Free Caught Read-Handed by Terrie Farley Moran Page B

address under wraps but I know he has a beach house near the south end of the island. He’s your guy. Hold on. I’ll get you his phone number.”
    I found a dog-eared receipt from Walgreens in my purse and fished out a pen so when Cady came back on the line I was ready to scribble the phone number across the back.
    He was slower than I liked in getting me the information but I finally had what I needed, so I was gracious with my thanks.
    When I rang the doorbell of the Merskys’ temporary home, Regina opened the door instantly. “Sassy, you’ve been such a help. And this apartment is so nicely kept. It is a charming place to stay while we get Alan’s troubles . . . sorted out.”
    I gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze and went looking for George.
    O’Mally was sitting at the kitchen table, writing a grocery list. “George, do you want me to look for some fish, maybe a nice piece of snapper, while I’m at the market? And I suppose you’ll want your cocoa for nighttime?”
    George was staring absently out the window but he managed to nod at each of her suggestions.
    O’Mally looked up as I walked into the room. “Sassy, darlin’, I was thinking Regina and I could run to that supermarket you said was around here someplace while you and George have a little tête-à-tête about, er, whatever you’re going to do about Alan.”
    Shouldn’t it be O’Mally talking to George? I didn’t want to get any further absorbed into their family problem than I already was. I’d be more than willing to do chores such as shopping, but O’Mally had already stuffed the shopping list in her sparkly silver purse and called Regina to be ready to go. She stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Sassy, where exactly am I going?”
    I gave her directions to Publix, about a quarter of a mile down the boulevard, and she flew out of the kitchen, her orange scarf swerving back and forth like a rudder.
    When the door closed behind his wife and sister, George gave a deep sigh. He walked over to the table and sat with his elbows on it and his head buried in his hands. Finally he looked up at me.
    â€œSassy, what am I going to do? Regina and O’Mally are counting on me to make this right. I don’t even know how to start. I guess I should find out how to visit Alan, see if he needs anything . . .”
    I waited half a beat and then told George the procedure Frank Anthony had outlined over the phone. I ended with, “The lieutenant said they don’t like hordes of visitors. You and Regina may be able to visit Alan together or may have to go in separately. It’s likely they won’t let O’Mally in to see Alan at all.”
    George waved my comment away as if the visiting regulations were inconsequential. He’d already moved on to the next item on his list. “I can’t figure out what I should bring him. Oranges. He always liked oranges. I should have asked the girls to buy some. And I guess he needs a razor. Oh, will they let him have a razor? Maybe an electric? Better yet, battery operated.”
    He leaned back in the chair and placed his hands on top of his head and began staring at the ceiling. When we worked together at Howard Accounting, I’d watched him stretch into that position a thousand times while he puzzled out a client’s finances when the numbers didn’t add up. Apparently that was how he tried to work out all his life issues large or small, personal or professional.
    I admit it was nostalgic for me to sit watching him ponder. In the old days, the signal that he had unraveled a knotty problem was a slam of his fist on the desk, and a suggestion that we break for a cup of tea. Sure enough in a few minutes he punched the table and said, “I hope O’Mally remembers to get tea and fresh lemons.”
    â€œOkay, now I have a plan. I wonder if there is any paper around here.”