The Dead Drop (13 page)

16

The Profiler

Gilda stuffed several letters to Wendy into three fat envelopes, addressed and stamped them, then dialed her mother’s cell phone number, thinking she should probably check in on developments in Ferndale. Between Spy Camp and her discovery of the dead-drop site in the cemetery, she hadn’t thought much about calling home, and it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t heard from her mother.

“Gilda! Hello!”

Her mother’s voice sounded more jolly than usual, which made Gilda suspicious.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m actually at work right now; I’ve been taking on a couple extra shifts, trying to save up some money for Stephen’s college applications.”

“Can’t he just go to community college and keep mowing lawns part time?”

“He may have to if I don’t get more money saved up here. But the good news is that his instructors at math camp think he could qualify for a scholarship to University of Michigan.”

“That’s great.” Gilda knew that her older brother would go to some great university and that he would find some way to pay for it. It practically went without saying because Stephen had been working hard all through school with a single-minded determination. Gilda was proud of him, but sometimes she envied his sense of clear, practical purpose—the way he knew exactly what he wanted to study and how to make that happen. Next to Stephen, her own aspirations sometimes seemed outlandish, unlikely, and hard to explain.

Gilda heard someone giggling in the background. Her mother covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Are you sure?” she whispered. “Oh—I don’t know. Oh, you’re too much!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of patients? It sounds like you’re having a cocktail party over there.”

“It’s surprisingly slow on our shift right now, so my friend Lucy here is helping me with something.” Gilda’s mother covered the mouthpiece of the phone again and giggled. “That looks good.”

“What are you
doing
?”

Gilda wished, as she often did, that she had surveillance equipment hooked up so she could simply push a button and see exactly what was going on. Why was her mother distracted and giggling like a teenager? Why wasn’t she asking what Gilda was doing in Washington, D.C.?

“Your mother is a hottie,” she heard a man in the background say.

“I beg your pardon!” Gilda practically shouted into the phone. “I demand to know what is going on over there!”

“Calm down, Gilda.”

This only made Gilda feel more annoyed. Whenever her mother said “Calm down, Gilda,” it only made her more certain there was good reason to feel agitated.

“I’m sorry; you caught me at an awkward time. My friends here—” Mrs. Joyce broke into another fit of nervous laughter. “If you can believe it, my friends here have taken it upon themselves to write an online dating profile for me.”

“An online dating profile? Like those classified ads that say ‘Women seeking men’?” Gilda’s Grandma Joyce sometimes read classified personal ads from the newspaper over her coffee and chortled at them with obvious contempt. Did people like her mother do that sort of thing? Wasn’t her mother too old? Gilda didn’t like the sound of this. Although she had managed to tolerate her mother’s last ill-fated boyfriend, Brad, she had far preferred the past few months when her mother had had no dates at all and had spent her evenings taking up knitting and occasionally going bowling with some friends from work. Who knew what kind of loonies an “online dating profile” might bring into the house?

“Well—it’s just a way to meet people, that’s all. My friends think it might be a way to find someone I have something in common with.”

“Grandma Joyce always says there are crazies out there on the dating scene.”

“Yes—we’ve all heard Grandma Joyce say that many times. But just because she’s too scared to try dating doesn’t mean the rest of us have to spend the rest of our lives without finding someone.”

What in the world was her mother talking about? The idea of Grandma Joyce “trying dating” was preposterous. And was that applause she was hearing among her mother’s coworkers in the background? Did someone actually say, “You go, girl”?

“Mom, is this conversation taking place in front of a live studio audience or what?!”

“Sorry—sometimes people around here get a little carried away. Lucy—excuse me, hon, I just need to talk to my daughter for a second.” Mrs. Joyce moved into the hallway, away from her friends.

“I’m sorry, Gilda. I shouldn’t have told you about that; you don’t have to worry, okay?”

“Who says I’m worried?”

“You sound upset.”

“I’m fine. Just on my own here in a big city—all by myself in a huge apartment building surrounded by strangers. I was thinking of doing an online dating profile for myself, actually. Great way to meet people here in the nation’s capital, don’t you think?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“See how you are?”

“Gilda, I am in my forties. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Well, why don’t you worry about
me
?” The question popped out, surprising Gilda. As soon as she blurted it, she realized that it was true: it did bother her that her mother hadn’t been calling since she arrived in D.C. She didn’t want her mother to hover over her or thwart her adventures. On the other hand, how could her mother think about online dating profiles when her daughter was in a big city all by herself for the first time?

“Gilda, I do worry about you. I’ve been thinking about you all the time since you left.”

“Could have fooled me. I call, and you’re giggling about dating elderly men.”

“Now that isn’t fair. You know you don’t like it when I nag you or check up on you too much. In fact, when I didn’t hear from you right away, I called the Spy Museum to make sure you got to work okay. I spoke with a lovely woman, April Shepherd.”

Gilda felt a little embarrassed to think her mother called her boss at work. “Did she say anything about me?”

“She asked if I shared your fashion sense.”

“Definitely not.”

“I told her, ‘Gilda has her own style.’” Mrs. Joyce sighed. “The truth is, Gilda, it hit me hard when you left on this trip and Stephen drove down to Ann Arbor to start going to his math day camp. The house was so empty. . . . It made me think about how it’s going to be when Stephen’s away at college the year after next.”

“What about me? I’ll still be at home.”

“I know, honey, but you’re so independent. It made me start thinking that I need to find someone. At least, I need to make sure I have my own life.”

“What’s wrong with knitting and bowling?”

“Is that what you’d prefer? Your old mother, sitting in the corner knitting doilies?”

“Scarves would be more practical. And you wouldn’t sit in the corner all the time. We’d take you out in your wheelchair for some fresh air now and then.”

Mrs. Joyce laughed ruefully. “Sounds like I have a lot to look forward to.”

“See? You have a very full life.”

“So how is D.C.?”

“It’s fine. Nothing too special.” Ironically, now that her mother was finally questioning her, Gilda no longer wanted to talk about her own experiences.

“How is your internship?”

“It’s cool. I’m a Spy Camp counselor now.”

“You are? Do you play games with the kids?”

“Mom, it’s a
spy
museum. I’m teaching spy tradecraft.”

“Oh. That sounds interesting.”

Mom knows absolutely zilch about spying,
Gilda thought.
In fact, she would make a really good spy because nobody would ever expect that she knows anything.

“Gilda, is it okay if I call you a little later? I’m getting paged to go see a patient, honey.”

“That’s okay. I was going to bed anyway; I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Gilda—I’m thinking of you all the time, honey. I’ll start calling you more often.”

“Well, don’t go overboard. Oh, I almost forgot—can I read your online dating profile?”

“Why do you want to see that?”

“Just curious. And I’m a writer, so I could probably help you edit it and liven it up a little.” Gilda couldn’t help feeling curious to see what her mother had written even though the idea of her own mother having a dating profile made her recoil. “You can send it to my e-mail address at the Spy Museum.”

Mrs. Joyce laughed. “If you read it, you have to be nice—no mean jokes.”

“I’ve never made a mean joke in my life.”

 

As Gilda stared into the refrigerator feeling ravenous, she had a sudden appreciation for her mother. The contents of the Joyces’ refrigerator often left much to be desired, but at least there was food. What Gilda really wanted was a peanut butter, banana, and chocolate sandwich, and she realized that if she wanted to eat, she would have to walk all the way to a grocery store.

The front door of the apartment swung open, startling Gilda.

“Hey there!” Caitlin’s dishwater blond hair was clipped in a messy updo, her face shiny with sweat. “You would think rain would have made it cooler, but it is
nasty
out there today. I need a shower.” Caitlin tossed her black blazer over a chair and her briefcase on the couch. “Omigod! I have been such a bad roommate! You must be starving.”

“No, I’m fine,” said Gilda, not wanting Caitlin to view her in the same category as an abandoned housecat. “I was just about to walk over to the convenience store.”

“Oh, I’ll drive you down to Safeway. I need to pick up some things anyway, and it’s way too hot out there to walk carrying bags of groceries right now.”

 

Gilda and Caitlin meandered through the aisles of the grocery store, picking up ingredients for Gilda’s peanut butter, banana, and chocolate sandwiches and other items Caitlin thought would “liven up the refrigerator”: a jar of marshmallow cream, mint chocolate chip ice cream, raisin bagels, cream cheese, frozen veggie burgers, microwave popcorn, instant mocha mint coffee, and sugarless gum. At Gilda’s suggestion, she also tossed in a couple fashion magazines.

This is way more fun than going shopping with my mom,
Gilda thought. With Mom, the cart is full of things like broccoli, ground beef, onions, and no-brand macaroni.

“I suppose we should get some fruit and veggies for you, too,” said Caitlin, staring at the items in the shopping cart. “I mean, you’re still growing, aren’t you? Aren’t kids your age supposed to have vitamins and cod liver oil and stuff?”

“I don’t need as many vitamins as most kids,” said Gilda. “I’ve been eating Detroit school lunches for years, so I’ve kind of evolved to get along with less roughage.”