“Some do,” Craig said.
“I’m telling you,” Bob said. “Old folks can get kinda overwhelmed by the big stores. Kinda frightens them. They’d stay away.”
From there the conversation veered to how many older people lived in Libbie, and from there to exactly how old is old. It was about then that Tracie suggested we leave. I think the ages that her neighbors were tossing about made her uncomfortable.
The air was still hot and heavy. If the sun had moved a centimeter in the past hour, I hadn’t noticed. We were finally closing in on the Audi, and I was contemplating a dip in the Pioneer Hotel’s pool.
“What do you think?” Tracie asked.
“I’m surprised you’ve been able to keep your losses secret for so long,” I said. “It can’t last, you know. Libbie’s finances are public record, aren’t they? Plus, you have so many people who seem to know exactly what’s going on.”
“We’re hoping you can help us get the money back before we have to report our losses. Oh, for the record, Ronny Radosevich, the owner of U Scream? He invested thirty-five thousand dollars in the mall. He just doesn’t want anyone to know. But that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“Do you think fifty is the new thirty, like they said?”
The question made me laugh.
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Me, neither,” Tracie said. “I might change my mind when I get there, though. You know, McKenzie, I don’t have a problem with growing old. I really don’t. Not if you have someone to grow old with. This town, it’s not easy when you’re alone.”
“No town is.”
“If you have someone, though, someone to grow old with, it’s a fine place to live.”
That sounded like the beginning of a conversation about relationships, probably my least favorite topic. Fortunately, Tracie didn’t pursue it. Instead, she fell into a kind of wistful silence that lasted until we reached my car and I drove her to her own car parked outside the Pioneer.
“What are your plans for tonight?” she said.
“I haven’t thought much about it beyond a dip in the pool.”
“If you should get—restless, give me a call.”
“I will,” I said. Yet we both knew I wouldn’t.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I don’t like to eat alone in public, especially in formal dining rooms like the one in the Pioneer Hotel. I’m convinced it makes me seem like a pathetic and friendless creature. I also tend to eat too fast when people are watching—yes, I know they’re not, but I feel like they are. I tore into my New York strip, consuming half of it in about five minutes before a woman appeared at my table. Because of her good bone structure and trim figure, she seemed taller than she was. She had brown close-cropped hair, a serious mouth, and dark eyes with little flickering lights in them that reminded me of a candle on a breezy night.
Okay, Libbie, my inner voice said. Now you’re just showing off.
“Are you Rushmore McKenzie?” she said.
She was wearing dark blue slacks and a powder blue shirt that looked tailored and holding a baseball-style cap that combined both colors. The name Quik-Time Foods was stitched over one shirt pocket. Behind her, I could see Sharren Nuffer standing in the arched doorway that led from the hotel lobby to the dining room, her arms crossed over her chest. She was watching intently.
“I am,” I said.
“May I sit down?”
I gestured at the chair opposite me. She took it.
“I apologize for disturbing your meal,” she said.
“Not a problem.” I couldn’t help glancing at the other diners. I felt better now that the woman was there, even though I had no idea who she was. It was a problem soon rectified.
“I’m Dawn Neske.”
“Mrs. Perry Neske?”
She winced a little at the title of “Mrs.”
“Yes,” she said.
“What can I do for you?”
“It’s more about what I can do for you.”
The remark made me lean back in my chair.
“What can you do for me?” I said.
“I like that you asked that question without smirking.”
I had nothing to say to that.
“I’m told that you’re looking for Rushmore McKenzie, the man who pretended to be you, the one who ripped off the city. I want to help you find him.”
A couple of things hit me at once. The first, that she knew who I was and what I was doing in Libbie. The other, that she knew the Imposter had defrauded the town. She didn’t get either tidbit from her husband. Bizek must have told her, and he must have told her within the past couple of hours.
“How?” I said.
“I know his real name. It’s Nicholas Hendel.”
That made me sit up. I carry a pen and a small notebook in the pocket of my sports coat—a habit left over from my days with the cops. I took both out and started writing.
“Do you have the correct spelling?”
She did.
“Do you know where he’s from?”
“No,” she said. “Just his name.”
