Free Ruby's Slippers by Leanna Ellis Page B

ma’am.” He pulls a black wallet from his breast pocket, flips it out, then back, and slides it back into his pocket. “FBI.”
    “Oooh! You’re in trouble.” Maybelle’s heavily made-up eyes are big and round. Her faded lipstick-stained lips pinch together.
    The man does look official, with a government haircut and plain suit. He’s relatively nondescript as if he could be anyone, fit into any crowd. Except for the blue suit, which doesn’t fit in here at the extended-care facility. Scrubs, warm-ups, or pajamas are the usual attire. Only preachers and funeral directors wear suits here.
    Feeling my stomach contract, I motion to the doorway that leads to the hall. “We could go down to my room.”
    “That’ll be fine, ma’am.”
    Maybelle starts to rise.
    “It’s okay.” I motion her back.
    We pass Frank Porter sitting in the hallway in his wheelchair. He saves French fries from his lunch for Otto. “I hear your dog whining, Dottie. Aren’t you going to let him out?”
    “Later,” I say, aware of the FBI man behind me.
    Opening the door, I nudge Otto back with my foot, then decide it might be better to hold him. He rubs the top of his head against my chin. But his body stiffens when he sees the FBI agenda—um, agent—behind me. “Shh, it’s okay. No barking.”
    The agent closes the door, cutting me off from the rest of the facility. My nerves jangle a warning, but I silence them. This is probably about the tornado. Or maybe the upcoming auction. “What can I do for you?”
    “Do you know Abigail Meyers Edgerton?”
    I sit in the chair by the window, not offering the only one I have to my guest who is not really a guest. “Of course. She’s my sister.”
    He nods and jots something down in a palm-size notebook he’s pulled from his jacket pocket. “And do you know her current location?”
    “Not really. No.”
    “Her residence?”
    “L.A.”
    “Address?”
    It surprises me that I don’t know. I never memorized her address but had it written down in my address book at home. Which was probably lost in the storm. “I lost all my records in the storm. The facility here may have that information, Mr… .”
    He gives a slight nod. “I see. And—”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “We are seeking Ms. Edgerton—or does she go by Meyers?—for questioning. When was the last time you saw her?”
    “I’m not sure. She visited me here while I was in a coma, I believe.” Suddenly I wonder if that’s the reason I haven’t seen her. Does she know our father has been here? Is she trying to find him too? I rub my temple, wish my brain was working at full capacity.
    The man scribbles something in his notebook. He walks along the length of my bed, his brown shoes scuffing the linoleum as he comes to a halt. He stares out the window for a moment and crosses his arms over his barrel-sized chest, brushing a waxy leaf on the potted plant beside him. “You seem like the type who wants to cooperate.” He turns andsettles his gaze on me. His eyes, narrowly set in a square face, are the color of toasted wheat. “It’s about the shoes, ma’am.”
    “Shoes?” I swallow hard, give my head a shake as if I’ve misheard.
    “The ruby slippers. Do you know where they are?”
    My skin contracts and heat rushes to the surface. “I … uh …” My hand cups my forehead.
    “Do you know why your sister might have an interest in the shoes?”
    I can only stare at this man. Words fail me.
    “The shoes, Miss Meyers, are considered stolen property.”
    “Stolen property?” I repeat the words as if trying to decipher their meaning.
    “Crossed state lines. A pair was stolen from the Judy Garland Museum in Grand Rapids.”
    None of this makes sense. Words and phrases twist around in my head and hog-tie my tongue.
    “Ma’am?”
    I blink.
    “Are you okay?”
    I shake my head. Or do I nod? My ears vibrate with the pounding of my pulse.
    He waits a minute or two, I’m not sure how long. Finally, he scribbles something