He’d made a chicken stew he’d learned to cook in Afghanistan, with raisins, coriander, and yogurt, and we did a reasonably good job of putting all our conflicts and worries to one side during the meal. I tried not to mind that Don drank most of the Torgiano—it’s a red wine from the Italian hill country where my mother grew up, and it’s not easy to find in Chicago. If I’d known Don was going to be there guzzling, I would have brought something French that was easier to replace.

37

Where the Buffalo Roam

Don and Morrell left as soon as they’d done the dishes.

I tried to interest myself in a novel, but residual fatigue, or worries about what was happening, maybe even jealousy, kept me from concentrating. I was even less successful with television.

I was pacing restlessly, thinking I’d be more comfortable in my own place, when my cell phone rang. It was Mr. William.

“Howdy,” I said affably, pretending it was a social call.

“Did you tell Grobian that the family had hired you?” he demanded without preamble.

“I cannot tell a lie. And I didn’t. You did hire me two weeks ago.”

“And fired you!”

“Please, Mr. Bysen: I resigned. I sent you a certified letter, and you begged and pleaded with me to keep hunting Billy. When I said no, you hired my pals at Carnifice.”

“Be that as it may—”

“Be that as it is!” I snapped, affability forgotten.

“Be that as it may,” he repeated as if I hadn’t spoken, “we need to talk to you. My wife and mother insist on being part of any conversation about Billy, so you need to come out to Barrington Hills at once.”

“You guys are truly amazing,” I said. “If you need to see me that badly, you can come down to my office in the morning. All ten of you. Bring your butler, too—I don’t care.”

“That’s a stupid suggestion,” he said coldly. “We have a company to run. Tonight is the one time—”

“You’ve been living with underemployed women too long, Bysen: I, too, have a company to run. And a life to live. I don’t need to placate you to keep on going, so I don’t need to jump every time you have a whim at a weird time of day or night.”

I heard some kind of agitated consultation in the background and then a woman came on the line. “Ms. Warashki? This is Mrs. Bysen. We’re all so worried about young Billy that we don’t always remember to say things the right way, but I hope you’ll disregard that and come out to talk to us. I would really, really appreciate it.”

Seeing all the Bysens together versus pacing restlessly around Morrell’s condo? At least in Barrington Hills, I’d get to see the floor show.