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“Not that far.”
Jesus!Prying open a can of pork and beans with my teeth would have been easier than getting a plain, clear answer from Doc. Whoever wrote the How-To book on forming open relationships with clients hadn’t met D.R. Nyce. Was he hiding something? Or just toying with me for shits and giggles?
I idled at a stoplight behind an exhaust-belching, 1950s Ford pickup, searching for something to talk about. Then I remembered the scene in his office involving the mole and the magnifying glass. “So, Doc, what exactly do you do for a—”
In my rearview mirror, I saw my blonde-haired daughter riding her bike along the opposite sidewalk with a white chicken tucked under one arm. The rest of my question leaked out my ear.
Feathers floated behind Addy as she raced around the corner and pedaled hard out of view up a side street.
A honk from behind jerked me out of my stunned state. I hit the blinker and whipped a U-turn in the middle of the intersection, ignoring several more honks from on-coming cars.
Doc reached for the dashboard. “What are you doing?”
“Hunting chickens.”
“What?”
I made a hard right onto the street Addy had ridden up.
“Is that a metaphor for something?” Doc braced himself as I floored it to the four-way stop.
“No.” I looked left and right, no sign of Addy. Then I saw a white feather, floating across the road about half a block in front of us and I hit the gas. A BMW with a Michigan license plate shook his fist at me as I cut him off.
“It was my turn!” I yelled at him through my closed window.
“Remind me to drive next time we go out.”
I ignored Doc’s sarcasm and jammed on the brakes at the next Stop sign. Still no Addy. “Do you see any feathers?”
“What does that even mean?”
“There!” I pointed to the feather drifting toward the ground in the parking lot up ahead on the left and gunned it.
“Violet, are you on any kind of medication I should know about?”
“No.” I should be, though, I thought as I rammed into the parking lot, and yanked the wheel to avoid careening into an Impala backing out of its spot. Another horn followed in my wake. I could see Addy’s blonde hair ahead on the other side of the line of parked cars.
An RV rolled out of an alley and across my path.
“Hold on!” I stomped on the brakes.
Doc swore under his breath.
Son of a peacock!I was going to lose her. As the RV cleared out of the way, I cranked down my window and yelled, “Adelynn Renee! Stop right there!”
Lucky for Doc’s blood pressure, my daughter heard and obeyed. I zig-zagged through a couple of empty parking spots and pulled up next to where she stood straddling her bike, holding the chicken against her chest.
I slammed my door and rounded the Bronco’s grill. “Where do you think you are going with that chicken?”
Addy’s cheeks darkened under the red spots already coloring her skin. “Ummm, home?”
A second door shut behind me.
“No, you are not. You take that chicken right back where you found it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
