Free Dying Embers by Robert E. Bailey Page B

with a battered green Frisbee in his mouth. He dropped the toy so that it tumbled down the stairs, then studied me with expectant eyes, his tongue lolling in and out as he danced from paw to paw.
    â€œDark outside,” I said. His tongue stalled and his tail drooped. I picked up the Frisbee and gave it back to him. He took it and skulked off to climb into the ratty recliner that was “his” chair, and cast sullen eyes on me.
    â€œWe are getting stonewalled,” Wendy said into the telephone. “There’s no way we’re going to send the Dixon Agency a retainer to go and find their own employee.”
    She sat parked on a tall stool with her back resting against the island counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room. She gestured with her free hand as if whoever she was talking to stood right in front of her.
    Wendy, not quite a year younger than me, had never spread into the sturdy body style of middle age. Her summertime attire was a daily pilgrim’s progress. For the cool of the morning she was in sweats or slacks and long sleeves with her light brown hair on her shoulders. By noon she wore shorts and a tank top with her hair tied on top of her head. Thisevening was a flannel-shirt-worn-open-over-a-tank-top-and-shorts-with-her-hair-down kind of night.
    â€œNot a chance,” she said into the telephone. “We need to find him ourselves.”
    â€œCome on, Rusty,” said Ben from the foyer behind me. He pushed the screen door open and held it. Rusty erupted from the chair and rattled china with the two bounds it took him to get to the head of the stairs. I had climbed to the top of the steps and had to get out of the way or ride eighty pounds of canine enthusiasm down the stairwell.
    I walked out in front of Wendy, spread my arms and did a slow twirl for her to inspect my Western get up. Wendy put her hand over the telephone, arched her eyebrows and said in a horse whisper, “So where’s the milk and bread?” Outside I could hear Ben console Rusty about “Dem mean old guys,” and the gallop of Rusty’s paws on the gravel. I don’t know what was on my face but I could see the steam rise in Wendy’s.
    â€œNo,” she said, “Art just walked in. Was he wearing that silly outfit when he talked to you? You do.... I have no idea.... You’ll have to ask him.” She handed me the telephone, snatched Danny’s keys off the counter and stalked down the steps.
    With my hand over the telephone I said, “You’re going to miss the end of your show.”
    Wendy slammed the door as she left.
    â€œHowdy, pard,” I said, racking the telephone between my ear and shoulder while shrugging out of my jacket.
    â€œYou found Anne!” said Scott Lambert. “Wendy told me.”
    â€œYes, sir, I did.”
    â€œHow is she?”
    â€œShe’s well and surprised that you asked about her.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œThat wasn’t the deal,” I said, and hung my jacket in the hall closet.
    â€œThis is important to me,” said Scott.
    â€œYes, sir,” I said, and listened to a few long moments of silence.
    â€œHow do I know you really found her?”
    â€œShe said to tell you, ‘Tacos, no onions.’”
    He said, “Oh God! She told you about that?”
    â€œJust what I said. What did you do, order your dinner without onions and have to wait at the counter?”
    â€œSure!” he said.
    â€œShe has your number. She may call. The rest is up to you.”
    â€œI’ll give you ten thousand shares. I have to know where she is. She can’t be far if you’ve found her already.”
    â€œGood grief, Scott, I just gave her your number today!” I took the pistol off my hip and set it on top of the refrigerator. “Give her a chance.”
    â€œI have to know how to contact Anne.”
    â€œWhere are you now?”
    â€œWashington, D.C.”
    â€œHow