Riding South

26 • Red

Red let out a raspy chuckle. "No more than anyone else around here does."

"And what do they know?" I asked, suddenly curious. Red's watery eyes snapped to me.

"That he's an asshole."

Jack let out a bark of laughter that seemed to please the chef. "We heard there's more that he gets up to than just being an asshole and that maybe you'd be able to give us some insight?"

Red shook his head and made to get up. "I don't have time for this."

My hand went to his forearm. "Please," I said gently. "We wouldn't be bothering you but, Stella told me you know something important about the admiral but seemed hesitant to tell me herself. We only want the truth."

Red's face softened. "Did his wife hire you?"

"My employer's identity is confidential at the current moment," Jack replied.

There was a moment when I could feel the energy in the room begin to shift—when I knew Red was going to tell us his secret. All of us were quiet before Red let out a sigh.

"Room 123." The chef was staring down at his hands. "Every Friday night he's in town. Don't knock. Just leave the tray of baked oysters outside the door."

I didn't know what exactly that meant, but Jack seemed to understand.

"What time?" he asked.

"Between seven and eight."

There was another breath of silence, and I tried to piece Red's statement together.

"I'm not gonna have to go to court, am I?" Red asked hesitantly. "I understand Mrs. Tenney wanting her due after having a husband like him who brings girls up here every week, but I don't want to be on Les Tenney's bad side."

Oh.

Oh. It all made sense now.

Jack shook his head. "Of course not. What is said here stays between us. This conversation is for... information collecting purposes."

I eyed Jack. That seemed like a bold statement to make, or even a flat-out lie, but it seemed to put Red at ease. The chef wiped his damp brow with a black cloth napkin before stuffing it back inside his pocket.

"Good. Because the Tenney's are influencers around this town, and I don't want to lose my job." He let out a snort. "Well, maybe the Tenney well isn't as deep as it once was, but still."

That statement surprised me, considering the size and state of their downtown mansion home.

"What do you mean by the Tenney well isn't as deep as it once was?" Jack asked, leaning back against the wall.

Red licked his lips and shifted uncontrollably in his creaky leather chair. "I've heard rumors."

"What kind of rumors?"

Another breath of silence flooded the small office, and I felt it again, that shift in energy. There was more, and he was going to tell us.

"This is just between us, right?" Red turned to me for reassurances, and I wrung my hands together.

Jack cleared his throat then said, "We're just having a friendly conversation—off the record. No names involved."

My stomach clenched. How could Jack guarantee that? Was this the difference between being a police detective and a private eye?