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“If you called for Gretchen Horowitz, she’s not available.”
“So I’ll talk to you. What’s your name?”
“Felicity Louviere.”
There was a pause. “Caspian Younger’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“This is a surprise.”
“You’re Asa Surrette?”
“Surrette is dead. Burned up in a big puff of smoke. That’s what the state police in Kansas say.”
“You were photographing me.”
“I’m casting a movie. You might be in it. Where’s Gretchen?”
“Gone away.”
“To a bar mitzvah?”
“I don’t know where she went.”
“The weather has taken quite a turn. The snow is falling on the creek while the sun is shining. It looks like cotton floating on the water, doesn’t it? Maybe the devil is beating his wife.”
She turned in a circle, her heart pounding. She saw no one. On the far side of the creek, an SUV was parked by a picnic shelter. No one seemed to be inside it. The SUV was either painted with primer or it was black and powdered with white dust. “Is the girl alive?” she said.
“Who?”
“The waitress.”
“Could be. I can check. Want me to do that and call you back?”
“I want to take her place.”
“You’re a bag of tricks, aren’t you?”
“I can see you,” she lied.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“If we get together, I might have to wash out your mouth with soap.”
“Are you afraid of me?”
“Of you? How silly.”
“You murdered my daughter. Are you afraid to look me in the face and admit that? Are you the frightened little man the authorities say you are?”
“The authorities? What are the authorities? Stupid and uneducated people who would be on welfare if they didn’t have uniforms. Maybe you should watch what you say.”
Her knees felt weak. She sat down behind the steering wheel, the door open, the wind like a cold burn on her brow. She could hear herself breathing inside the confines of the car. “Is the girl hurt badly? What have you done to her?”
“Maybe I’m a kinder man than you think. Maybe I have a side that others don’t know about. You think you’re going to set me up?”
