelt Road. Benny’s Deli.”
“Benny’s? Really?”
Benny’s was a well-known lunch place, popular with Chicago power brokers as well as truck drivers. The owners claimed to have the best corned beef in town, and they were right. She’d been there.
“Yup.” She heard the pride in Martin’s voice. “’Course the wrap could be different than the scrap you saw. Place like Benny’s probably customizes theirs.”
She didn’t have the heart to scold him. Instead she thanked him. “But, Rick, don’t meddle anymore. It could be dangerous.”
“I guess that means you don’t want me to go with you to Benny’s.”
“That would be a good guess.”
He sighed theatrically. “Okay. But when they publish the book, I want to be in the acknowledgments. Okay?”