The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [94]
“It’s not altogether his fault. It’s partly Charlie’s fault—but I am over him, I was never—on him. In love with Oliver? Ha-ha-ha! Don’t make me laugh.”
“That was the phoniest laugh I ever heard.”
“Because you’re not funny.”
“Have it your way. What are you doing today?”
“Don’t you know?”
“You’re studying for tomorrow’s final. You took a break to call your oldest living relative, but now you really have to get back to work.”
“How does she do it?”
“So I will graciously let you go. Next time you call, though, we’ll read the cards, see where this thing with Oliver’s going.”
“I’m graciously letting you go right now,” Molly said, and hung up.
Monday afternoon, after her Attachment and Affect exam, she checked her voice mail on both phone lines. Three people had called Madame Romanescu, including Donette, the lady whose husband was a dog; she left a long, rambling message and asked for a card-reading tonight. Poor woman—but she was money in the bank. On Molly’s regular line, two people had left messages : Mrs. Nathanson, saying thanks for house-sitting, and Oliver Worth, saying:
“Hello, this is Oliver Worth,” in his stuffed-shirt voice. “I got this number from my grandfather—I hope it’s Krystal Smith-Jones there. Uh . . . ah . . .” Throat-clearing. “I was wondering if we might meet for coffee or something. I’d like to speak with you about Charlie. I’m sure you can understand that it would set my mind at ease to know we both have his best interests at heart.”
Coughing. Paper rattling. A calendar? No, he’d have that on a BlackBerry.
“I happen to have a free hour tomorrow afternoon. Do you know the coffee shop in Dupont Circle called Bardot’s? If that’s all right, let’s say four o’clock. Call and let me know if you can make it, please.” He rattled off three numbers, home, office, and cell, and hung up.
Molly called the cell and got his voice mail. “Oliver, this is Krystal. Number one, I’m busy tomorrow, and number two, even if I weren’t, getting downtown at that hour would be incredibly inconvenient for me. I live in Kensington, you recall. So—the answer’s no, I just can’t take the time to set your mind at ease. Sorry.”
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
“Hm? Who’s this?”
“It’s Molly,” as if he didn’t know. “Charlie, why did you give Oliver my number?”
“Hm?”
“I said, why did you—what if he’d—what if my voice mail message gave my name, not just my number? What if I’d said, ‘Hi, you’ve reached Molly McDougal’? The jig would be up!”
“Hah. Never thought of that.”
“Why did you give him my number anyway?”
“Why not? What happened?”
“Nothing, he . . . nothing. He wants to talk to me. Wants to have coffee.”
“Well, that’ll be nice.”
“No, it won’t—I told him no.”
“How come?”
“Charlie! Oliver doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m . . . he thinks I’m . . .”
“What? What?”
“He thinks—I’m your paramour!”
Startled silence. Then a laughter explosion that went on so long, it turned into a coughing fit. “Whooo,” Charlie ended on a high note.
“Are you finished?”
“If only it was true,” he wheezed. “If only it was true. The mystery would be solved.”
“What mystery?”
“It’d be you who’s been thinking about me.”
Molly blew air through her lips. Pbbbb. Hopeless. “What am I going to do with you?”
“So what’s wrong with having a cuppa coffee with my grandson?”
“We don’t like each other.”
“You don’t like Oliver? Why not?”
“He’s mean.”
“He is not. You think so? No. He got beat up, still recovering. Taking a helluva long time, if you ask me.”
“Recovering from what?”
Charlie took several deep, sighing breaths. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
Frustrated curiosity had her practically dancing in place. It took every fiber of will to say, “Never mind, then. Of course I wouldn’t want you to betray a confidence.”
“Happened five or six years ago, maybe more. He was going out with this gal in California. Not sure how serious it was then, but o’ course it’s a huge deal now.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“They went to a party, and at the end, she was soberer than he was, so she got to be the designated driver.