His smile widens. “Red bow,” he says to me with an accent that sounds like East Texas. He’s a Southern boy. He’s dressed in a modest dark suit minus the tie. I want to say lawyer, but that doesn’t seem to quite fit.
His cell rings in his hand, and he glances at it. “Duty calls. Maybe I’ll see you again, Red Bow.” He swipes his phone open and walks to the front. I watch him hand his ticket to a woman standing behind an antique cash register that could be the original one from this place.
He pays and glances at me; then he walks out.
“Want me to box this up for ya?” the server says, stopping at my table.
I shake my head. “Just the check.”
On my way to the register, I stop at the table full of nurses and make eye contact with the only one who has gray hair.
“Sorry to bother y’all,” I say, with emphasis on they’all. “But can you tell me what hospital around here has bright-blue scrubs for the nurses?”
The ladies look at one another, and the one with silver hair smiles, her Southern manners front and center. “Gosh, I don’t think any hospitals have that color. Not to my knowledge anyway. Y’all know?” she says to the others.
One with a blunt brunette bob says, “I think that’s what they wear over at Dr. Montrose’s office.”
“The orthodontist?” another says. “No. I think it’s the home health nurses.”
“Or maybe it’s the color over at Memorial now,” the silver-haired lady says. “Or at least it should be. They make their nurses wear this awful gray color and—”
“Thank you,” I say before I get too roped into this conversation. Looks like I may need more than the color of her scrubs to figure out who that woman at the school was.
Outside, I watch the airport guy walk away with his phone to his ear. We both flew in on the same flight. We both wound up in this small town, close to a place that could be the story of the year in this area.
I wonder if he’s a reporter, but if he is, it’s for a small publication. I don’t recognize him at all. And small publications don’t usually fly reporters in. He could be new, but I’d really recognize him then. I make a point to know all the new hotshots coming on the scene. Always pays to know your competition. And this guy does not look like a hotshot. No expensive suit. No hair color. No Botox.
He turns right up ahead and is gone.
I walk to the old truck and hop in. I want to get back to Riverbend and check on my father. I swallow. Talk to my father. I glance at the box next to me in the truck and, before I pull away, open my Facebook app. I find Katrina and Summer. I’ve checked their profiles before, many times over the years. As I’m sure they’ve checked mine.
I laugh every time I read Kat’s job description: pharmaceutical rep. Kat was Poison Wood’s not-so-secret weed dealer, but her best customers were the St. Matthew’s boys. Boys who paid a premium without batting their fluffy eyelashes.
Within five seconds, I’ve discovered her cell phone number in her contact information. Social media has become my go-to for getting cell numbers. Most people don’t even realize it’s part of their profile.
I key it into my phone and quickly look up Summer’s profile as well. Hers contains far fewer selfies than Kat’s. It contains far fewer posts period. Summer’s profile doesn’t go back as far as Katrina’s. Having a mother being in politics probably kept that in check. She also lives in Baton Rouge, and owns a nonprofit for wayward teenage girls. Oh, the irony with these two. Unlike Kat’s profile, Summer’s number is not listed.
So I type out a text to Katrina:
This is Rita. We need to meet. I know you are in Riverbend.
I add:
I’ll be in Natchitoches tomorrow. Maybe we can meet there.
Her response is instant.How did you get my number?
I ignore her question and search my map app for a place to meet. Not Lasyone’s again. Someplace a little less known. I find a small Mexican restaurant and send the address.
I’ll see you at 11:30. Bring Summer.
Kat doesn’t respond. I watch gray bubbles start and stop a few times, but no text comes through.
I add:
It’s about Heather.
This time she replies.
