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When he told her that, Miranda’s mind immediately went to a meme she’d seen a lot on Facebook. It was of Marcia Brady of theBrady Bunchfame. She was saying, “Sure, Jan.” It wasn’t so much that she didn’t believe Trey had some interviews lined up; it was that she didn’t believe anything that came out of that con man’s mouth.
Especially now.
Now that she had proof.
She’d met with Aida Conkle the day before. The older woman had agreed to meet her at a little café on Forty-Fifth in the Wallingford neighborhood. Miranda readily agreed because she loved the fact that the café carried vegan doughnuts from Mighty O and because she could walk there easily from campus.
As she neared Java Jive, she spotted Aida sitting at a small table near the front window. She looked like someone’s grandma, wearing a cotton housedress in blue and green plaid and a navy cardigan sweater. Pince-nez glasses and her frizzy gray hair pulled into a careless bun further emphasized the private detective’s matronly qualities. No one would ever guess she was a private eye. Although she was small of frame, she had a cup of tea and a piece of lemon pie in front of her, with a mountain of meringue atop its bright yellow custard.
Normally, Miranda would have forgotten everything, seduced by the siren allure of that damn pie, but yesterday she was intent because Aida said she’d completed her report on Bruno Purdy.
What Aida had imparted to her was valuable.
And it completely killed Miranda’s appetite.
Now, as she stood near the front door calling out, “Dad?” she felt bad for the news she was about to lay on him. The file Aida had given her weighed heavy in her backpack, not so much because of its thickness, but because of the weight of what the information might do to her father.
“Hello?”
Her father emerged in the hallway, coming out of his home office. He looked as though he’d been sleeping, but Miranda knew the appearance for what it was—he’d been working, deep in the lives and world of his imaginary characters.
She loved the frumpiness of him, the worn plaid flannel shirt, khakis, and wool socks. His hair stuck up every which way, as though he’d rolled out of bed minutes before. His eyes, red-rimmed behind his oval computer glasses, testified further how deep he’d gone under for this session.
Still, she took comfort in that he was preoccupied in something other than Trey. And at the same time, she was dismayed that she’d was going to shatter that preoccupation.
She hoped she could only make him believe what she had to tell him. Of course, there’d be resistance on his part, if for no other reason than we have a natural tendency to try to explain away anything that makes us look like fools. Most people don’t want to admit to being wrong.
“Hey there.” Miranda basked for a moment in his look, his perception of her. Its effect was the same as sunshine on her face. Without being in the least conceited, she embraced the joy that lit up his features when he saw her.
“Hey.” She gave him a quick hug.
“I got lunch all ready for us. I tried out that vegan blog and got busy—tofu egg salad on rye with homemade oil and vinegar slaw. And just to not be disgustingly healthy, a few of those chips you’re so fond of.”
“Sounds delish.” Miranda tried to put some enthusiasm behind her words. She had no appetite.
She asked if she could help, and he simply directed her to the dining room table with a wave. “It won’t take me but a minute. Got it all ready.” He paused before heading into the kitchen. “It’s nice having you all to myself. Seems like it’s been too long since we’ve had any father-daughter quality time.”
He didn’t wait for her to reply and she was glad. He bustled about the kitchen, getting out plates, flatware, and glasses. “What do you want to drink, sweetie?”
“Water’s fine, Dad.”
“Pellegrino?”
“Tap is good.”
In moments, lunch was laid out before her. How a table filled with food lovingly and thoughtfully prepared could cause her stomach to churn was a paradox, but she understood the reason. She glanced down at the sandwich on her plate, the pile of Ruffles, and next to it, the slaw. “Perfect,” she whispered, the bile rising in the back of her throat. She reached down to lift her backpack from the floor.
Daddy was oblivious and dug into the meal with gusto. “This really does taste like egg salad. If I was blindfolded, I’m not sure I could tell the difference. Amazing!”
“It’s the black salt and the turmeric,” Miranda said. “Fools your sense of smell and your sight.”
“Whatever. It’s good. I could eat this all the time.”
He went on eating until Miranda reluctantly interrupted him with the four words no one ever wants to hear. “We need to talk.”
He glanced up from his food. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”
“Maybe in a minute.” To be sociable, she popped a chip in her mouth. She withdrew the red file folder from her backpack and set it on the table.
