I hadn’t noticed. Everything I’d heard had been filtered through my own concern and, yes, anger that Wendy was putting her family in such a strange position.

“But the story does explain why she wasn’t listed as a guest.”

Sophie still looked skeptical. “So on the subject of the unnamed employee? If anybody paid attention to the table where the doctor and Wendy were sitting like, you know, the server? They would have described her to the police by now. This mysterious woman is probably back. And since we’re told she works there, she’s probably heard the description of the woman who had dinner with Calvo and another man. And she’s probably wondering if that woman is Wendy. And by now she’s probably told the sheriff your sister’s name.”

“If she has, nobody’s interested. Nobody’s called here looking for her.”

“How would anybody who doesn’t have my skills or resources get Wendy’s home number?”

“Through Gracey Group. The woman knew who she was. Maybe even her cell.”

“The cell that’s permanently disabled.”

I imagined calling Gracey Group in a little while and talking to whoever had taken Ella Cramer’s place. What would I ask? Oh, by the way, has the sheriff called looking for my sister?

“Did you ever try to get into her voice mail?” Sophie asked.

In the week that had passed, I had tried birthdays and anniversaries as passwords. “No luck. The phone still does that beepy thing when I lift the receiver.”

“Somebody in a uniform may have called from New Mexico. Next stop? Your front door.”

“I need to check further, don’t I?” I got up and she followed me inside. I lifted the receiver. “Thoughts?”

“You are pretty hopeless.”

“Ask me anything you want about a cell phone, but I don’t own a landline. And remember, no phone bills, so I don’t know who the provider is.”

“So dial the home number for starters. Area code first.”

I knew that much and punched it in, nodding to Sophie. So far so good. I listened to the menu and punched the required 7 and waited. I listened again and shook my head. “Now I need Wendy’s code to get the messages.”

“Does it tell you how many digits?”

“Six. I’ve tried every combination I can think of.”

“The address here?”

I winced. The address was six numbers. “Well, not that one.” I tried it but voice mail hung up on me.

I replaced the receiver. “Even robots don’t like me.”

Sophie looked at her watch. “Call Glenn. If anybody can help you retrieve her messages, it’s our spy guy.”

Glenn Peters ran a shop in Boynton Beach named I Spy, which specialized, as the name implied, in surveillance equipment and other spy gear. He had consulted with us numerous times as we considered ways to get the information we’d needed for Out in the Cold. I was never sure exactly how legal his suggestions were, but in a world where Russian interference in elections was daily news, I figured that whatever Glenn suggested might, at most, earn us a slap on the wrist.