they were planning to shack up for a few days.â
âI didnât say they were planning to shack up.â
âRight. Anyway, I was wondering what their parents said about that.â
âAbout their shacking up?â
âAbout their bringing clothes with them.â
âI didnât tell them about that.â
âWhy not?â
He shrugged. âWhy? To give them something else to think about?â
âYeah,â I said. âGood point. It wouldnât bring those kids back to life.â
âNo,â he said. âIt wouldnât.â He reached for my hand and gripped it. âGood to see you again.â
âYou, too,â I said. âAnd ifââ
âRight. If anything happens, Iâll let you know. Iâve got your card.â
My encounter with Sandy kept nagging at me as I drove the back roads home to Boston through the gathering twilight. I had the feeling she knew something. For one thing, she knew that Brian and Jenny had taken clothes with them. According to Chief Sprague, only the police knew that. They hadnât even told the parents.
If Sandy knew that, maybe she knew why Brian and Jenny had taken clothes with them.
Well, as Sprague had said, what difference would it make?
I couldnât come up with a good answer to that.
FIVE
I got back to my apartment around five oâclock. The first thing I did was pour a couple of fingers of Rebel Yell over some ice cubes, take the portable phone into the living room, and call Evie.
âYou still mad at me?â I said when she answered.
âMe? Iâm not mad.â
âI thought you were mad at me.â
âI donât get mad. You should know that. Why should I be mad?â
âUpset, then,â I said. âI got the feeling you were unhappy with me.â
âYou were sad and I couldnât do anything to make you feel better,â she said. âThat upset me, sure.â
âUpset that you couldnât make me feel better?â
âNo, dummy. I know Iâm not Supergirl. I was sad that you were sad, thatâs all. Are you still sad?â
âIâm not exactly giddy,â I said, âbut Iâm better. I talked to Billy and Joey this morning. That evened out my keel a little.â
âIâm glad, Brady. Thatâs nice.â
I hesitated. âUm, feel like coming over?â
She laughed softly. âTempt me.â
âGrandmother Coyneâs old-fashioned fish chowder.â
âGood enough. Give me an hour.â
I made the fish chowder while I waited for Evie to arrive. Sheâd said an hour. I figured it would be two hours, minimum.
In the microwave I thawed a quart of fish stock Iâd made and frozen back in the fall, dumped it into a big pot and added a three-pound slab of fresh haddock cut into two-inch chunks, slivered onions and diced salt pork sauteed in butter, cubed potatoes, canned evaporated milk, salt, freshly ground pepper, and a dash of cayenne.
It was bubbling on the stove and I was reading the current issue of American Angler in the living room when I heard Evieâs key scratching in the door. I glanced at my watch. Sheâd made it in an hour and three-quarters.
She tossed her jacket on the sofa. She was wearing tight black jeans, a tight black sweater, black leather calf-high boots. Her auburn hair looked almost red against all that black.
I whistled, and she put one hand on her hip and the other behind her head and thrust out her chest. Then she grinned and gave me a goofy, cross-eyed look.
She tilted up her face and sniffed. âSmells good.â
âIt needs to simmer for another hour or so,â I said. âThatâs a hint.â
She came over to where I was sitting, put her hands on my shoulders, bent to me, and kissed me lightly on the mouth. I reached up with both hands, held her face there, and kissed her properly.
She pushed her forehead against mine and
Lightnin' Hopkins: His Life, Blues