Chapter Forty-One
Forty-one
I wasn’t about to play hard to get. I texted Leila Donnelly’s mother that I happened to be in Union and could meet her anywhere, at any time, and that I hoped that time was soon.
I waited. When I didn’t hear back right away, I grabbed a bottle of water in the convenience store and brought it up to the counter, figuring that as long as I was here, I may as well set up my gill net. “You mind if I ask you a weird question?” I said to the clerk after she rang me up.
“I get weird questions all day long,” the clerk said.
She was probably in her early twenties, with pin-straight black hair, an ornate neck tattoo, bright blue eyes, and no-nonsense glasses that made her seem approachable.
I had no doubt she got weird questions, and that many were far more intrusive than anything I’d ever dream of asking. “What’s up?” she said.
I cleared my throat. “Did Leila Donnelly ever come into this place?”
“Who?”
“Famous romance writer. Just died?”
She gave me a blank look.
“I’m guessing you’ve never heard anybody talking about her, either. She lives relatively close by.”
The clerk shook her head. “I’m more of a horror fan.”
“Okay, fair enough. One more?”
“I got time.”
“You ever see a black Porsche 911 Carrera around here?”
“Is that like…a convertible?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, now, that definitely is a weird question.”
I looked at her. “Why?”
“Because I literally saw a car just like that in the parking lot today. It was at the beginning of my shift. I went out for a smoke. There it was. We don’t get too many cars like that around here.”
“When was that?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“Really?”
“The driver pulls in. I noticed the car, obviously. It’s a wicked-hot car. I wanted to see who was driving it. I stayed out there for a while. Smoked a second cigarette. But I never got to see the driver because the top was up and they never opened the door.”
“Is that unusual?” I said. “People just hanging out in your parking lot?”
“Yes and no,” she said. “I figured maybe they were texting. A lot of people pull into our lot to text. But it seemed like a long time to be sitting in a convenience store parking lot. I decided they were probably meeting somebody, and I started feeling like a stalker. So I went back inside. Refilled the soda machine. Then I went outside again to smoke another cig and, guess what, the Porsche still hadn’t moved. ”
“When did they leave?”
“Recently.”
“Meaning?”
“About five minutes before you showed up,” she said.
I frowned. “That’s weird,” I said.
“Hey, are you a cop or something?” the clerk said. “Was that, like, a criminal in the Porsche?”
“No to the first question. Maybe to the second.”
“Why are you asking questions if you’re not a cop?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said.
“That sounds exciting.”
“Do you really think so?”
“You’d be surprised at what passes for exciting around here.”
I smiled. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“Anytime,” she said. “I’m Violet, by the way.”
“Sunny.”
I gave her my card. She read it.
“Can you do me a favor?” I said. “Call me if you see the Porsche again?”
She said she would and I thanked her. My phone dinged—another text from Mimi Donnelly: Come anytime, it said. She also sent a location pin.
Fishing with a gill net wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.