“Look who’s talking.”
“So what you’re doing is like in those Agatha Christie novels—Miss Jane Marple, amateur detective?”
“I’m not much like Miss Jane Marple.”
“You’ve got a sweet face,” Mrs. Fischer said, and pinched my cheek. “I suspect your mind is as sharp as Miss Marple’s, although you haven’t given me much evidence of that yet.”
Edie Fischer didn’t look anything like my idea of Jane Marple, but if some network ever brought back The X-Files with Agents Mulder and Scully as eighty-somethings, she could pass for a geriatric Gillian Anderson, who had played Scully.
The rhinestone cowboy and his custom-painted eighteen-wheeler were as mysterious as Cigarette Smoking Man and everything else in that old and perpetually enigmatic TV show.
I said, “I’d give anything to know what he’s hauling.”
“Don’t say such a reckless thing, child. If I were the devil, I’d ask what you mean by ‘anything,’ and you’d probably convey the intensity of your curiosity by repeating ‘anything’ with emphasis, and just like that—zap!—you’d be inside that trailer, you’d see what it’s loaded with, but you’d have sold your immortal soul for next to nothing.”
“It can’t be that easy to sell your soul.”
“So now you’re a PhD in demonic negotiation? Where did you get your degree, sweetie, from an Internet university run by some fifty-year-old guy who lives in his parents’ basement and has nothing in his wardrobe but sweat suits?”
“It’s funny, ma’am, how sometimes you’re so sarcastic but it doesn’t sting.”
“Because of my dimples. Dimples are a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Anyway, you’re not the devil, Mrs. Fischer.”
“Call me Edie. Listen, child—if you’re at a party with a hundred people and one of them is the devil, he’ll be the last one you’d suspect.”
Piloting the limousine away from the trucks and past the pump islands, I said, “I’m not much for parties. Sometimes you have to wear a funny hat, sometimes they expect you to eat sushi, which is like eating bait. And there’s always some totally drunk girl who thinks you’re smitten by her, when what you’re wondering is if she’ll vomit on your shirt or instead on your shoes.”
“My point wasn’t parties, as you well know.”
At the south end of the sprawling complex, I parked the limo in a lot reserved for cars, pickups, and SUVs.
More or less thinking out loud, I said, “If he sees me before I see him, I’m probably toast.”
“Some amateur detectives are masters of disguise,” Mrs. Fischer said.
“Yeah, but Inspector Clouseau borrowed my master-of-disguise kit and never returned it.”
“Arm candy can be an effective disguise.”
“Arm candy?”
“An adorable grandmother clinging to your arm for support.”
“I’m not involving you in this, ma’am. You don’t know me, how dangerous it is to be around me. I’m grateful for the ride, but we part company here.”
From the glove box, she extracted a poofy black-and-green-plaid cap with a short bill and a plump upholstered button on top, the kind of thing sixty-year-old men wear when they buy a convertible sports car to impress women half their age.
“It belonged to Oscar. He had real style.”
“I hope his chauffeur’s uniform wasn’t a kilt. Ma’am, a hat isn’t much of a disguise.”
“Put it on. Put, put,” she insisted. From the glove compartment she withdrew a pair of sunglasses and handed them to me. “You can wear them, they aren’t prescription.”
Although the cap fit, I felt silly in it, as if I were trying to pass for a Scottish golfer circa 1910.
Zippering open a small leather case that she also took from the glove box, producing a two-ounce bottle containing a golden liquid, Mrs. Fischer said, “Let me paint some of this on your upper lip.”
“What’s that?”
“Spirit gum.” From the case, she plucked three or four little plastic bags. “Mustaches,” she said. “Different styles. A handlebar wouldn’t be right for your face. Something more modest. But not a pencil mustache, either. Too affected. Oh, I also have a chin beard!”
“Why would you carry a mustache-and-beard kit in your car?”
She seemed genuinely perplexed by my question. “Whyever wouldn’t I carry one?”
Gently but firmly I insisted, “I won’t wear a fake mustache.”
“Then a chin beard. You’ll be a whole new person.”
“I’ll look ridiculous.”
“Nonsense, Oddie. You’ll look impressively literary. With that cap and sunglasses and a chin beard, everyone will think you’re a famous poet.”
“What poet ever looked like that?”
“Virtually every beatnik poet, back in the day.”
“There are no beatniks anymore.”
“Because most of their poetry stank. You’ll write better,” she declared, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. “Stick out your chin.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. No. I respect my elders and all that, and you’ve been especially kind, but I won’t glue a beard on my chin. I don’t want to look like Maynard G. Krebs.”
“Who is Maynard G. Krebs?”
“He was Dobie Gillis’s friend on that old TV series maybe fifty years ago, they’re always rerunning it somewhere.”
“You don’t look like a lard-ass couch potato.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m not. It’s just that everything sticks with me, like even the name of Dobie Gillis’s friend.”
She beamed with obvious delight as she screwed the cap back onto the bottle. “You’re such a nice boy—and a genius, too.”
“Not a genius. Far from it. I just have a sticky mind.” I reached out to shake her hand. “Good-bye, good luck, God bless.”