Nineteen
WE DON’T TALK ABOUT the case while we’re eating the superbly grilled steaks, which I managed not to burn in spite of my own inner turmoil.
“Why was Gladys working on a Saturday night?” I ask. “I thought she and Nate would have plans.”
“Well,” she says, spearing a piece of her steak for emphasis, “apparently, Nate is working. He’s been doing that a lot lately.”
“Some c*****e in town I hadn’t heard about?” I ask, shoving a forkful of fluffy potato in my mouth.
“Nate told Gladys it was cleaning up after a kid’s birthday,” Helen says wrinkling her nose. “The parents had rented a bouncy-house, and there was a lot of cake and ice cream consumed.”
“Gotcha, say no more,” I interject, my stomach beginning to churn at the thought. “So he just doesn’t clean up crime scenes?”
“No, appa
