The Art of the Decoy by Trish Esden

Author:Trish Esden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Eighteen

After I wrapped the plastic back over the tires, we slipped out the garage’s side door. In a minute we were in the van headed out of Frank’s driveway.

I drummed on the steering wheel. “I still wish we could’ve talked to Frank. I really think if we could see his reaction to the robbery, we’d have a better idea if he’s guilty or not.”

Tuck gestured toward the bakery just beyond the tennis court. “If I lived in the neighborhood, I’d be there for coffee every morning like clockwork.”

“I would too,” Kala said. “Except I’d walk, not drive.”

“Frank probably likes to show off his car, though,” I said.

I cruised out of Snow Bunny Lane, then into the parking lot the bakery shared with the other shops. The place overflowed with cars, but no Corvettes, let alone a fully restored and bright red older model. So much for that idea.

I pulled into an open parking space, blew out a frustrated breath, then glowered through the windshield. The tennis court was directly in front of us, but I could still see the mouth of Frank’s driveway on the other side. Why couldn’t he have just been home?

“While we’re here,” Tuck said, hand already on the door latch, “I’m going to run into the bakery and use their restroom. You know us older men, we need to go every five minutes.”

I glanced at Kala. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll buy something for all of us to eat if you wait here and keep an eye on Frank’s driveway. If he comes home, we can go back and talk with him.”

“Fine by me,” Kala said. “Just bring me back something big and sugary—raspberry turnovers, maple cream donuts with bacon crumbles.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Definitely no bacon. I don’t need any more jokes about razorbacks or serial killers feeding people to pigs.”

She laughed. “You’re the one that brought up razorbacks the last time.”

I cringed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Tuck and I walked across the parking lot to the bakery. Gigantic pots of petunias flanked its front door. Inside, people clustered around small tables and waited at the display counter. The place was warm and bright, and smelled of homemade bread, cookies, and something spicy.

Tuck beelined for the men’s room. As I walked toward the display case, I scanned the crowd. There were older and younger people, bicyclists, and a local guy in worn jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt. Not that I expected to see Frank, but it didn’t cost anything to look.

I selected a dozen assorted turnovers and donuts, paid for them, then waited by the door. I wanted to pretend Frank and his Corvette would simply materialize any second, but down deep I had a really bad feeling. Whether he’d gone out last evening and spent the night elsewhere or he’d left the chalet early this morning, it didn’t make sense for him to not shut and lock the door.

Tuck reappeared and we headed outside.

Once the bakery’s door was firmly closed behind us, I turned to him.

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