Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday November 2008
By her sixth day in Walkers Corner, Vicky had made herself something of a fixture at Sam’s café, and not only because of its good wi-fi and great coffee. She was staked out at a two-top table near the window, where she had a perfect view of the post office. Autumn afternoon shadows and gray skies darkened the street.
A dusty white pickup pulled into one of the diagonal spots across the street, right in front of the post office. She finished typing but let her field of vision widen enough to watch the driver. He got out of the truck and carried something into the building.
She put her laptop in her tote bag and left money on the table, including another sizeable tip. It was like renting a workspace that came with food. She called out, “See you later, Sam!” She didn’t cross the street until after she passed the truck, so she could note the license plate in case this approach didn’t work.
The driver was leaving the post office as she neared his truck. She figured him for close to sixty. He wore a jacket, jeans, work boots, and cap. He held a small piece of paper in his hand. He caught the door for her, then let go when she waved him off.
“Thanks. Oh, hi, aren’t you the one who makes those cool leather bags?”
He gave a slight nod.
Impressive he showed so little reaction to the question. She put out her hand. “Hi. My name’s Vicky.”
He took it and shook it twice, just long enough for her to feel how hard and callused his hand was. It was like a roughly padded glove, one intended for use with hot sharp objects that required dexterity when handling. He smelled lightly of work and the outdoors, not unpleasantly.
He said, “Mike.”
Vicky stepped toward his truck so they wouldn’t block the sidewalk. “It’s great to meet you. I ordered one of your bags. You have a good website.”
Mike tilted his head back.
Ah. A thrill of recognition surged through her. It was Tattooed Diner Guy, whose friend she’d overheard in the diner her first day here, talking about someone sneaking around.
“The tote bag,” she added. “Full-grain leather, vegetable dyed.”
No response.
“With the carved bone handle.”
It’d been a few days since a razor last touched his still-handsome face. His expression was neutral, at rest. He seemed like a man who didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone’s opinion of him.
Vicky beamed. “I paid extra for guaranteed five-day delivery.”
Not even a barely raised eyebrow. This one was no talker.
“I’m supposed to get it early next week.”
He wore a denim shirt, open one button, over a graying T-shirt, under a well-worn field jacket, its brown and green pattern fading toward beige.
“I have a friend who’s had a bag like it for at least twenty years and still uses it. I searched for one like it and found your website.”
She was talking too much and too fast. He was so still it was unsettling. His hat hooded vivid green eyes. He exuded nothing but stillness as he waited for her to go on.
“You do beautiful work. The carved handle is so unusual.”
Still no reaction. Better ramp it up a bit. “How funny. Maybe you just dropped off one to send to me.”
Did his eyes change? Was that a yes? Maybe? Good Lord, how can anyone be so motionless? He didn’t shift his weight or nod or change his expression, just gazed right at her with those disconcertingly calm green eyes.
“It’s so nice to meet you.”
He nodded once and reached toward the truck door handle.
Shit. She couldn’t let him leave. Might as well go for broke. “I’d like to talk with you sometime, about a woman who had one of your bags. She was here the same time the little girl showed up on the levee.”
Mike’s head tipped a fraction to one side. Good, he was interested.
“Can we have a quick cup of coffee?” Vicky motioned toward the diner, which would close in twenty minutes. She hoped Sam would waive her usual closing time if by some miracle this guy was willing to talk that long.
He lifted his chin, just barely.
The diner was almost empty. Vicky glanced at Sam and gestured ‘two’ before she walked straight back to the corner booth and took the side facing the room. Mike slid onto the bench across from her. Sam followed with a coffeepot. She looked at them like she wanted to say something, then poured, turned, and left without a word.
On the short walk from his truck to the booth, Vicky had rehearsed how she would start the discussion. Two could play the game of strategic silence. Though he might not be playing anything. Maybe he simply didn’t talk much.
“Thanks for talking with me.” Vicky silently snickered at herself. So far, he had spoken exactly one word. Mike. “My name is Vicky Robeson. I’m writing a travel article.”
Nothing.
“I’m interested in learning about local products and crafts. Like your bags.”
He didn’t say a word or change his expression but somehow projected disbelief.
“Have you been making them long?”
Impatience joined the disbelief. “A while.”
He took a sip of his coffee, without taking his eyes away from hers.
Vicky held out for a good twenty seconds. “I’m tying my article to how the area’s changed in the years since the little girl on the levee. Kind of a true crime travel story. If there was a crime.”
Nothing. This was getting tiresome. The man was doing absolutely nothing to hold up his end of the conversation. Perhaps a more direct approach. “I bet you see a lot of what goes on around here. Did you ever see the levee girl?”
“No.”
“Who do you think she was?”
“No idea.”
“Such unusual circumstances. Where do you think she came from?”
“Don’t know. What do my bags have to do with anything?”
Aha! An actual sentence. His voice was strangely compelling; low and measured, clear but with a growly undertone.
Vicky took a slow sip of coffee. Good. He’s interested. “A woman showed up with one of your bags at the exact same time the girl was found.”
“Showed up where?”
Great, she had info he wanted to know. Maybe they could do some trading. “Where’d you meet her?” she asked.
“What makes you think I did?”
“She was hurt and filthy, but her bag was brand new. She hadn’t had it long.”
“I’ve sold a lot of them.”
“And they are not cheap. Did you sell her one? Give her one?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, or we wouldn’t be sitting here.” Vicky sat back. Clearly, he wasn’t going to volunteer anything. Annoyed to hear the plea in her voice, she pressed. “Come on. Talk to me. Were you trying to help her?”
Mike slid out of the booth and stood. “Who do you think you are, questioning me?”
“I’m trying to set something right.”
“Set what right?”
“It’ll take a few minutes. I’ll tell you about her and your bag. It’s important.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed as he appeared to weigh his options. “Some other time. I have things to do.” He headed to the door.
Vicky followed. “Just say where and when.”
“The library. Ten tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there.”