BY THE TIME we got to the banana cream pie I was feeling antsy. Nowicki had called Kuntz, so Nowicki was alive, and that was good. Unfortunately, she was sending him airmail. Airmail meant distance. And distance was bad. Even more bothersome was the fact that Eddie Kuntz's napkin was moving on his lap without benefit of hands. My first inclination was to shout "Snake!" and shoot, but probably that wouldn't hold up in court. Besides, as much as I disliked Eddie Kuntz, I could sort of identify with a man who got a stiffie over banana cream pie.

I scarfed down a piece of pie and cracked my knuckles. I glanced at my watch. "Gee, look at the time!"

My mother gave me her resigned mother look. The one that said, So go . . . at least I got you to stay through desert and now I know you had one good meal this week. And why can't you be more like your sister, Valerie, who's married and has two kids and knows how to cook a chicken.

"Sorry, I have to run," I said, pushing back from the table.

Kuntz paused with his fork midway to his mouth. "What? We leaving?"

I retrieved my shoulder bag from the kitchen. "I'm leaving."

"He's leaving too," my father said, head bent over his pie.

"Well, this was nice," Grandma said. "This didn't go so bad."

KUNTZ DANCED behind me when I opened my car door. Up on the balls of his feet. Lots of energy. Tony Testosterone. "How about we go somewhere for a drink?"

"Can't. I've got work to do. I need to finish up a lead."

"Is this about Maxine? I could go with you."

I slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine over. "Not a good idea. But I'll give you a call if anything turns up."

Look out world. Bounty hunter in action.

The diner was less than half filled when I arrived. Most of the people were lingering over coffee. In another hour a younger crowd would straggle in for desert or fries after the movies let out.

The shift had changed, and I didn't recognize the woman working the register. I introduced myself and asked for Margie.

"Sorry," the woman said. "Margie didn't come in today. Called in sick. Said she might not be here tomorrow, either."

I retreated to my car and rummaged through my bag, searching for the list of family and friends I'd gotten from Kuntz. I ran down the list in the fading light. There was one Margie. No last name, no phone, and for address Kuntz had written "yellow house on Barnet Street." He'd also added that Margie drove a red Isuzu.