Page 28 of Things We Hide from the Light
Hinkel shook his head. “I’ll give it a try. But when I hate it, you need to deliver one of them loaves of sundried tomato bread.”
Sloane stuck her hand out. “Deal. Good tequila. Not ‘I stole this crap from my parents’ liquor cabinet for the high school bonfire’ tequila.”
Hinkel nodded shrewdly and shook her hand. “Deal.”
“Do you always bribe patrons with baked goods?” I asked.
Hinkel flashed me pearly whites and doffed his straw fedora. “Miss Lina, if you don’t mind my saying, you put the autumn leaves to shame with your beauty.”
I plucked a paperback off the shelf and fanned myself with it. “Good sir, you certainly know how to turn a lady’s head,” I said, adopting a southern belle accent.
Sloane crossed her arms, feigning irritation. “Excuseme, Mr. McCord. I thoughtIwas your Sunday morning flirtation.”
He gestured at his pin-striped suit and bow tie. “There is more than enough of Hinkel to go around. Now if you two lovely ladies don’t mind, I’m gonna go downstairs and flirt with a queen or two.”
We watched the centenarian spryly head for the stairs, cane in one hand, book in the other.
“Knockemout sure grows them charming,” I observed.
“We sure do,” Sloane agreed, gesturing for me to follow her.
We entered a spacious conference room where Sloane headed straight for the dry erase board and began removing several crude drawings of penises.
“Teenagers?” I guessed.
She shook her head, making her perky ponytail dance. “Northern Virginia urologists. They had their quarterly meeting here yesterday. Figured I’d clean up the evidence before story hour ends.”
“I didn’t see that one coming.”
Sloane flashed me a smirk. “Just wait until the NoVaP host their meetup in January.”
I ran the possibilities in my head. “Northern Virginia proctologists?”
“Buttseverywhere.” Sloane dropped the eraser and started organizing the markers by color. “What brings you into my fine establishment today?”
I made myself useful and started stuffing the scattering of penis-centric handouts into the recycling can. “Looking for a book recommendation or two.”
And some information, I added silently.
“Came to the right place. What’s your poison? Thriller? Time travel? Autobiography? Poetry? Police procedural? Fantasy? Self-help? Small-town romance hot enough to make you blush?”
I thought of Nash in the shower last night. The thump of a fist against wet tile. The strangled oath. I felt a little light-headed. “Something with murders,” I decided. “Also, is there any kind of county database I could use to search properties?”
“Looking to make your visit permanent?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I have a friend who lives in DC. They’re looking to move out of the city and open a business.”
It was a lame lie. But Sloane was a busy librarian and people around here were quirky. She wasn’t going to waste time poking holes in my story.
“What kind of business?”
Dammit.
“Custom car garage? I mean, I think it’s some kind of custom car garage.”
Sloane nudged her glasses up her nose. “I’m sure your friend knows how to use the usual property listing websites.”
“He—she, er, they do. But what if the property isn’t for sale? They’ve got deep pockets and have been known to make offers that were hard to refuse.”
