Page 132 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Si. We sold some of those. Don’t stock them no more. Too pricey for most of our customers.” Followed by an indecipherable snort.
“Do you keep records of your sales?”
“The bigger ticket items.”
“Could you check to see who bought the lockets?”
“I could.”
Pause.
“Would you?”
“Why?”
“I found one and want to return it to its owner.”
“The thing ain’tthatvaluable,cariña.”
“I know. But I own a piece of inexpensive jewelry that has great sentimental value to me. I’d be heartbroken if I lost it.” Lame. But the best I could do.
“That’s sweet. Hold on.”
A receiver rattled against a hard surface. An eon passed. The receiver rattled again.
“I thought there was more, but I found just the two. You ready?”
“I am.”
“Kamila Ochoa. She come in one day because of me being here. Bought a locket last September for her granddaughter.”
“Do you have contact information?”
“Got a phone number but she won’t answer.”
“Oh?”
“She’s dead. Found her floating like a big guppy in her tub.”
Alrighty.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sold the other to a fellow named Juan Gato. I remember thinking his name fit because he looked like a cat.”
“Do you have—”
“Write this down.”
Yolanda gave me a phone number and address. I wrote them down.
“Gracia—”
A male voice barked in the background.
The line disconnected abruptly.
At five-thirty, Ryan and I were standing on the broad front porch of a faux colonial at the far end of Sugar Mill Road. Redbrick, white trim, black shutters.
