“I know. I will.” I rose to leave. “Thanks for the lunch, but I lost my appetite.” I headed for the door but paused and turned back as an idea struck. John Rittle was a far-fetched option, but he was the only suspect I had. And Darcy had connections. “Albert Jones and John Rittle were cousins. I was wondering if you could look into both of them and see if there was anything there that might lead somewhere?”
“You believe John Rittle could have something to do with it?”
“I’ve no clue. But I also don’t know anything about him besides that he hates vampires. I also know next to nothing about Albert Jones.”
Darcy frowned but nodded. “I will see what I can turn up and inform you what I find.”
“Thanks.” I turned to go.
“Wickham?”
I looked back. “Yeah?”
“If you really do care for her, once everything is calmed down, maybe you can do things again, if she’ll have you.”
I let out a low laugh. “Are things ever calmed down? Besides, Lydia isn’t the type to give second chances, and I don’t think I’d want her to. It would make her less… Lydia.”
“One more thing.” He stared at the fire, looking uncomfortable. “You’re welcome to come by anytime... maybe… we can hang out like we used to?”
The awkwardness with which he said it was so Darcy that I couldn’t help but smile. It was small, but it felt as if something was thawing between us, and a little bit of relief rushed through me at the thought. “Perhaps I will. Thanks Darcy.”
Chapter 10
Istoodoutside,watchingthe Bennets’ home until night fell. And then, for once, probably because I was awaiting Darcy’s information and couldn’t move forward, my compulsion allowed me to go to my place and rest.
The next day, I stepped out of my townhome into the freezing air. Another blanket of snow had fallen, bathing the world in a fresh, untouched layer of white. After brushing off my Jeep, I got in, putting my key into the ignition. It didn’t start. I frowned and tried again, but it didn’t even sputter. In a way, I was relieved. I wasn’t eager for what I needed to do next but also couldn’t put it off any longer. At least for the moment, my broken Jeep took my mind off things.
I went outside and raised the hood, peering down at all the parts of a vehicle that I was unfamiliar with. I did simple tasks, such as checking the fluids, but everything looked good.
The door to Mr. Rothschild’s home creaked open, and he stepped out fully bundled, walking right up to me. “Step aside, son, let me take a look."
He crowded into the space in front of the Jeep, and I edged back. “Do you know much about vehicles?”
“I should say so. Worked throughout college and a little after as a mechanic for a big car company. That is until I became too invested in a secret mechanic fight club.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “A… fight club? For mechanics?”
Mr. Rothschild pulled a flashlight out and leaned over the vehicle, even though it was daytime and the sun shone overhead. “Well, it started as a joke, you see. But then I almost lost a pinky in a wrench duel and realized it was time for a career change.”
If anyone else had told me that story, I might have laughed it off as something made up, but coming from Mr. Rothschild, that sounded about right.
“Where’s your little wife been?” he asked. “Thought I’d see her more often around here.”
“She’s been spending some time with her family,” I hedged, hoping not to get into it.
“Thought she’d want to spend more time with you, being newlyweds and all. When I first got married many years ago, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.” He glanced up and wriggled his thick grey eyebrows at me.
I rubbed my neck, unsure how to respond or how to picture a young and married Mr. Rothschild. “Oh, um, that’s good.”
“Hmm, seems like this is going to take some time. Let me get my tools. Oh, and here.” He tossed me the keys to his car. “Heaven knows I don’t need you standing here distracting me from work. Go get done whatever you were planning to do.”
I smiled. As quirky as my neighbor was, I wouldn’t want him any other way. “Thanks, Mr. Rothschild.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said as he headed off to retrieve his tools. “I enjoy being handy once in a while.”
I drove perhaps more slowly than necessary to the Bennets’ home in Mr. Rothschild’s 1992 dark-blue station wagon with the wood paneling on the side. The interior smelled of peppermint and a hint of cinnamon chewing gum.
Things would most likely go better if I knocked on their living space door around back and went in the proper wayinstead of bursting through Cupid’s Confections. I also wanted to avoid making a scene.
