“Copy that,” Gran replies, despite both devices being off. She yanks at my T-shirt to pull me down just as the pastor peeks from a church window. He waves. I wave back. Yep. Real covert.
The “subject”in question is a man wearing gym clothes and, indeed, carrying a duffel bag.
“Gran—”
Cybil squats beside her. “What are we watching him for?”
“Do not encourage—”
“We think he’s tampering with the tapioca,” Gran says proudly, handing Cybil the binoculars. “He started working at the restaurant and, suddenly, no more tapioca.”
“Gran,” I sigh. “Why would he be tampering with the pudding?”
“Maybe he’s juicing it. Putting the ’roids in it.”
I blink. “What?”
“Mm-hmm,” Bernie fans herself with her notebook. “Hedoeshave nice calves.”
“You’re right.” Cybil hands the binoculars back. “He does have nice calves.”
Before I can respond, the man notices us.
Gran hisses, “Abort mission, Bernie. Code peach cobbler. Codepeach cobbler!”
“Wait—I thought peach cobbler meant he’s got a weapon,” Bernie whispers urgently, wobbling as she tries to stand. I remember she’s recently had hip surgery and help her.
“No, that’s banana pudding.”
The man crosses the parking lot. “Dorothy? Bernice? Everything okay?”
“We’re just enjoying the weather,” Gran says sweetly.
“With binoculars?”
“Bird-watching,” Cybil chimes in. She stretches a hand to him. “I’m Cybil.”
He smiles and it lingers too long for my liking. “Chad Wexler.”
Bernie squints at Chad. “What’d you do with our tapioca pudding?”
“Bernie!” Gran shakes her head. “Way to be discreet!”
Chad looks between them, utterly baffled. “Tapioca pudding?” Something dawns in his expression. “Wait... are you the one who keeps leaving the anonymous notes in my locker?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Gran shoots back.
“You wrote, ‘We know what you did,’ with letters clipped from a magazine.”
Gran lifts her chin. “That was for dramatic effect.”
I look skyward, like maybe divine intervention will deliver me from this moment. The answer to my prayer comes in the grin the pastor sends me from the church, like he’s glad it’s me and not him.
“Ladies, I had nothing to do with the pudding,” Chad says. “The kitchen manager wants me to bring in some healthier options.”
Gran narrows her eyes. “Like ’roids?”
“Nobody says ’roids, Gran.”
