“A woman named Anna Bell Mercer.”
“Where?”
“About forty miles south.”
Dad frowned.
“I know that name.”
I looked at him.
“From where?”
“The garden.”
Of course.
“Anna comes here?”
“Sometimes.”
“What does she look like?”
Dad described a woman in her mid-sixties who drove an old green Subaru and always picked onions.
I remembered her from Saturday.
The woman with the cane.
“You’ve known Ruth’s granddaughter this entire time?”
“I didn’t know she was Ruth’s granddaughter.”
“Have you considered asking people more questions?”
Dad thought about it.
“No.”
We found Anna the next Saturday.
She arrived shortly after six carrying two grocery bags.
Dad stopped her near the onions.
“Your grandmother was Ruth Bell.”
Anna looked startled.
“You figured that out?”
“You knew?”
“Of course.”
Dad stared.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Anna smiled.
“You never asked.”
I laughed so loudly three people turned around.
