knocked on a door near the front hall that was marked OFFICE.
“Yes?”
Pine opened the door and saw Lauren Graham sitting at her desk in front of a laptop.
“If I’m interrupting something I can come back,” said Pine.
“No, I’m right in the middle of writer’s block anyway.”
Pine closed the door behind her. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
Graham took off her reading glasses and set them down in front of her. “All right, but have you given my request any thought?” Then she noted the bruise on Pine’s forehead. “What happened to you?”
“Ran into a wall. Look, I can talk to you generally about some of my cases, yes.”
“Excellent. Maybe this evening over dinner?”
“At the Clink?”
“No. In Americus. There’s an Italian bistro there I’ve been dying to try.”
Pine hesitated, but only for a second. “Sure.”
“Terrific, what’s your question?”
Pine sat down across from Graham. “Barry Vincent. Do you remember him?”
“Barry Vincent?”
“He was the man who accused my father of being involved in my sister’s disappearance,” prompted Pine. “Myron Pringle told me. He broke up a fight between my father and him outside our old house.”
Graham thought for a few moments, pursing her lips. “For the life of me I don’t remember that name. Are you sure he was from Andersonville?”
“I assumed he was if Pringle said he was outside my house arguing with my dad.”
“Agnes Ridley might know.”
“Okay, I’ll check with her.”
“It sounds like you’re making some progress,” said Graham, giving Pine, at least to her mind, a strange look.
“Some. You know, you don’t have to go to dinner with me. I can just talk to you here about some of my cases.”
“No, I think it would be a lot more pleasant over some good food and drink.” She looked at her watch. “We should leave by six.”
“Fine. I’ll see you back here at six.”
Graham looked at Pine’s clothing: jeans, sweater, boots, and her FBI windbreaker. “Um, do you have a…dress and…heels? It’s sort of business or cocktail attire at this place for dinner.”
“I think I can scrounge up something appropriate.”
“I don’t mean to sound snooty or anything.”
Pine made no reply.
Graham gazed at her keenly. “You’re quite attractive, Atlee. You take after your mother. Tall, long torso and legs. Pretty much anything would look great on you. If you took the time…perhaps?”
“I have other things to do with my time,” said Pine bluntly. “When I need to clean up, I usually manage it.”
“I’m sure. I meant no offense. Are you going to talk to Agnes now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think this Barry Vincent person is important?”
“He is until he isn’t. But that’s the way investigations work, at least mine do. It might seem kind of boring for a novel,” added Pine, glancing at the laptop on the woman’s desk.
“My job is to make it not boring.”
“I guess that’s where imagination comes in.”
“I hope I have enough of it,” Graham said, a tad doubtfully.
Pine left and walked down the street to her truck and climbed in. She had gotten Agnes Ridley’s address during her first conversation with the woman. It was a few miles outside of town and on the way to Pine’s old home.
There was an old Buick in the gravel drive of the woman’s house. It had more rust than anything else, and its Georgia plates had expired three years ago. The house looked a bit familiar to Pine, though she couldn’t recall ever coming here. Ridley was home and answered Pine’s knock after a few moments. She, too, asked about Pine’s bruises, and Pine said once more that a wall and her own clumsiness had been the culprit.
She followed Ridley into the front room that was stuffed with pieces of bulky old furniture, and a great many fragile knickknacks perched precariously on every flat surface. A fat tabby reclined on an arm of the tattered sofa. The feline looked up at Pine with disinterest in her wide, luminous eyes.
“That’s Boo,” said Ridley, pointing to the cat.
“Looks friendly.”
Ridley laughed as she sat down. “Only on his terms. Oh, would you like something to drink?”
Pine shook her head and plunged right in. “Do you remember a man named Barry Vincent?”
Ridley sat back and put a finger to her chin. “Barry Vincent?”
“Myron Pringle said that Vincent and my dad got into a fight the day after Mercy disappeared. Vincent apparently claimed that my dad had something to do with it.”
“Oh, I did hear about that, yes. Barry Vincent—my goodness, I haven’t heard that name in ages. He did live here at