glanced up from his wallet. A young woman had emerged from the crowd and was heading toward him. She wore a blue-and-green-striped uniform, so he assumed she worked at the café. She waved her hand vigorously, as if to demonstrate that he absolutely must hang up.
Yeah? He didn’t think so.
When he didn’t lower the phone, she frowned and moved faster. She reached him two seconds later, while the unanswered call was still ringing against his ear. And ringing. And ringing. For the Windsor Beach police, apparently nonemergency meant no response.
“Please,” she said, slightly breathless. She was cute. Mid-twenties, with a chin-length brown bob, freckles and an imploring smile. “Please, hang up. There’s no need to involve the police, really.” She glanced back toward the sidewalk. “The man who hit you…that’s Bill Longmire.”
“Okay.” Red smiled, too. He nodded toward his car. “And that’s an eight-thousand-dollar repair.”
She gave the Mercedes a cursory look, but Red could tell she didn’t think his car was the important point here. Maybe it wasn’t, to her. Maybe the old guy was her grandfather, or the grand pooh-bah of Windsor Beach. Red didn’t care. The man shouldn’t be behind a wheel.
He glanced at her name tag.
Without really thinking, he lowered the phone from his ear. Oh, great.
He’d been so riled by the accident he’d almost lost track of why he was here in the first place. He’d almost forgotten he was on a ridiculous spy mission, trying to find out everything he could about a waitress named Allison York.
Well, James Bond. Meet Allison York.
In his defense, he’d been expecting a home-wrecking sexpot. He had only a few facts about her. She was twenty-seven. She was divorced. And last year she’d given birth to his best friend’s baby.
His married best friend.
The one who had died of cancer two months ago. The one who had, even on his deathbed, been terrified that his big mistake—that would be Allison York—would somehow find a way to destroy the loved ones he was leaving behind.
This woman was pretty, but no sexpot. She looked more like the one who would get cast as the sexpot’s worried best friend. Skinny, with no-fuss, healthy hair. A little pale for a California gal. The kind of long neck he always associated with ballet lessons and overprotective mothers.
Something was buzzing. He glanced down at his phone, strangely off balance. It was still ringing.
“Please,” she said again. “I can explain.”
He clicked the end button.
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Bill… Well, Bill is a good friend of mine. He knows he isn’t supposed to drive. He has someone who does that for him. But something must have happened—”
“Steve didn’t show up, that’s what happened.” While Red had been gathering his wits, Bill Longmire had apparently decided to join them in the street, his entourage of well-wishers behind him.
Allison slipped her hand under the old man’s elbow. “But when Steve is late, you’re supposed to wait.” She shook his arm gently. “You know that, Bill. Someone could have been hurt.”
“Well, no one was.” Bill winked one rheumy eye, then reached out his long finger to tap Allison’s nose. “Besides, sweetheart, I couldn’t wait. You only work until ten today, and no one else ever gets my omelet right.”
Red frowned. Was that bony antique actually flirting with this woman who was only a third of his age? His jaw tightened, but Allison didn’t seem to find it disgusting. She grinned and, sighing, let her head briefly rest on the old man’s shoulder.
“Darn it, Bill,” she said with affectionate exasperation. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be eating your eggs off a hospital tray.”
“Allie’s right, Bill,” someone from the crowd said. A murmur of agreement rumbled through the rest of them.
Red felt his fingers close hard around his cell phone, and he realized he was seriously annoyed. Hooray that Bill Longmire, whoever he was, hadn’t killed himself today. But what about Red’s car? What about the whip-lash he hadn’t gotten, but might have?
“Still,” he broke in flatly. “We need to call the police. We’ll need to report this to our insurance companies.”
Allison frowned. Though she lifted her head, she didn’t let go of Bill’s elbow, as if she were afraid he would topple over without her support. “Surely you two can work out—”
“Of course we can,” Bill broke in. He extricated his arm, then dug around in his pants pocket. “I don’t know how much money I’m carrying.” He found a battered old leather wallet. “Let’s see—”
Great. The guy probably still calculated in 1930s prices, and was going to try to placate him with a pair of limp twenty-dollar bills.
“I’m sorry,” Red said, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to get an estimate—”
As if Red hadn’t said a word, Bill extended a fat wad of cash. “I’ve only got about five thousand on me, but if you’ll take a check—”
“Bill!” Allison batted his hand down. “What are you doing, walking around with that kind of cash?”
“I’m paying the man for the damage.” Bill turned his elegant smile Red’s way. “I suspect the final costs will be at least twice this,” he said. “Mercedes parts don’t come cheap. But if you’ll accept this as a down payment, Mr….”
The sentence trailed off as he waited for Red to supply his name.
Red thought a minute, then decided it didn’t matter. Allison wouldn’t connect his name with Victor Wigham.
“Malone. Redmond Malone.”
The old man nodded. “Mr. Malone. Delighted to meet you. You’re not from Windsor Beach, I take it?”
Red shook his head. “San Francisco.”
“Oh, yes. Lovely city.” Bill extended the money again. “So, as I was saying. You can take this as a down payment, and I will write you a check for another five thousand to cover the rest.”
“That’s very generous, Mr. Longmire, but I’m afraid—”
“Hey, give the guy a break, why don’t you?” Two burly men separated from the crowd and flanked Allison, one at each shoulder as if they were hired bodyguards. One spoke through a tight jaw. “He said he’d pay for the damages. Why do you gotta bring in the police?”
Another murmur of agreement moved through the crowd, which clearly had only one mind among them. They inched forward, closing ranks. For a minute, Red felt like the hapless stranger in a horror film who stumbles into Looneyville and spends the rest of the movie running from its spooky townsfolk.
Or…maybe he was in the middle of a very strange dream. A dream—yeah, that would be nice. Maybe he wasn’t really standing here at all, negotiating with this old man, who was probably insane. Maybe Victor wasn’t really dead. Maybe there was no Allison York, no baby, no danger to Victor’s grieving family.
“Mr. Malone?” Allison turned her eyes toward him, wordlessly asking for his help. More crazy dream material. Those big bedroom eyes didn’t begin to match that girl-next-door face. They were gorgeous—round, dewy, lash-fringed. A clear dark honey-brown that looked strangely bottomless.
He almost found himself saying okay. Okay, we’ll do this your way.
But that would make him crazier than the old man.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He lifted his phone again, ignoring her disappointed frown, as well as the army of Windsor Beach zombies lined up behind her. “I’m afraid I’m still going to have to