"Do you plan to fly out to the funeral if she passes away?" I asked.
"I hadn't thought about it," was her terse reply before hanging up.
Betsy was busy on her computer when I entered our kitchen the following morning. She'd located two promising missing children cases from the past forty-eight hours. She was anxious to convey the information to Quinn and Howie but it was too early in California. Molly joined us, dressed in a new outfit Betsy purchased for her the prior day.
"I wish the school year was just starting instead of ending this week," she said as she shoveled down oatmeal, topped with honey.
"No butterflies in your tummy?" Betsy asked with a smile. Molly shook her head no, her cheeks puffy with her breakfast.
We were finding make work at the office increasingly boring but I suspected our absence would produce unwanted curiosity. Therefore, at least one of us opened the door and offered some semblance of an active enterprise. I was the logical candidate as both women had children needing attention. The next three days were so spent.
It was difficult to believe we'd slipped into a routine. Betsy would convey cases to Quinn and Howie, with Julie presumably assisting. When they finished, Quinn would call Martha at home, and let her listen to the recording of the session. If Howie was successful and a tip was in order, Martha would call me and after Betsy would find the most appropriate authority to call, I'd convey the tip. Over the three day period, we located one lost boy, identified two girls as runaways and fingered a true abduction. The pedophile was apprehended after I strongly convinced a country sheriff I knew what I was talking about and not giving false testimony.
"Are you this psychic nut? 'Cause if you are, I have to tell you, I don't buy that shit."
"I don't give a shit what you believe, Sheriff; just do your job and get this bastard before he rapes and kills that boy!" Betsy read a notice on the Internet a day later that the culprit was beaten and in serious condition, after allegedly resisting arrest.
Any conversations I had with Martha were short, bordering on abrupt. Not so, between Betsy and Martha, according to my wife. She even visited Martha and Claire with Molly each afternoon. I assumed my childhood chum was disappointed in me alone.
I feared my unique relationship with Martha was terminally damaged and if so, I was heartbroken. We had always teetered on the edge, Martha and me, even as young children, playing you-show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine and sneaking to places forbidden. But we'd always remained a step away, like Martha once said, to retain our perfect friendship. Was it her drunken advances or the information I'd withheld from her? I didn't know, but it bothered me immeasurably. qqq