Grace Cries Uncle by Julie Hyzy Page B

I inherited that.”
    Putting her hands out as though to say, “Keep it away from me,” she continued to stare at Bootsie as though she’d never encountered a feline before. “Does it have the run of the house?”
    â€œI’ll keep her out of your room,” I said, “but remember, you’re the guest here. She’s not.”
    â€œI’m probably allergic, too,” she said.
    â€œProbably. I suggest keeping your distance.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I will.”
    Bootsie, for her part, seemed content to study our visitor from the safety of my arms. She was usually eager to flirt with a new person. Not this time.
    â€œOne more thing—when you come in and out of the house, you need to make sure Bootsie doesn’t get out. She’s an indoor cat and wouldn’t stand a chance against the feral ones, not to mention the coyotes and other hungry critters we have out here.”
    â€œFine,” she said as she pulled her coat off. “Any other surprises I ought to know about?”
    I pulled up the list I’d compiled. “Basic stuff. Housekeeping. I reserve the right to add new rules as I see fit.”
    â€œWhat’s happened to you, Grace?” she asked. “I haven’t been back here in years and you don’t seem to be the least bit concerned about what I’ve been through.”
    I bit my tongue before rising to the bait, before jumping down her throat over her “all about me,” question.
    Instead, I turned away, letting Bootsie go. As she ran into the dining room, I washed my hands again. “I’m about to make dinner. It’ll take a while.”
    She dropped her coat and bag on one chair and lowered herself into another. “I knew you were finally home because your car was on the driveway. How come you don’t use the garage? Is it still chock-full of garbage?”
    â€œMom’s papers and a lot of her belongings are still out there, yes,” I said. “I’d hardly call it garbage.”
    â€œYou knew what I meant.”
    I began slicing zucchini and peeling eggplant, watching Liza out of the corner of my eye. She kept her head bent, quietly reading my list of rules. Every so often, over the sound of my knife hitting the cutting board, I heard her grunt. With amusement or disapproval, I didn’t know.
    Eventually, she raised her head. “Seems fair,” she said.
    I’d expected pushback on a few of the items. “Good. Now that we have that settled, I need a few answers.”
    â€œWhat if you don’t like what you hear?”
    I turned to face her, unable to prevent myself from sighing. “I don’t care, Liza. I don’t care what you did, what you didn’t do. I don’t care who you are, or where you plan to go next. All I do care about is the truth. On a couple of very simple matters.”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    My big chef’s knife in my hand, I gestured. “First, and most important, who is Alvin Clark?”
    That was clearly not the first question she’d been expecting. “Who?” The look on her face told me that she wasn’t faking bewilderment. That much I knew I’d be able to tell. Over the years I’d grown adept at recognizing when she was lying. The name didn’t register with her.
    â€œAll right,” I said, still watching her. “What about Emilio Ochoa?”
    She shook her head slowly. Again, I could detect no prevarication. “Where are you coming up with these names? Who are these people?”
    â€œIs there any reason that a man from Los Angeles might be looking for you?”
    She blinked. Surprised again? Yes, but this time there was something more behind her eyes. Fear? “No, I can’t imagine . . . Why are you asking? What’s going on?”
    I fixed my gaze on her. “Let’s try this again. Can you thinkof any reason why someone would track you here? Are