Sharon Henegar - Sleeping Dogs Lie

“How nice.” I kept my tone dry to keep from laughing.

“Yes. We have some things to talk about.” She went to Bonnie and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I'll be back tomorrow,” she promised, and she and Ed were out the door.

“We need to be going, too,” George said. He was looking at Ambrose. “I was able to get those theatre tickets we talked about, and we have a reservation for dinner. Mrs. Becker, good luck with the DA tomorrow. I hope I'll see you soon.”

Ambrose smiled and waved to us as he went through the door, closely followed by George. Bonnie and Bob and I looked at each other.

“Well,” I said. And couldn’t think of anything to add.

Bonnie nodded. “This is turning out to be the proverbial ill wind,” she said, “blowing more good than I would ever have thought possible.”

I looked from Bob to Bonnie and promised, “I'll pry all the interesting details out of Kay and Ambrose tomorrow.”

“We need to be going too,” Bob told Bonnie. “We have to feed the dogs, not to mention ourselves.” He turned toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, I just remembered. One loose end hasn’t been tied up.”

Bonnie and I both looked at him.

“We still don’t know who Trixie is,” he explained.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Frankly, it’s driving me crazy. Do you mind if I use the phone? Her number will probably be busy, but I might as well try it one more time.”

“Be my guest,” said Bonnie, who had heard about the matchbook and the elusive Trixie. “I'm as curious as anyone.”

Bob sat down in the room’s single chair and pulled the phone on the bedside table closer to him. He dialed Trixie’s number quickly; we had all memorized it in the past few days from trying it repeatedly. As Bob had said, so far it had always been busy. I was convinced it was lying off the hook on a floor somewhere in an abandoned building. This time, however, a big smile soon creased his face.

“It’s ringing!” he hissed at Bonnie and me. He sat up straighter and tightened his grip on the receiver. “Hello? Yes, this is Bob Richardson. May I speak to Trixie, please? Oh, good, I’m so glad to have gotten hold of you. Your line seems to be busy all the time…Say, do you mind if I put you on the speakerphone? I wear a hearing aid and it's easier to use the phone that way…Thanks.”

Bonnie and I looked at each other. Hearing aid? “Great excuse to let us listen,” she whispered.

Apparently Trixie agreed, and Bob touched the button to turn on the speaker. “Can you hear me okay now?”

“I sure can.” The woman’s voice held a country sound. I could imagine her sitting at a farmhouse kitchen table covered by a red checked cloth. “I'm sorry, could you tell me who you are again?”

I perched beside Bonnie on the edge of her bed. We made shushing gestures at each other.

“My name is Bob Richardson. You don’t know me, but several days ago, someone left a matchbook at my house with your name and phone number written inside the cover…”

I could hear the instant defensiveness in her tone. “Well, and just what did you think you’d find when you called the number? Just ‘cause a woman gives her number to someone doesn’t mean—”

“Oh, no, please,” Bob jumped in. “I really didn’t make any assumptions. I’m trying to figure out who the heck had been in my house and left these matches. They’re from a bar I've never been to.”

“A bar, huh,” she said.

“I have a friend who needs to know I haven’t been going to places she might not like.”

She gave a laugh that came from the belly. “Oh, I got it. Your lady friend saw a book of matches from a bar with my name written inside and started gettin’ her exercise by jumpin’ to conclusions.”

Bob chuckled. “Something like that. So anyway, the matches are from a bar called The Last Resort—”

“Was the writing in purple ink?”

“Yes! Yes it was! Do you remember who you might have given it to? I'm hoping we can follow the trail and find out who left them at my house.”

“Well, the trail might be kinda short, because I do know whose matches I wrote on. Fella named Clay Harburn. His family owns that bar, and his grandma runs it. But she’s getting the Alzheimer’s so bad that the grandsons take turns bein’ at the bar when she’s there. Most of the time anymore she just thinks they’re another customer. It's awful sad, really. Clay takes the afternoon shift since he’s not workin’. I don’t think anyone’s ever gonna give him a job if he won’t learn to cover up that big ol’ tattoo on his arm. Anyway, I gave him my number to give to his brother, because he had something to sell that I was thinking about buying. And his brother works for the gas company. I don’t suppose you had anyone from the gas company out to your place around that time?”

Bob started laughing. “Yes! Yes! I had the furnace checked for the winter and the pilot light relit.”

“Well, that’s it then. Clay’s brother Harden must have been the one who was there and he used those matches to light the pilot and laid ‘em down and forgot ‘em.”

“That must be exactly what happened. So simple when you have an explanation. This is certainly a relief.”

“Unless Harden gave ‘em to a burglar, but I don’t think he hardly had time.”

“Probably not,” Bob agreed. “I was imagining all kinds of weird ways those matches could have gotten there. And Louisa has an even better imagination.” He gave me a private smile across the room. Bonnie poked me in the ribs. “I really thank you for talking to me. I know it must have seemed strange for me to call you.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, “as long as you didn’t think I was some kind of loose woman or something. It's kind of nice to actually talk to someone.”

“Really? Your phone line is busy so much of the time, you must have plenty of people to talk to.”

She laughed again. “You prob’ly think I'm the biggest ol’ gossip in the state, but it's my computer that’s been doin’ all the talkin’, not me. I buy and sell stuff on the Internet, so I'm online most of the time. I gotta get me a better connection one of these days.”

“I see,” Bob said.

“In fact, that’s why I gave my number to Clay to give to Harden. He inherited a collection of Barbie dolls from their aunt and I was goin’ to sell it for him. At least that’s what they say. They may be big ol’ country boys but I kinda think them Barbies might have been Harden’s all along.”

“Their secret is safe with me,” Bob promised. “Thank you so much for talking with me, Trixie. I hope our paths cross again sometime.”

“Maybe they will, you just never know. You take care now.”

“You too,” Bob said, and started to disconnect.

“Oh, and Mr. Richardson…”

“Yes?”

“That hearing aid of yours didn’t show up at all when they interviewed you on the news.” We heard her laughing as she hung up.

Bob pushed the button on the phone and looked at us. “I'd say game, set and matches to Trixie, wouldn’t you?”

The next day was a beautiful autumn Saturday: clear and crisp, festooned with colorful falling leaves. Bob and I held hands as we walked along Maple Street. Emily Ann paced demurely at my side, and Jack investigated the smells on the sidewalk.

“So Monday’s the big day?”

Bob nodded. “I’ve got a full schedule of appointments for the next month. All my Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday times are full. I've decided I won't take any for the end of the week. I'll mostly commute from here for now, though I’ll need to spend a night at my place in High Cross once in a while.”