I asked for copies of the payment history.

He said the originals were kept in a vault in Grand Rapids and it would take a week.

“A week’s fine,” I said, and wrote my shop address on the back of his card so there’d be no confusion.

He looked at the address, then at me.

“You’re Elaine’s son.”

That stopped me with my pen in midair.

“Your mother used to bring in the deposit slips herself.” He slipped the card into the block with the rest.

“She always kept a peppermint in her purse for my girl at the window.”