I put another pack of mints on the counter, followed it with two candy bars and then walked over to the fridge and grabbed two bottles of water and two diet pops.
On the way back to the counter, I grabbed a box of cream-filled, prepackaged cupcakes. I hadn’t had a cupcake in ages.
He happily started ringing up my purchases. “Who are you looking for again?”
“Rosie Coltrane. He works for me and didn’t come into work today and I’m worried,” I lied.
I was a good liar, I’d been doing it since Lee, Ally and I were caught behind the garage trying to smoke leaves when Ally and I were eight and Lee was eleven. I came up with the imaginative excuse that we were thinking about roasting marshmallows but didn’t know how. Malcolm bought it, kids, marshmallows, my cute, angelic smile. It all seemed benign and plausible.
After we got off with just a lecture about fire safety and the danger of matches, Lee tousled my hair.
Happy memories.
“I do not know a man named Rosie. What kind of man has a name like Rosie?”
“Rosey Grier?” Ally tried.
“I don’t know a Rosey Grier either,” the counter man said.
“Football player? Helped catch Sirhan Sirhan?” Ally prompted.
“I don’t follow American football. I know no Sirhan Sirhan. Is he a football player too?”
“No, he assassinated Bobby Kennedy,” Ally explained.
“Oh my gracious! I certainly don’t know of him!” the counter man exclaimed, horrified.
I decided to cut into the history lesson. “Our Rosie doesn’t live around here but his friend does, down and across the street about four houses. His name is Tim Shubert.”
“I know Tim, he buys lots of cheese puffs and frozen pizzas.”
If Tim was a stoner the caliber of Rosie, I had no doubt he bought a lot of cheese puffs and pizzas.
“Rosie’s thin, about five foot six, dirty blond hair, looks a bit like Kurt Cobain but his face isn’t as pointy,” Ally put in.
“I know no Kurt Cobain but I have seen a man of this description with Tim. Is his name really Rosie?”
“Nickname,” I said, “his name is Ambrose.”
“Ambrose is a perfectly fine name. Why does he not call himself Ambrose?”
Ally looked at me.
I decided to ignore that one. Any answer would have to span a generation and a culture gap. I didn’t have it in me today, in less than twenty-four hours, I’d been shot at, physically dragged out of bed and kissed by Lee Nightingale three and a half times (yes, I was counting and the half was the kiss he planted on my neck).
I was a woman on a mission and I didn’t have time to explain a dud name like Ambrose.
“Have you seen him lately, like say, today?” I asked as I paid for my purchase.
“No, not today.”
“Tim?” Ally asked.
“Not Tim either.”
He handed me the bag and I took it, at a loss for what to do next.
“Jeez, Indy. Don’t you read detective novels? You own a bookstore for God’s sake,” Ally hissed and then turned to the store owner.