The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,64
nod. “You can count on me.”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
***
Where I live, it’s easy to forget about Pennsylvania. Ashland is right outside of New York City. We’re so connected to the city that our town thinks of itself as a suburb of Manhattan. Nobody ever talks about traveling to Pennsylvania. The western part of our state seems like a different world, just like the southern half, which is full of farmers.
Warren is close to the Pennsylvania border, and as I drive along Route 80, the scenery gets increasingly rustic. The courthouse is the centerpiece of town with a ring of storefronts surrounding the majestic brick building. It sits upon a hill that overlooks the Delaware River. All of the buildings have this old red brick style. Except for the Fairfax stuck on the corner, shining unashamed in all its modern glory. The last rays of sunlight touch the water, and I’m reminded of how beautiful this state can be, how it still manages to surprise me.
The Yogurt Stand is surprisingly busy, considering it’s cold outside. I guess no matter the temperature, people will always want self-serve frozen yogurt. The girl at the cash register has a constellation of acne on her left cheek and looks like she’d rather be doing anything else in the entire world than working behind a cash register at The Yogurt Stand.
“Hi!” I say. “I have a question.”
“Cups and cones are located at the beginning of the self-serve station.”
“No, not that—”
She shoves a few sample-size cups in my face.
“Not looking for those either.”
“All gluten-free items are labeled as such.”
“I trust that they are, but I’m looking for someone. She frequents this establishment quite a lot.” I take out the mystery girl’s punch card. “She left this at my house, and I wanted to give it back to her.”
“Then why don’t you just give it back to her?” the girl asks in a monotone voice.
“It’s funny because I’m not sure who she is exactly.”
“But you said she was at your house.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Well, it is,” I say on the verge of yelling. Then I take a breath. Okay, Becca, she got the best of you. Move on. I pull up a picture of her on my phone. “Does she look familiar to you?”
The girl takes a microsecond glance at the picture. “Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because you didn’t really give it a good look. Yet you sound so confident.”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
“How long have you been working here?” I ask. I keep holding the picture out, but she doesn’t give it a second look.
“Too long.”
“Is there a manager here who’s more experienced? He or she may know.”
“No, they won’t. Are you planning to buy some fro-yo today? We just made a new batch of peppermint, which you can swirl with gingerbread.”
I step aside so she can ring up an old lady. Once she’s done, I step back into her eye line. I wonder where she would fit in at Ashland. Would she even show up on my social radar?
“This is part of an investigation,” I say.
She strums her nails on the register. “Then show me your badge.”
“I left it in the car.”
“If you had a badge, you would’ve flashed it when you came in. I watch a lot of crime shows.” She scowls at me and keeps strumming. “A lot.”
We have a staring contest, and she is not backing down. The Yogurt Stand must really value its customers. “Look, she’s missing and I—”
“Badge!”
“I’d like to speak to your manager.”
After a combined eye roll-sigh that must be second nature to dissatisfied retail employees, she calls for her manager to come out. He proudly wears a short-sleeve white button-down shirt with a pink bowtie. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“She’s looking for someone who was at her house that she doesn’t know to return a yogurt card,” the girl says, adding a chuckle at the end.
“I’m looking for a girl. Any information you have, that you’re willing to share, would be useful.”
The manager and girl trade skeptical looks. I suck in a breath.
“She’s sleeping with my boyfriend, and I want to nail the bitch.”
“Oh,” the girl says. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve seen her in here once. She loves her sprinkles.”
“I saw her in here over the summer,” the manager says. “She was reading a biography of Meryl Streep, I remember that.”
“You remembered that?” the girl asks him.
“Meryl Streep is the greatest actress of our generation. Have you seen Silkwood?” he says defensively.
I give him a humoring