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pout on her face.
    “Why is that?”
    I didn’t think I was really supposed to come up with an answer.
    “I know! I remember! I wasn’t given a name, that’s why!” And she giggled.
    “Maybe you were given initials?” I asked quietly.
    “Could be.” She shrugged and smiled. I let it go and, instead, pointed at the time on the message. The call had come in an hour and a half ago.
    Sunshine beamed that smile at me and nodded, proud, perhaps, to have written down what each line on the little form required.
    “It says ‘While You Were Out,’ but I was here the entire time,”
    I said.
    “They come from the store with that already written on it,” she said. “Should I have crossed it out?”
    “No, no. I meant . . . the messengers—those children who are here during the day, one or two per hour?—it’s sort of a tradition to have them carry messages. Bring messages up to the teachers. It doesn’t interrupt class or anything, and sometimes messages can be urgent.”
    She looked as if I’d given her a gift. “Thank you!” she said. “I 22
    CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
    had no idea, but now I do! Thanks again. People here are so incredibly kind!”
    I walked a few steps away and turned on my cell phone. Mackenzie had a class in an hour and was probably en route, but he also had a phone, so there was a chance he could explain what he’d meant—or what he’d actually said. And maybe after that, I’d try to help Sunshine understand that she had to include information even if she couldn’t turn every word into a rebus puzzle.
    “I told it all to that—who was that?” C. K. said.
    “I suspected as much,” I murmured.
    “Except the client’s address and name. Didn’t want to entrust anything serious.”
    He’s a wise man.
    “The woman’s a block from where you are. Other side of the square.” He’d upped the tempo of his sentences. I imagined him checking his watch, driving faster. “If you could do the interview, get all the information she has, a photo if you can—and more important, get a sense why she wants it. I need a feel for her.”
    “Fine. What’s it about?” I loved the unspoken words, that Mackenzie trusted me, was ready to rely on my take on the situation, and my evaluation of what I’d see and hear.
    “Need to make sure this isn’t a stalker case. She wasn’t all that forthcoming.”
    “Hasn’t she seen old movies? She’s supposed to swagger in, sit on the edge of your desk, cross her legs, and spill her guts or con you.”
    “She’s got physical problems. Incapable of swaggering.”
    I didn’t want to break the collegial mood by suggesting that a physically challenged stalker was, possibly, an oxymoron, although the concept of a stalker on a walker was almost entertaining enough to make it a worthwhile risk. “Do you think she didn’t want to meet up with you in person?”
    “That’s what you’ll find out.”
    23
    GILLIAN ROBERTS
    I liked everything about this. About us. And about a stalker who wouldn’t leave home. Must be frustrating, to say the least.
    “Name’s Claire Fairchild,” he said. “Wants a background check.”
    Even better.
    “On her future daughter-in-law.”
    End of the investigative fantasy honeymoon. I was indignant on behalf of this unknown future daughter-in-law. The back of my neck heated in vicarious outrage as I imagined how I’d feel if I found out that Gabby Mackenzie had hired someone to check me out.
    “You there?”
    “Yes, but I hate the idea of—”
    “Of not being objective? Of taking only clients whose interests and activities dovetail with our worldview?”
    Nice of him to use the word our while he kindly reminded me that I’d vowed to be less judgmental and to understand that few investigators were nominated for the Nobel Prize, and that the Pennsylvania P.I.’s code of ethics doesn’t include “refusing to work with people whose behavior doesn’t appeal to you.” For some reason, they’d also left Honing to Amanda