“We enlarge our canvass zone.”
I shouldn't have asked.
Half hour later I was behind the wheel of the Buick. I'd rearranged my list according to geography, starting with the closest motels, working my way to Bordentown.
I'd called my father and asked him to please take my pickup back to the Nissan service center. He'd murmured something about throwing good money after bad, and that kids never listened anymore, and then he'd hung up.
By five o'clock I'd gone through two tanks of gas and had struck out from A to J. By five o'clock it had gotten very dark, and I wasn't looking forward to going home. Driving Uncle Sandor's Buick was like rolling along in my own private bomb shelter. Once I parked the bomb shelter in my parking lot, unlocked the door and set foot on the blacktop, I was open season for the Uncle Mo Fan Club.
I didn't feel like being open season on an empty stomach, so I detoured to my parents' house.
My mother was at the door when I pulled up to the curb. “What a nice surprise,” she said. “Are you staying for supper? I have a ham in the oven and butterscotch pudding for dessert.”
“Did you put pineapple and cloves on the ham?” I asked. “Are there mashed potatoes?”
The pager hooked to my belt started to beep. Ranger's number flashed on the screen.
Grandma came over and took a close look. “Maybe when my Social Security check comes in I'll get one of these gizmos.”
From deep in his chair in the living room my father boosted the sound on the TV.
I dialed Ranger's number on the kitchen phone.
“Who are you talking to?” Grandma Mazur wanted to know.
“Ranger.”
Grandma's eyes got wide. “The bounty hunter! What does he want?”
“A progress report. Nothing important.”
“You should ask him over for dinner.”
I put the phone to my chest. “I don't think that's a good idea.”
“Tell him we got ham,” Grandma said.
“I'm sure he's busy.”
My mother looked up from measuring out flour. “Who's busy?”
“Stephanie's boyfriend,” Grandma said. “The bounty hunter one. He's on the phone right now.”
“And he's too busy to come to dinner?” my mother said. More indignant disbelief than a question. “Whoever heard of such a thing? The man has to eat, doesn't he? Tell him we have plenty of food. Tell him we're setting an extra plate.”
“They're setting an extra plate,” I told Ranger.
There was a moment of silence at the other end.
“You come from a long line of scary women,” Ranger finally said.
Water bubbled up from the boiling potatoes and spattered on the stove. Red cabbage cooked in the two-quart pot. Peas and carrots simmered on the far burner. The kitchen windowpanes were frost-etched on the bottom and steamy on the top. The wall behind the stove had started to sweat.
My mother stabbed at the potatoes. “The potatoes are done,” she said.
“I have to go,” I told Ranger. “The potatoes are done.”
“What'll happen if I don't show up?” Ranger wanted to know.