and cry of surprise as she steps away.
“Oh, Amy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Gaetz, honest,” I say, rearranging my duffel bag, which nearly fell off my left shoulder. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s this, my younger son, Timmy, ever since his father passed on years back,” she begins, and she starts a long and winding tale of how her son had agreed to help take care of the house after Shirley’s husband, Roger, had passed on after serving more than thirty years in this man’s army, and on and on and on…
Mrs. Gaetz is the oldest resident in the development. She’s watched over Denise when Tom and I were out on our respective jobs, and she looks adorable in black stretch slacks and a floral top that could camouflage a dirt mound into a flower bed.
I look longingly at my black Jeep Wrangler, and I interrupt her and say, “Mrs. Gaetz, I’m terribly sorry, but my office called. I need to get back to the base, straightaway. How can I help you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, reaching up to adjust her white-rimmed eyeglasses, secured by a thin gold chain around her fleshy neck. “It’s just that I’m curious if you and Tom were pleased with your carpet-cleaning service, the one that stopped by a few hours ago.”
I stand there like the proverbial dopey wife who doesn’t know what’s going on with her family. With our weird work schedules and occasional separate trips, organizing our lives and that of our daughter’s sometimes feels akin to planning the invasion of Normandy. Lots of moving parts, lots of time-sensitive schedules. I’m ashamed to say it, but twice poor Denise has been left abandoned at soccer practice because Tom and I each thought the other had it covered.
But a carpet-cleaning service?
“Ah…well, I haven’t talked to Tom yet, so I really don’t know,” I say.
“Oh,” she says with disappointment. “I was hoping you could give me a recommendation.”
Then it clicks, just like that. “You know, I didn’t really notice. I’ll have to ask Tom when I see him.”
“Oh,” she says, glancing at the CR-V. “He’s not here?”
“Ah…he’s out with Denise.”
“I see.”
“Tell me, did you get the name of the company?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. It was a bright-red van, and I saw letters on the side, advertising some carpet-cleaning place. Funny thing, I saw it drive in, and then turn around and back in, right up to the garage door.”
I thought, Driver makes a mistake, heads in with the front, then turns around so whatever they’re doing can be blocked from view from most neighbors.
“Was there one guy, or two?”
“Two,” she says. “Wearing those gray…what do you call them, jumpsuits.” A pause. “Amy, is everything all right?”
Good God, what a goddamn question.
“Things are fine,” I say. “Did they stay long?”
“Now, funny you should say that. No, they didn’t stay that long at all. I just saw them come out with two of your Oriental carpets and put them in the back of the van.”
It feels like there’s a giant hand in the center of my chest, squeezing, and squeezing hard.
Tom and I don’t own any Oriental rugs.
“Well, I hope they do a good job,” I say. “I bet they wrapped them up nice and secure.”
Mrs. Gaetz smiles and nods. “That’s what struck me, when they left. They opened the garage door and came out with the rolled-up rugs between them, and they put them in the van, real careful like, one by one. Like those two rugs were very precious.”
I manage to say, “You have no idea,” before hustling by her and getting into my Jeep.
CHAPTER 6
I STOP at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. Our house is on a cul-de-sac, meaning there’s only one way in and one way out.
One way out.
Before me is the busy traffic of Kingstowne Boulevard, which eventually leads into the extremely busy traffic of I-95 if you make a left-hand turn. If you were kidnapping a dad and young child from this neighborhood, heading to I-95 would be your best bet. Get buried in traffic, lots of options north and south to make your escape…
Escape where?
Just across the street is a Sunoco service station and minimart.
The light changes.
I hit the accelerator.
Drive across the street and behind the service station.
I take a deep breath, step out.
Inside the service station there’s a coffee setup, a pastry cabinet, and the usual narrow aisles filled with overpriced junk food, from chips