“Yeah. And I don’t know. But I’m wondering if it has something to do with a couple of guys I actually ran into just the other day. Trying to sell the cops stun guns. When Trixie saw the story in the paper about them, she freaked out.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It may be related to something that happened in Canborough a few years ago. Some biker types who got murdered in a stripper bar.”

“You know that school trip I went on, back in high school, to Quebec City?” Angie asked.

“I think so, yeah.”

“One night, we went to this club where they had male strippers. I put a five right into this guy’s thong. I never had so much fun in my life.”

I pictured it, then tried not to. “How many other things have you done that I really don’t want to know about?”

Angie appeared thoughtful. “Seven,” she said. “No, eight.”

I gave her a look.

Angie said, “So, this Canborough thing, are you going to check that out?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. I was sort of thinking about it, in the back of my mind.”

“In the back of your mind,” Angie said. She took the lid off an Oreo, scraped off some filling with her teeth. “Exactly what kind of journalist are you, Dad?”

“Up until today, I was the paper’s top linoleum expert,” I said with mock pride. “Checking out what happened in Canborough might help me figure out where Trixie went.”

“We could get our car back,” Angie said brightly, as though being down a car were the biggest crisis facing our family at the moment.

“That’s true,” I said. “You know,” I added, “I might have a clue.”

Angie’s eyebrows went up. “I love clues,” she said.

I got up and found my jacket in the front hall closet and dug out the receipts I’d snatched from Trixie’s GF300 seconds before Flint had ordered me out of it.

“Where did you get these?” Angie asked, and I told her. She took them from me, went back into the kitchen where we could look at them under better light.

“What are they?” I asked.

Angie glanced at the first one. “A receipt here, for service, like an oil change or something? It’s for a place in Oakwood.”

That didn’t sound very helpful.

“And here’s one for a dry cleaner, also in Oakwood, another for a coffee at a drive-through, hang on, it’s one not far from where we used to live. Hang on, this one looks interesting.”

It was a gas receipt, from a place called Sammi’s Gas Station, with an address in a place called Groverton.

“Where the hell is Groverton?” I said.