The Moche Warrior (33 page)

He smiled suddenly. “Thanks for calling me, finally.” He paused for a minute or two. “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” I replied. “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” he said. “Are you still in love with Clive?”

“Nope,” I replied, and meant it.

“How about Lucas?”

“No,” I said. “Over him too.”

“Do you fancy that Steve fellow?”

“Maybe,” I said.

He sighed. “Well, as the song goes, two out of three ain’t bad, I guess.”

“I don’t know how I feel about Steve,” I repeated. “But I called you.” And that is where we’ve left it for now.

I do feel slightly guilty about it, though. Ms. Perfect, Rob’s pal Barbara, has left him. She did not take kindly to his emptying out the joint bank account and heading off to Peru to get me. I’m not sure it was the money part of it that was really bothering her, either.

I have a feeling Sarah Greenhalgh is beginning to question whether she’s cut out for retail. Needless to say, having someone murdered in your shop, then having the store trashed and burned, and your partner, suspected of insurance fraud, disappear for a few weeks hasn’t helped much. I won’t be surprised if she asks me to buy back her share of the business. If she does, the outcome will, I expect, be determined by the mood of my bank manager.

The best part is we’re back in business. The insurance man, Rod McGarrigle, delivered the check personally, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him grovel. There is that to be thankful for, and, more than anything, the fact that Alex has recovered fully from his injuries. Sometimes I just stand in the store, looking about me, thinking how happy I am to be there, with Alex puttering about in the back, friends nearby, and my cat in the window.

Other than that, I can only report that, like so many objects stolen from Peru, the peanut has not been found. On the plus side, the ‘pocalypse has yet to take place.

There is one other incident, I suppose, that I should relate. Shortly after I got home, I went over to Moira’s, and sat at her kitchen table having a coffee. I had a sense of someone else in the house, I’m not sure why.

“We were terribly worried about you,” Moira said, patting my hand, “and we’re so glad you’re home.”

There was something in the way she said it, a faint emphasis, perhaps, on the “we.” “Who’s we?” I asked, but I knew, even as the words came out of my mouth, that this was going to be one of those moments in life.