Choke by Kaye George

Can I bring you some food? Is Hortense getting enough to eat?”
    “We’ll be fine, Clem.” Immy crossed her fingers behind her back and hoped it was true.
    Drew had already jumped onto Clem’s stool. She reached into the box on the work counter and pulled out a handful of sugar packets, laying them out to form what looked like a Barbie bed. At least there wouldn’t be a battle getting her to stay with him.
    “Where are her spare clothes?” asked Clem.
    “Spare clothes, right. I guess there is something you can do. We didn’t get a chance to take any clothes with us. The heat was on our tail. Could you go to the house and get her some?”
    “Sure can.” He grinned at being able to be of service to his beloved’s granddaughter.
    “You know about the loose screen in the back kitchen window?”
    “Sure do. I’ll send Drew in through the window, and she can let me in through the door. Do you need me to cook something for you?”
    This gave Immy pause. Clem didn’t often offer to cook when he wasn’t working. In fact, she had never known him to. Immy would love for Clem to bring them some of his wonderful chicken salad, but then he’d know the location of their lair. “I guess not. Please just make sure Drew gets fed. She hasn’t had breakfast yet today. Hortense and I will be very grateful for that.”
    Clem beamed, glad to be of service.
    “Clem, you didn’t happen to notice anything that day, did you? The day of the, well… Where were you around that time, the time Huey bought it?”
    Clem frowned, looking like a troubled basset hound. All he needed was a pair of long ears. His were pretty large, but they didn’t hang down. “I had left shortly before. I wasn’t here when Hugh was killed.” He fiddled with the cell phone, still in his mitt. “We were out of cabbage for the coleslaw. I had to drive into Wymee Falls.”
    “Hey, my pitcher! That’s my school pitcher!” Drew pointed to the Saltlick newspaper Clem must have left on the counter.
    Immy came to the stool and looked over her daughter’s shoulder, then swallowed, feeling she had a wad of cud in her gullet. “Yes. It looks nice, doesn’t it?”
    “Does it say anything about me?” asked Drew. “Your pitcher is there, too, and Geemaw. Look, there’s Geemaw.” She poked each figure with her index finger as she identified them.
    “Yes. We’re all there, aren’t we? You don’t need to shout, Drew.”
    The headlines were not good: Local Duo on Crime Spree.
    The article was worse: Hortense Duckworthy, who was being questioned in connection with the death of Hugh Duckworthy, local business owner, managed to set fire to the jail in Saltlick and flee from there yesterday afternoon. Her daughter, Imogene, may have assisted her in the crime. It is believed they have a child with them, Nancy Drew Duckworthy, Imogene’s daughter and Hortense’s granddaughter, who may be in danger.
    “Who wrote this?” Immy tore her eyes away from the paper and paced the length of the kitchen and back. She couldn’t resist reading the rest of the article, though, and returned to peer over Drew’s shoulder again. The reporter hinted that Mrs. Duckworthy had been elevated to the level of suspect in her brother-in-law’s death, along with Imogene, and the article warned everyone to be on the lookout for them. There was something else about child endangerment.
    Child endangerment! She’s my daughter. I’m not endangering her. Jeez!
    “It’s all lies, Immy,” said Clem, “obviously.” He must have read the whole article already.
    “Yes, obviously.”
    After Clem and her daughter left in his truck to get Drew’s clothes, Immy considered her next move. She had wanted to pursue a career that involved catching criminals, not a career of being one. She had never even contemplated a life on the run and wasn’t at all sure what to do. She needed another book. That meant a visit to the book store in Wymee Falls.
    The only thing she knew she couldn’t do was