The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [601]
He was in misery, Becca knew that, but there was nothing she could do except say over and over, “Tyler, I know it isn’t Ann. They’ll prove it was someone else, you’ll see.”
“How?”
“If they can’t figure out who she was, then they’ll check for runaways. There are DNA tests. They’ll find out. Then there are going to be a whole lot of folk apologizing to you on their hands and knees.”
He looked at her and said nothing at all.
Becca went shopping at Food Fort at eight o’clock the next night, hoping the store would be nearly empty. She moved quickly down the aisles. The last item on her list was peanut butter, crunchy. She found it and picked up a small jar, saw that it had a web of mirrored cracks in it, and started to call out to one of the clerks, only to have it break apart in her hands. She yelped and dropped it. It splattered all over jars of jams and jellies before smashing onto the floor at her feet. She stood there staring down at the mess.
“I see you buy natural, not sugar-added. That’s the only kind I’ll eat.”
She whirled around so fast she slid on the peanut butter and nearly careened into the soup. The man caught her arm and pulled her upright.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Let me get you another jar. Here comes a young fellow with a mop. Better let him wipe off the bottom of your sneaker.”
“Yes, of course.” The man not two feet from her was a stranger, which didn’t mean all that much since she hadn’t met everyone in town. He was wearing a black windbreaker, dark jeans, and Nike running shoes. He was careful not to step into the peanut butter. Her first impression was that he was big and he looked really hard and his hair was on the long side, and as dark as his eyes.
“The only thing,” he continued after a moment, “it’s a real pain to have to stir the peanut butter before you put it in the refrigerator. The oil always spills over the sides and on your hands.” He smiled, but his eyes still looked hard, as if he looked at people and saw all the bad things they were trying to hide, and was used to it, maybe even philosophical about it. She didn’t want him looking at her that way, seeing deep into her. She didn’t want to talk to him. She just wanted to get out of there.
“Yes, I know,” she said, and took a step back.
“Once I got used to it, though, I found I couldn’t eat the other peanut butter, too much sugar.”
“That’s true.” She took another step away from him. Who was he? Why was he trying to be so nice?
“Miss Powell, I’m Young Jeff. Ah, Old Jeff is my pop, he’s the assistant manager. Just hold still and I’ll clean off your sneaker.” He picked up her foot, nearly sending her over backward. The man held her up while Young Jeff wiped a wet paper towel over the bottom of her sneaker. He was very strong, she could feel it since his hands were in her armpits. “I’m sure glad you’re here, ma’am. I wanted to know if that poor dead skeleton was Mrs. McBride. Everyone is talking about how it can’t be anybody else, what with Mrs. McBride just up and disappearing like she did not all that long ago. Everyone says you know it’s Mrs. McBride, too, that you were sure, but how could you be? Did you meet Mrs. McBride?”
He finally released her foot. She pulled away from Young Jeff and the man, a good two feet. She felt cold, very cold. She rubbed her hands over her crossed arms. “No, Jeff, I never met Ann McBride. I didn’t know anything about her. No one said a single word to me about her. Also, everybody is being premature. Now, I’ll just bet that we’ll be hearing very soon that the poor woman I found can’t be Ann McBride. You tell everyone I said that.”
“I will, Miss Powell, but that’s not what Mrs. Ella says. She thinks it’s Ann McBride, too.”
“Believe me, Jeff, I was there, and I saw the skeleton; Mrs. Ella didn’t. Hey, I’m sorry about the mess. Thanks for cleaning off my shoe.”
The man stuck out his arm and helped her over the shards of glass. “Young Jeff is a teenage boy with