Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,90
of the first: older, well-dressed, friendly smile. He smiled back, then spent a moment or two wandering the aisles on his way to the checkout counter. She looked up and smiled again. “Can I help you find something?”
“Maybe someone.” He showed the photo again. “My friend Anne. She brought her sister by today, and I guess they’re running late since we were supposed to meet half an hour ago.”
“Oh, honey, you should know by now that the entire world’s running late. No one seems able to keep to a schedule.” She pulled a pair of narrow red glasses dotted with yellow flowers from a pocket and slid them on, then took the phone. “Ah, that Anne. I haven’t seen her...oh, in a good long while. You say she brought her sister today?”
Swallowing hard, Stephen willed his hand not to tremble. “Yeah, for a—a follow-up visit.”
“Oh, poor thing. And here I thought you meant we were getting another dedicated volunteer. I didn’t even know Anne had a sister, and certainly not one who needed...ah, Claremont care.” Her face pinked, and she gave over the cell and began backing away to a stack of boxes behind her. “I’d better get back to work. You tell Anne that Betty in the gift shop says hello.”
Stephen didn’t move, his brain trying to process the new information and all the questions he wanted to ask, but Betty was studiously ignoring him while she unpacked the top carton. The arrival of two customers made the decision to leave for him. He walked out, a dozen feet down the hall and into the snack bar.
It was small and offered mostly prepackaged items, a limited menu of hamburgers and hot dogs, plus fountain pop. A half dozen staff members sat at the tables, having a late breakfast or an early lunch, but the clerk, in her early twenties, was unoccupied, leaning against the counter and inspecting the bright pops of color that covered her fingernails.
“Hi,” he greeted her, inhaling deeply the scent of fatty meat and steamed buns. “Coke and a hot dog, please.” As she pulled on plastic gloves, he added, “Slow morning, huh?”
She gave him a look. Good job of stating the obvious, Noble.
“Have you worked here long?”
Another look. Apparently small talk wasn’t part of the job. But after plopping a wiener on a moist bun, she said, “Couple years.”
“A, uh, friend of mine used to volunteer here. I—I was thinking about maybe doing the same if there are, uh, any positions open. Anne Jones. You know her?”
He wasn’t sure if she was thinking about it or simply ignoring him so he showed her the digital photo. She grunted. “Not really. Seen her around.” She set his hot dog and Coke on a small red tray, took his money, then glanced around the dining room. “If you’re interested in volunteering, you should talk to that guy. Duncan West. He’s in charge of volunteers.”
Stephen followed the line of her pointing finger out glass doors to a patio shared by both the snack shop and the restaurant next door. Duncan West sat alone at a table for four. He wore a white dress shirt with pale gray trousers and was reading on an iPad while he ate.
“Uh, thanks. I will.” He carried the tray to the condiment station and squirted mustard onto the hot dog. So Anne had volunteered at Claremont House instead of simply visiting her sister there, and she hadn’t talked about her sister with the people she worked with. Information, but nothing to justify accusing her of anything but having a giving spirit and guarding her sister’s privacy.
But damned if Stephen didn’t still believe she was guilty.
Drawing a deep breath, he went out the door and walked over to the lone occupied table. “Duncan West? I’m Stephen—” a slight hesitation, then he offered his middle name instead of his last “—Keith. I understand you’re in charge of volunteers around here. I’d like to talk to you about that.”
Chapter 14
The second dealer, an elderly man by the name of Bartlett, was so pleased with everything Macy had shown him that she’d half expected him to want to carry it all away with him. He pronounced every piece excellent, exquisite or extraordinary and told her he could sell every one of the paintings that very day to customers who kept him on the lookout for those artists. He’d even known of a small museum that would pay handsomely for the wedding portrait.