The Women on Retford Drive by Alretha Thomas

Author:Alretha Thomas [Thomas, Alretha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780692140369
Publisher: Diverse Arts Collective
Published: 2018-08-07T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Julia

Looking through the windshield of Blythe’s car, I watch Mitch sell lottery tickets, thinking about my earlier call with Stephen. I feel guilty about not telling him what I’m doing, but I sense he would try to stop me, and I have to be proactive, especially now that I know the police still don’t have any leads. Mitch winks at me and mouths, Almost done. I’m not sure how true that is, because every customer seems to buy multiple tickets. I look at the sign above the door, shaking my head. The jackpot is close to two hundred million. I’ve never bought a lottery ticket in my life. I had no need to, because I’m married to a gazillionaire. I hope the people buying tickets know that the winnings may afford them comfort, but it won’t guarantee happiness. And I pray this hour I’ve waited hasn’t been a waste of time. At least I was finally able to catch up with Blythe. I was shocked to find out Pedro has been abusing Martha. And I’m glad Martha didn’t kill Keith. Domestic violence is an epidemic. I stretch my neck, hoping Mitch doesn’t get any more patrons. He cashes out the final customer, then he beckons me to come into the store. I nearly fall as I enter. I run to the counter, and he raises a brow. I look desperate, but I don’t care.

“Sorry about that little cliffhanger, but like I said, everybody wants a ticket from my store. You should buy one before you leave.” He hands me a lottery form, and I wave it away.

“No, thank you. You were about to describe the woman who was looking at my husband’s license plate.”

“Right. She was tall. Around five foot eight. A couple inches taller than you.”

“What color were her eyes?”

He scratches his head and says, “I don’t know because she was wearing dark glasses. And she was wearing a scarf. But I could see her hair in the front. It was brownish—wait, no it wasn’t. It was kind of red. That’s right. And she had a nice tan.”

“Was her hair long or short?” I ask, anxious to get something concrete.

“I couldn’t tell because of the scarf.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“Like I said, she was upset because her driver was blocked in by somebody in the store.”

“What driver?”

“I think she may have been using that new car service called Flash Ryde. But the guy couldn’t pull out. She was in a hurry. The car that had them hemmed in belonged to a customer. I got the guy to move his vehicle. She calmed down and told me thank you,” he says with a twinkle in his brown eyes.

“What’s that look?”

“I was just thinking about her saying ‘thank you.’”

“What about it?”

“She said, ‘Danke.’ That’s thank you in—”

“German,” I say, my mind drifting.

“My grandfather was in World War II, and he learned to speak German.”

“Right,” I say, barely paying attention.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

“Yes. Where did she go when she left the store?”

“She took off with her driver.

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