“Not surprising.”
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest. “What about you?”
“I don’t collect spoons, and I use whatever shampoo is on sale.”
“And your dating life?”
“None of your business.”
“Right, just like you sneaking around on the ledge outside of my room in Italy wasn’t my business?”
Cybil remains focused on the road. “I wasn’t sneaking around.”
“No?”
“There was a cat.”
She hits a pothole—definitely on purpose. My seat belt digs into my hips.
“You’ll ruin your struts like that. Not good if you need to haul anything... unusual.”
She shoots me a look but doesn’t take the bait. “Where’s your grandmother at?”
“Butter My Biscuits.”
Five silent minutes later, we arrive at the breakfast joint. We walk around back and take a quick peek into the dumpster, but all I find is enough bacon grease to summon Paula Deen.
“She’s not here.” I pull out my phone and dial Gran’s number. No answer. “Maybe we should check the police station.”
Cybil scoffs. “She’s your grandmother, not a fugitive.”
“You haven’t met my Gran.”
We’re crossing the parking lot back to Cybil’s car when something catches my attention. Across the street, I spot a small hedge bordering the Baptist church. Behind it, in a folding chair under a sign that reads “Jesus Sees You—Smile!” sits my grandmother in a pink track suit with binoculars pressed to her face. Beside her, Bernie—her seventy-something partner in crime—is perched on her walker, holding a notepad and a walkie-talkie.
“Oh, good grief.”
I cross the street with Cybil close behind. Not until my shadow falls over Gran does she look up and grin. “Took you long enough, Benny.”
Cybil snorts.
Gran’s eyes brighten when she sees her. “You brought a friend?”
I make a quick introduction. “This is Cybil. Buddy’s granddaughter. Cybil, this is my gran and her friend Bernice.”
Gran squints up at me, lips pursing. “Benny, who’d you get in a scrap with? Your nose looks like it lost a bet.”
Beside her, Bernie hums. “Lip’s puffy too. Did you deserve it?”
Cybil doesn’t bother to hide her smirk.
“Long story,” I mutter and then redirect my grandmother. “You told me you were in a dumpster.”
“Imagine if I was!” Gran looks offended. “Long as it took you to come to my rescue, I might’ve had raccoons for roommates.”
“Better than cellmates,” I mutter. “Which is where you’re headed if you keep spying on people.”
Bernie shushes me and speaks into her walkie-talkie. “Subject exiting front door. Still has the black bag. Looks smug.”
