About That Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

door.
    Once again, Walker was forced to reassess the woman. He’d allowed himself to forget for just an instant that appearances could be deceiving. Right now he had a panicky feeling that she intended to take him straight to wherever this nephew of his was, introduce them, then abandon them to fend for themselves, her duty done. He was nowhere near ready for that. He would never be ready for that.
    â€œWhoa,” he said, standing stock-still in the middle of the corridor. “Where’s the fire?”
    â€œIt’s almost dinnertime in these parts and I’m starved, Detective. I missed lunch waiting for you. We can talk over food.” She gave him a thorough once-over. “Besides, next to music, I hear it’s the best thing for soothing a savage beast.”
    He chuckled, caught off-guard by the display of humor. “And that would be me?”
    â€œYou do pride yourself on it, don’t you? I could tell that when we talked on the phone.”
    â€œIn my line of work, it’s helpful,” he said, feeling defensive about his initial display of rudeness when she’d called.
    â€œI’m sure it is,” she agreed. “But down here we like to think we’re more civilized.”
    Outside, she gestured toward her car, a brand-new Mustang convertible that surprised him yet again. “I’ll drive,” she said.
    He regarded the car with envy. “I’ll be even more agreeable if you’ll let me.”
    â€œBecause you don’t trust a woman behind the wheel?”
    He heard the unmistakable challenge in her voice, but he didn’t need to lie. “Because I’ve been dying to test-drive one of these babies and haven’t had the chance,” he countered with absolute honesty.
    She tossed him the keys. “In that case, it’s all yours, Detective.”
    She directed him back onto the highway and into town, then down a side street past the stately old courthouse with its square of grass in front to the Inn at Montross. Tucker regarded the historic facade and little flower-lined brick patio doubtfully. Places like this gave him hives.
    â€œIsn’t there someplace we can get a basic burger and some fries?”
    â€œI’ll refrain from commenting on your deplorable eating habits,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I’m relatively certain you’ll find something on the menu here that will do. And they’ve done me a favor by keeping the kitchen open past their usual lunch hour.”
    Walker remained skeptical as they climbed the brick steps into the white building that dated back to the 1600s, according to a sign by the front door. He stepped into the wide foyer, glanced around at the antiques and the open, airy rooms and began to revise his opinion. The place had big-city class, he’d give it that.
    Without waiting for a hostess, Mrs. Jackson led the way onto a closed-in front porch and settled at a table by an open window. “Sit down, Detective. I promise you the chef can offer more than tea sandwiches.”
    Duly chastised, Walker sat. The social worker regarded him with amusement.
    â€œI’m sorry I couldn’t offer you a fast-food place. The nearest one is miles away, and I got the distinct impression that you’re in a hurry.”
    â€œAlways am.”
    â€œWell, then, as soon as we order, we’ll get right to it.”
    Ten minutes later, Walker had a beer in front of him and the promise of a blackened chicken wrap sandwich that would bring tears to his eyes. When it came, Mrs. Jackson watched with amusement as it did just that.
    â€œToo spicy for you, Detective?”
    â€œNo,” he insisted, gulping half his beer to tame the taste. “Best sandwich I ever had.” He nodded toward the piping hot potatoes accompanying it. “Best fries, too.”
    â€œBetter than a fast-food restaurant?” she inquired, eyes twinkling.
    â€œAre you teasing me, Mrs.