There, gleaming softly under the harsh overhead light, sat a silver convertible.

“It came three days ago.” Randy ran his hand lovingly over the sleek curve of one fender. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“That it is.” I began to circle the car. I didn’t want to prick Randy’s balloon, but all I could think of was how inappropriate this expensive car was for a novice driver. The potential for a serious accident was incredible!

If Randy met a sycamore in this marvelous car, he would be in big trouble.

I bent down to peer inside. I might as well study the upholstery before it was drenched with Randy’s blood.

Someone had beaten Randy to it.

Blood stained the passenger seat and floor.

I knew there had to be very little, if any, left in the very dead man who slumped against the gray leather interior….

GAYLE ROPER

has always loved stories, and she’s authored more than forty books. Gayle has won a Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award for Best Inspirational Romance and finaled repeatedly for both RITA® and Christy® awards, won three Holt Medallions, a Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Inspirational Readers Choice Contest and a Lifetime Achievement Award as well as the Award of Excellence. Several writers’ conferences have cited her for her contributions to the training of writers. Her articles have appeared in numerous periodicals including Discipleship Journal and Moody Magazine, and she has contributed chapters and short stories to several anthologies. She enjoys speaking at writers’ conferences and women’s events, reading and eating out. She adores her kids and grandkids, and loves her own personal patron of the arts, her husband, Chuck.

Caught in a Bind
Gayle Roper

www.millsandboon.co.uk

When I am afraid, I will trust in you.

—Psalms 56:3

For Christine Tangvald with love.

You are a woman of God who knows how to live godly in Christ Jesus. And you are fun! I wouldn’t have missed all those writers’ conferences and Disney World visits for anything.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ONE

This time I got myself into trouble without Jolene’s help. Not that she didn’t contribute, but at least she wasn’t the cause. Edie was. Or rather, Edie’s husband.

Edie Whatley is my coworker at The News: The Voice of Amhearst and Chester County, where she is editor of the family page and a features writer. I’m a general reporter and features writer.

“Edie,” I called across the aisle that separated our desks. “Can I do the ironmonger’s mansion at Hibernia Park for the Great Homes of Chester County series?” I thought it would be fun to write about that the big pale orange home set on the knoll above the gently sloping lawn.

There was no response from Edie.

“Edie!”

Still nothing.

I frowned. It wasn’t like her not to answer, especially since she was doing nothing but staring at her CRT screen.

Then spoke Jolene, Queen of Tact. “Edie, what in the world’s the matter with you, woman? You’ve been a mess all day.”

“Jolene!” I was appalled, but I had to admit that she got Edie’s attention. Edie blinked, skewered by Jolene’s accusing gaze.

“Spill it,” Jolene demanded. “Is it Randy?” Randy was Edie’s fifteen-year-old son whose life journey kept all of us glued for the next painful installment.

“Randy’s fine,” Edie said.

Jolene and I looked at each other, then back at Edie.

“He is?” I blurted with more disbelief than was probably good for our friendship.

“Well, probably fine is too strong a word, but he’s not bad.”

“He’s not?” Jolene’s surprise was equally obvious.

Edie’s face scrunched momentarily as she understood what we had inadvertently revealed about our opinions of her son. Then she got huffy, Edie-style. “I said he’s fine.”

“Well, if it’s not Randy,” Jolene continued, unabashed at having hurt Edie, “then what? Is it Tom?”

Edie smiled too brightly. “Tom? What could possibly be wrong with him?”

A good question. He and Edie doted on each other and didn’t care who knew. Being around them was instant tooth decay due to the sweetness of their relationship. I don’t mean just lovey, which I happen to think is good, or considerate, which I happen to think is necessary. It was the touching, the patting, the unconscious back rubbing and collar adjusting.

Tom was Edie’s second husband, and therein lay part of Randy’s problems. He didn’t like his stepfather.

Not that Tom should take that lack of appreciation personally. Randy didn’t appear to like any adults. He also didn’t like many kids, and I strongly suspected he didn’t care much for himself either.

But Tom took the brunt of all the boy’s angst and anger. More than once, Edie had come to work teary-eyed, only to tell Jolene and me about Randy’s latest verbal abuse and disobedience.

Randy’s father was a giant of a man, all muscles, charm, and good looks, a certified financial planner who over the years had made a mint in the stock market both for himself and his clients. Randy resembled him in size and coloring, a fact that gave the boy immense pride.

Tom on the other hand was a slight man, five feet eight inches in his hiking boots, gentle, pleasant and balding.

“He’s a car salesman!” Randy would mock, as if automotive retail was on a par with prostitution.

“Is Tom sick?” I asked.

Edie shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

Not yes or no. Not that I know of.

“Did he lose his job?”

Edie actually smiled at the thought of Tom losing his job. “Hamblin Motors would fall apart without him.”

I nodded. Even I, a relative newcomer to Amhearst, knew that Tom was Hamblin’s mainstay. Of course, my major source for this information was Edie, and I recognized that she was a wee bit biased.

“He just won a trip for two to Hawaii because of his winter doldrums sales. Only ten prizes were awarded in the whole country, and he won one.”

“Hawaii?” Jolene looked impressed. “When do you go?”

“In three weeks.” Edie looked uncertain, then nodded. “In three weeks.”

“Then what are you so upset about?” Jolene wouldn’t let well enough alone. “I mean, Hawaii!”

“I’m not upset.”

“And I’m not Eloise and Alvin Meister’s little girl.” Poor Edie. She was about to be slaughtered on the altar of Jolene’s curiosity and need to know.

“Jo,” I said quickly, “I think your plants need watering.” If anything would distract Jo from Edie, it would be her plants.

Jolene glanced around the newsroom at the lush greenery that made the place resemble a nursery. A giant grape ivy that had once tried to eat me alive sat on the soda machine. A huge jade plant graced the filing cabinet, and spectacularly healthy African violets sat in perpetually blooming splendor on the sill of the big picture window by the editor’s desk

She shook her head as she checked the soil of the spider plant on her desk. Baby spider plants erupted from the stems like little green and white explosions. “They’re all fine. I watered them yesterday.” She checked my philodendron and Edie’s croton, then returned to her grilling undeterred.

“Come on, Edie. I know something’s wrong. Of all the people who work here, you’re the most stable.”

“What?” I turned to Jolene, irritated. I was unstable?

Jolene grinned at me. “We all know I’m an emotional wreck, though you’ve got to admit I’ve been getting better in recent weeks.”

She paused a minute, looking expectantly at Edie and me. After a short pause, we realized what she expected.

“Right,” Edie said hastily. “You’re getting better.”

I nodded. “It’s church. You’re listening to Pastor Hal.”

Jolene shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Church was new to her and still made her uncomfortable. She returned to her commentary on office personnel. “We all know our noble editor Mac is so on edge over the buyout of the paper that he can’t think straight.”

Edie and I nodded. Mac was certainly acting strangely though I thought maybe Dawn Trauber, director of His House, had as much to do with his foul mood as the paper.

“And you, Merry,” Jolene continued, “are so bemused over Curt that you’re always on some far mental planet.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, miffed. “I am very much in control, aware and on top of things.”

She gave her patented snort, the unfeminine sound always a surprise coming from someone as lovely as Jolene. “That control and awareness are why Mac has been waving at you for the past five minutes, I guess?”

“What?” I looked quickly over my shoulder toward the editor’s desk. Sure enough, Mac was scowling at me so intensely that his eyebrows were one long line from temple to temple.

“You could have told me.” I rose and made my way toward Mac. “And Edie, ignore her. You don’t have to answer any of her questions.”

Jolene agreed. “We’ll wait for Merry. She wants to hear what’s got you in such a tizzy too.”

Edie smiled weakly at me as I walked past her desk. “I’m okay,” she said with all the spunk of a groveling puppy.

Suddenly Mac’s bellow tore through the newsroom. “Edie, for goodness’ sake. Get over here!”

I stopped and pivoted to return to my seat.

“Where are you going, Kramer?” Mac snarled.

“But you said Edie.”

“I want you both.”

I turned back and walked to his desk. Mac had been acting editor for the past several months while the News was for sale. Recently the paper had been purchased by a man named Jonathan Delaney Montgomery. As I saw it, the greatest danger in waiting for Mr. Montgomery to decide whether Mac still had a job wasn’t Mac’s career. It was the incipient development of ulcers in everyone in the newsroom.

I spoke softly across his cluttered desk. “Please be easy with Edie. She’s upset about something, and if you yell at her, it won’t be good.”

“You mean she’ll cry?” he asked in disgust.

“Could be.”

Mac looked at me with barely concealed contempt, whether directed at me for offering unwanted advice, or Edie for being a possible crier, I couldn’t tell. “I am always considerate of my people,” he barked.

I bit my tongue and said nothing.

He turned from me to Edie. “Now, Whatley, I’ve got a great assignment for you. I want you to do an article on spousal abuse.”

Edie shuddered and actually swayed. She put out a hand to steady herself, gripping Mac’s desk hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

“Edie.” I grabbed her elbow. “Are you all right?”

“And you, Kramer.” Mac plowed on as if he hadn’t noticed Edie’s distress, and he probably hadn’t. “You are to do a profile of Stephanie Bauer, director of that organization that helps abused wives. You know the one. It’s down a couple of blocks on Main Street.”

I kept hold of Edie. “You mean Freedom House?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Find out how the place works and see if you can interview some of the abused women. You know, tear-jerker stuff like you did with those pregnant girls at Christmas.”

I nodded. Not a bad assignment.

“You two are to work together on this thing.” Mac looked from Edie to me and back. “Got that?”

I nodded. Edie just turned away, removing herself from my support.

“Edie!” Mac’s voice was abrupt.

She turned a white face to him, but he didn’t see. He was looking at something on his desk.

“Do you understand what I want?”

“Yes. But I hate it.” The last was under her breath.

“What?” Mac demanded.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I blinked as I followed Edie back to our desks. She hated this most interesting assignment?

“What’s wrong, Edie? And don’t tell me nothing,” I said as she opened her mouth to say just that. She even got the noth out.

Edie was a genuinely nice lady whose fine, light brown hair was cut shoulder length and hung straight, swaying when she turned her head. Her blue eyes were often sad though never more so than today. She wore all her clothes a size too small, not because she wanted to be sexy or provocative but because she kept hoping she’d lose that ten to fifteen pounds.

“Let it go, Merry. Please.” She turned abruptly and almost ran to the women’s room, a one-person operation where she could find privacy.

I watched her go, and as I turned back to my desk, I saw Jolene watching too.

“No more questions, Jo,” I said. “When she wants to tell us about it, she will.”

“You’re no fun.” But when Edie finally returned red-eyed to her desk, Jo kept quiet.

I spent the balance of the day reading about Freedom House in either our paper files or e-files or online. I learned it was established five years ago and that Stephanie Bauer had been its only director. I learned that in addition to providing counseling and comfort to abused wives, Freedom House sponsored training workshops for churches who wanted to know how to help abused women in their congregations.

I studied the pictures of Ms. Bauer and saw a woman of about forty, very slim and attractive with great dark eyes and dark curly hair.

“I was an abused wife,” she was quoted as saying in one article. “I know the fear and desperation of these women. I know their feelings of being powerless. I also know God can help them deal with the overwhelming helplessness. I know they can live again.”

How did she learn to live again? What specifics marked her flight from her husband to her position at Freedom House? Or had he reformed and she was still married to him?

I called Freedom House and got Stephanie Bauer on the line. “May I come interview you some day soon?”

“How about tomorrow?” she asked. “I know it’s Saturday, but my schedule is crazy what with the ministry, the Easter holidays and my kids.”

I had rehearsal with the bell choir tomorrow morning for the upcoming Easter service, and in the evening Curt was taking me to the reception that Mr. Montgomery was throwing for the News staff and his invited guests. But I was free Saturday afternoon.

“Is two o’clock all right?” I asked Stephanie.

“Will we be finished by three? I have an appointment with my daughter at three. We’re going shopping. She ‘needs’ some spring clothes.”

“We’ll be finished by then,” I promised. Then thinking it might fit into the article, I asked, “How old is your daughter?”

“Fifteen.”

Just like Randy, I thought. Poor Stephanie.

“A teenager at the mall,” I said, sarcasm dripping a bit too freely. “It ought to be an interesting afternoon for you.”

“It will be interesting,” Stephanie said, ignoring my tone. “I enjoy anything I get to do with Sherrie. We’re both so busy! And Rob is no better.”

“Rob’s your—?”

“My son,” Stephanie said. “He’s eighteen. We’ve been filling out financial information for colleges all year, and the hardest part is finding a night when we’re both home!”

When I hung up from my conversation with Stephanie, I glanced at Edie. Stephanie’s relationship with her children seemed the polar opposite of Edie’s with Randy. Both women had had marital hard times, but one had fun with her kids and the other cried. Interesting.

It was almost five o’clock when Jolene said, “Hey, Merry, Edie, let’s go get dinner together.”

“What a good idea.” I hadn’t been looking forward to a lonely Friday night. Curt was away overnight on a men’s retreat, and he’d talked Jo’s husband into going along. Apparently she wasn’t any more anxious to fritter the night away alone than I was.

“Thanks, but I can’t,” Edie said. “I need to get home.”

“But Tom works on Friday nights, doesn’t he?” Jolene asked.

“Well, yes.”

“And Randy’s certainly big enough to feed himself.”

Jolene had obviously been thinking about this dinner for some time and had figured out all the angles, something for which she was justly famous.

“He won’t be home for dinner,” Edie said, then realized she had thrown away her best excuse to decline. With a sigh she shrugged. “Let me call and leave a message telling him where I’m going.”

Jolene was delighted. She’d now have Edie in close quarters for an hour. More than enough time to turn the screws.

“Now you be good,” I managed to whisper to Jolene while Edie was talking to Astrid, the hostess at Ferretti’s, Amhearst’s one and only decent restaurant. “Edie doesn’t need you badgering her.”

“Me? Badger?” Jolene looked aghast.

This time I was the one who snorted.

Within five minutes we followed Astrid to our booth.

“Eggplant parmigiana,” Jo told Sally, our waitress. “Raspberry vinaigrette dressing on the salad. And lots of garlic bread.”

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” I said. “Parmesan peppercorn dressing and lots of garlic bread too.” I looked at Jolene and grinned. “There’s something to be said for not seeing the guys tonight.”

“A cup of chicken noodle soup,” Edie said. “And a roll, no garlic.”

“A salad?” Sally asked.

Edie shook her head. “Just the soup.”

“You’re on a diet! How wonderful!” Jolene said with her usual diplomacy.

“I’m just not hungry,” Edie said, tugging self-consciously at the gaping front on her shirt.

“You can tell Tom’s coming home tonight,” I said, winking at Jo. “No garlic bread.”

And just like that, Edie began to cry.

TWO

“I’m sorry.” Edie grabbed her napkin and blew her nose. “I’m all right. I am.” The tears rolled down her face.

“Oh, Edie.” I put my arm around her shoulder. She began to cry harder.

Jolene grabbed my arm, looked at me over Edie’s bent head and mouthed very clearly, “Fix it.”

“How?” I mouthed back.

Jolene made a desperate face and gave a great shrug.

I shoved my napkin into Edie’s hands. “Here. Blow again.” I patted her shoulder some more. When in doubt, pat.

“I’m sorry,” Edie said again. “I’m such a baby.”

“No, you’re not. And we don’t mind the tears, do we, Jolene?”

She mumbled something that sounded like, “Mmmphmm.”

I rolled my eyes and said softly to Edie, “We just mind whatever is making them fall.”

She smiled weakly at that.

Jolene took one look at that travesty of a smile and decided Edie was well on the way to recovery. She awkwardly patted Edie’s hand. “Okay, girlfriend, that’s enough. It’s time to straighten that spine.”

Once again I was appalled and once again Edie responded positively.

“You’re right.” She stuffed the napkins into her purse and sat up straight. “No more.”

Jolene nodded as if she expected nothing less. “It’s Randy, isn’t it? Has he gotten arrested? Failed a big test? Gotten kicked out of school?”

Edie shook her head. “It’s not Randy, believe it or not.” Her eyes were full of pain.

I frowned. “Then it’s Tom?”

Edie looked at her clenched hands and nodded.

I always hated it when a husband and a wife had trouble, but I especially hated it now because Curt and I were so happy. Not that we were husband and wife, but I knew it was just a matter of time. I wanted everyone to be as happy as we were.

“What’s he done, Edie?” Jolene leaned in, fire in her eyes. She was ready to hate Tom for Edie’s sake.

“I don’t know,” Edie whispered.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

I shot Jolene a look. “Easy, girl.”

She scowled at me but lowered the intensity level considerably.

“I don’t know,” Edie repeated, her voice again full of tears.

I stuffed Jolene’s napkin in Edie’s hand just to be prepared. “Then how do you know there’s a problem?”

She forced herself to look at us. “Tom didn’t come home last night.” Then she looked away, embarrassed.

Jolene slapped the table, making Edie and me jump. “Another woman! It’s got to be. The rat!”

“Jolene!” I was appalled at the suggestion.

Edie paled. “No! Please, God, no.” It was an anguished prayer.

“That can’t be the problem,” I said, ever eager to comfort. “I’ve seen you and Tom together. If ever two people loved each other, Edie, it’s you guys.”

“I always thought so too.” She looked at us with haunted eyes. “But what if I’m wrong? What if Jolene’s right?”

Just then our waitress brought Jolene and me our salads. I stabbed a cucumber, but it might as well have been Styrofoam for all the taste it had.

“He wasn’t in an accident or anything, was he?” I asked. “Maybe he was injured and couldn’t contact you.”

“Merry the Merciful.” Acid etched Jolene’s comment. “Always looking for the Pollyanna way out.”

“It’s better than always assuming the worst.” I stabbed a poor, innocent cherry tomato since I couldn’t stab Jo, and it shot through the air and landed on the table of an elderly couple across the aisle. When they looked up in surprise at the incoming missile, I made believe it wasn’t mine.

“I spoke to the hospital and the police,” Edie said. “The hospital says he’s not there, and the police say there was no accident involving bodily injury last night anywhere in the county.”

“That’s good.” I gently skewered another tomato. It shot a stream of red juice and seeds straight at my heart. I stared at the red stain on my new pink blouse and sighed. That’s what I got for not being brave enough to own up to the first cherry bomb.

Edie smiled weakly. “I can’t decide whether it’s good news or bad news.”

I remembered the old line: If I have to choose between another woman’s arms and mangled in the street, I’ll take mangled in the street anytime.

“Well, it’s only one night.” Jo took a huge bite of garlic bread.

I think she was trying to be encouraging after her initial outrage, but Edie shook her head. “We vowed when we got married that we’d never be separated for the night unless it was unavoidable. And then we’d always call.”

“So he couldn’t find a phone.” Even without Edie and Jolene’s stares, I knew that was a foolish line in this day and age.

“Did he show up at work this morning?” Jolene asked.

Edie shook her head. “They haven’t seen him at the dealership since nine last night. It’s like he’s disappeared.”

“Aliens,” said a snide voice behind me. “Though why they’d want him is beyond me.”

“Randy!” With a mixture of surprise and hurt Edie looked at her son looming behind her. “What are you doing here?”

“I got your message about going to dinner with the girls.” Somehow he made those few words sound like Edie was participating in a Roman orgy. “I came to get some money.”

“How did you get here?” Edie asked.

“I rode my bike.” He glanced out the window where we could see it chained to a parking meter. “Only four more months until I get my car. Then I’m never riding a bicycle again in my life!”

He was getting a car for his sixteenth birthday? He bad-mouthed Tom and still expected a car? What gall!

He extended his hand to Edie, palm up. “Money.” It was a command.

“But I gave you your allowance the other night.” Edie scrambled to sound forceful but failed. “You wanted it early because you and the guys were going out somewhere.”

“Well, it’s gone. I need more.” He stared down at her, tall, handsome and hostile.

I wanted to poke him hard, inflict a little pain. Edie just sighed and began rummaging in her purse.

“By the way, Mom.” I could hear the nasty glee in Randy’s voice and knew he was going to say something that would hurt Edie. “The police were at the house.”

“What?” Edie grabbed his arm. “Did they say anything about Tom? Is he hurt? Where is he?”

“Don’t get all overheated, Mom.” Randy pulled free. “They don’t know where Tom-boy is. In fact, they’re looking for him, just like you.”

Edie blinked. “But why?”

I studied the blond man-child with the wicked glint in his eyes. “Exactly what did the police say, Randy?”

“They said—” and he paused for effect. “They said that they needed to talk with Tom.”

“That was it?” Edie asked.

He looked at his mother with a smirk. “Isn’t that enough, Mom? I mean, the cops are after him!”

Jolene opened her mouth to retort when a sweet young voice called, “Hey, Randy.”

Randy jerked like he had been hit with a taser. He spun to look at the lovely girl passing us on her way to a table on the other side of the restaurant. Gone was the smart-mouthed kid who delighted in causing his mother distress and in his place was a self-conscious, thoroughly smitten young man who stared at the little ebony-haired beauty, his heart in his eyes.

“Sherrie,” Randy managed to say. “Hey, yourself.” He wandered after her as if he couldn’t do anything else.

“His tongue’s hanging out so far he’s going to step on it any moment,” Jolene muttered, but she was laughing.

The girl was with a woman who had to be her mother, their hair and eyes showing that relationship clearly. A young man was with them, probably a brother by the casual way he treated Sherrie. When Randy, all charm, took the last seat at the table without waiting for an invitation, the young man looked at his mother and just shook his head.

Edie stared at her son in wonder. “Look at him. He’s being polite.”

“You’ve done a good job as a mom, Edie,” I said. “Maybe a better job than you realized.”

She grunted, unconvinced, and we finished our meal. When the bill came, we gathered our belongings and went to the cash register. Edie glanced toward Randy, but he was studiously avoiding us as he listened attentively to Sherrie’s mother talk.

Edie giggled as we left the restaurant. “He never did get the money he wanted. He’ll ruin any good impression he might be making when he pulls out an empty wallet and that poor girl’s mother has to pay for his food.”

“Serve him right,” Jolene said succinctly.

We walked in the spring dusk to the parking lot behind the News and dispersed to our separate cars. I was just about to put the key in my ignition when a thought struck me. I climbed out of the car and walked to Edie, who sat staring out the windshield of her little red Focus.

“Edie, Tom will be at work for two to three more hours.” Assuming he was at work and not missing. “Let’s stop for a video and watch it together until he gets home.”

I watched Edie’s shoulder sag in relief and knew she’d been afraid to go home. I resisted the urge to pat her, got in my car and followed her to the video store. We argued gently over our choices of films and ended up with a comedy and an action/adventure, both nicely escapist.

I followed Edie to the outskirts of town where she pulled into the driveway of a white and brick split-level with maroon shutters and lots of uninspiring yew bushes. Clumps of daffodils nodded their heads among the yews, warm splashes of sunshine in the glow from the light beside the slightly buckling walk.

Edie unlocked the front door, painted maroon to match the shutters, and we stepped into an entry hall. The first thing I saw was a beautiful cherry pedestal occasional table with a delftware bowl and a pair of matching candlesticks on it. Above it hung what could only be an original Curtis Carlyle.

“Hey, great painting.” I shrugged out of my coat. “Great artist.”

Edie actually smiled. “You’re prejudiced.”

I looked at Curt’s lovely portrayal of a creek running beside a stone farmhouse. The roses and golds of early morning turned the water into a shimmering mirror reflecting the lush greens of the towering evergreens beside the house. I felt restful and serene just looking at the scene. I reached out and ran my fingers over the signature.

“You’re smiling,” Edie observed.

I smiled more broadly. “I’m not surprised.”

“You love him.”

“Very much.”

Edie studied the picture. “I prize this painting. Tom gave it to me for our fifth anniversary last October.” She blinked rapidly, turned and led the way into the living room. She indicated a couch with a wave of her hand and kept on walking. “I’ll just be a minute. I want to check the answering machine.”

“Of course you do. Go right ahead.”

I turned and looked at the living room, really looked at it, and I felt my mouth drop open.

The living room was full of the softest robin’s egg-blue leather furniture I’d ever felt. It sat on the plushest of pastel floral carpets and was lit by Stiffel lamps in glowing brass. The end tables were cherry with a satin sheen, and the coffee table was a great glass and cherry rectangle that took up half the room. The drapes—no, they weren’t drapes; they were window treatments—repeated the blue of the furniture and all the pastels of the rug. The walls were covered with more original watercolors including a Scullthorpe, a Gordinier, a Bollinger and another Carlyle, this one with a dark and stormy sky of deepest purples and blues. As I looked at it, I could feel the heaviness of the storm, hear the crackle of lightning, smell the ozone.

Edie came into the room. “Nothing. Not a single message, let alone one from Tom.”

I turned to tell Edie how sorry I was and my eyes fell on the adjoining dining room. Again the furniture was magnificent. Too overwhelming for the size of the room, but magnificent. Cherry sideboard, table and breakfront gleamed above an oriental rug of luminous crimsons and blues laced with cream. The drapes echoed the colors of the rug, as did the matching seats on the heavy chairs crowded about the table.

I thought of my apartment with its well-used furnishings, most taken from either my bedroom or my parents’ attic when I left Pittsburgh and moved to Amhearst. I had started to slowly buy better pieces, but it’d be years if not forever before I could afford the quality Edie had. Tom must really be doing well at the dealership.

When we slouched on the blue leather sofa to watch the videos, I felt I’d slide right off the cushy piece onto the floor. I pushed myself upright time after time, only to feel myself slip south, a victim of the smooth grain, featherbed softness and gravity.

It was almost eleven when we finished watching both films, and Tom wasn’t yet home.

“Would you like me to stay the night?” I asked. I hated to leave her alone.

She looked momentarily tempted, then shook her head. “No, thanks. Tom’ll be home soon.”

Neither of us added, “I hope, I hope, I hope.”

No sooner had we fought our way out of the sofa’s warm embrace—no easy feat, let me tell you—than the doorbell rang.

Edie looked frightened, and I didn’t blame her. Who rang your doorbell at eleven at night? Only people bringing bad news. The question was: Was the bad news about Tom or Randy?

She straightened her shoulders and walked into the entry. I trailed behind and watched as she looked through the little peephole in the door.

“It’s the police.” Her voice shook. “William.”

Somehow that made me feel better. We both knew Sergeant William Poole fairly well from our work at the paper. We were always in contact with the police about one story or another, and William was frequently our contact man, but as soon as I saw his face, I knew he wasn’t here for PR now. Officer Natalie Schumann was with him.

William looked distinctly unhappy as we all stood in the entry, his deeply furrowed face pulled into a great frown. William was the human equivalent of a shar-pei, those Chinese dogs that are all wrinkles. Tonight he appeared to have acquired a few more.

“Is it Randy?” Edie’s voice was tight with fear.

William shook his head. “I’m not here about Randy.”

Edie exhaled in momentary relief. One fear defanged. One to go. She closed her eyes as if gathering herself. “If it’s not Randy, then it’s Tom?”

William nodded. “I need to speak with him.”

“What about?”

William shook his head. “I need to speak with him, Edie.”

Edie’s shoulders sagged. “I need to talk with him too.”

“I know you spoke to dispatch about him last night.” William’s brow creased more deeply. “He’s still not here?”

“No.” It was obvious that confessing to his absence pained her deeply.

William reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a tablet and pen. “When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday morning about 7 a.m. when I left for work.”

I watched William scribble Th 7 a.m. “Did he act in any unusual way? Say anything that in retrospect seems significant?”

“No. It was a morning like every other. He leaves for work later than I do, so he walks me to the car and sees me off. He—” She broke off and looked embarrassed.

“What?” William asked. “Tell me, Edie.”

“It’s just a little ritual we have. He presses me against the car and gives me a big hug and kiss. We started it when we were first married because Randy didn’t like to see me kiss Tom. The garage is private.”

I thought of having to go to the garage to kiss your husband. Another blot against good old Randy.

“Randy told me you were here earlier looking for Tom,” Edie said. “Now you’re back. Something serious is going on here.”

William returned Edie’s direct look. “Charges have been filed against him, and I need to question him.”

Edie paled. “Charges? What do you mean, charges?”

William watched Edie carefully. Watching for a guilty reaction? “Eighteen thousand, five hundred dollars is missing at Hamblin Motors.”

Edie stared at William. “And they think Tom took it?”

“It’s missing, and so is he.”

Edie looked wild. “But William, that’s circumstantial! No one saw him take it, did they? Of course they didn’t. This is Tom we’re talking about. He’d never take anything!”

“Then where is he, Edie?”

“Believe me, I wish I knew.” Edie ran a shaking hand through her hair. “Then you’d know.” She turned desperate eyes on me. “Tell him, Merry. Tell him Tom would never do such a thing.”

Oh, Lord! It was a plea shot straight from my heart to God’s ear. What do I say?

And an answer came.

“William, how did over eighteen thousand dollars go missing?” I asked. “It’s not like Tom walked up to a cash register and grabbed it, is it? Or held up the dealership like a bank robber does bank tellers? When people buy cars, papers get signed, down payment checks get written, but cash doesn’t get exchanged.”

William just looked at me.

Suddenly I was overcome with doubts. “It doesn’t, does it?”

“It seems that Tom sold a car to an elderly couple Thursday night,” William said. “The deal was concluded about 8:50 p.m. This couple paid cash and drove the car off the lot at 9:05.”

“Cash?” I was surprised. “They walked into the dealership with eighteen thousand, five hundred dollars on them?”

“In her purse. In fact, they had about five thousand dollars more because they weren’t certain how much the car they finally decided on would cost.”

“And you think Tom just kept this money?” Edie’s voice shook with outrage.

William’s craggy face was impassive. “The register was closed for the evening by the time the deal was concluded. Policy in situations like this is to seal the money in an envelope, have it initialed by the salesman and the manager and lock it in the cashier’s drawer until morning when it can be entered into the record appropriately.”

“And Tom didn’t follow procedure?” I asked.

“He did,” William said. “That’s how we know about the money.”

“You mean that if he hadn’t had the manager initial the money, no one would have known?” I was intrigued. “He would have been able to walk off with the money?”

William nodded. “At least no one would have known until the monthly inventory of cars on the lot, and one was found to be missing. Or until the couple brought the car in for servicing, and there was no record of the sale or the service warranty.”

“But surely if Tom wanted to steal the money, he wouldn’t have gone to the manager,” I said. “He’d have pocketed the money and walked out the door.”

William flipped his notebook shut. “The manager says Tom didn’t get the chance to just walk out because he was passing by as Tom took possession of the money. Together they prepared the envelope as soon as the couple left.”

“So it’s Bill Bond’s word against Tom’s.” Edie eyed William.

He nodded.

“Now there’s a tough call.” Edie was derisive. “Bill Bond is not the most stable of men.”

“Why do you say that?” William asked.

“Tom’s told me lots of Bill Bond stories. One day he’s fine, the next he’s not. One day he’s your friend, the next he’s out for your hide. He’s difficult to work under, very egocentric. Not that he does anything illegal. He just likes to ride awfully close to the line. Obviously he has finally crossed it.”

William said nothing.

“What?” Edie asked. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Edie,” William said gently. “Bill Bond is here to talk to. Tom isn’t.”

THREE

Tears sprang to Edie’s eyes as William made his pronouncement, and next thing I knew, I was patting her shoulder.

When in doubt, pat.

“I’m sorry, Edie.” William looked sad but stoic. “I have to consider the facts, not feelings or instincts. Bill Bond may not be the world’s most charming man, but he hasn’t disappeared.”

Edie looked resigned. “I know. It’s just that Tom is such a good man! He’d never take eighteen thousand, five hundred dollars. It isn’t even logical. Eighteen thousand, five hundred dollars isn’t worth ruining your life over.”

“What if he wanted to disappear? Eighteen thousand, five hundred dollars would be a good starting point.”

“But why should he want to disappear?” Edie obviously found the idea incomprehensible.

“People disappear all the time. They want to get out of dead-end jobs, dead-end towns.” He looked at her carefully. “Dead-end relationships and marriages.”

Edie’s head jerked like William had slapped her. “Never! We have a wonderful marriage. And believe me, because of past experience, I know good when I see it.”

William nodded noncommittally.

“It’s true, William. It’s true! Tell him, Merry.”

“It sure looks like a good marriage to me,” I said, glad that this time I could answer the question.

William listened politely to me, then turned back to Edie. “Tell me about Tom, please.”

Edie took a deep breath. “He’s wonderful, caring, encouraging. He’s gentle—”

“Not character traits,” William said. “His history, family background, things like that.”

Edie became engrossed in studying her fingernails. I thought for a moment that she wasn’t going to answer William. Of course, she didn’t have to if she didn’t want to, at least not without a lawyer present. I wondered briefly what old Mr. Grassley of Grassley, Jordan and McGilpin would think about being called out in the middle of the night.

Then Edie spoke, and Mr. Grassley was allowed to sleep.

“I really can’t help you, William.” She glanced up from her nails, her face grim. “All I know is that Tom didn’t like to talk about his past. He said it was too painful.”

Too painful? Or was Tom harboring secrets? As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I felt like a traitor.

Edie studied her nails again, picking at a piece of frayed cuticle. “I know about painful pasts, so I’ve never pushed him.”

“You don’t even know where he was born? Where he lived before he came to Amhearst?”

“He was born in Philadelphia and lived in Camden, New Jersey, before he moved here.”

William smiled, the furrows of his face going through a seismic shift in the process. “See? You know things about him. When was he born?”

“He just celebrated his fortieth birthday on February 15.”

I waited to see if William would ask for his Social Security number and his mother’s maiden name. With that information, Tom’s name, birthplace and birth date, he could find out anything he wanted to know about Tom.

Then it occurred to me that Bill Bond could supply the Social Security number from the dealership’s financial records and that he’d probably do so with great enthusiasm. He wanted that money back.

Again I felt guilty because I was assuming Tom had the money. I was forgetting innocent until proven guilty. I determined to remember that a reporter is supposed to be unbiased and a friend is supposed to believe.

“Has he always been a car salesman?” William asked.

“I don’t know.”

“When did he move to Amhearst?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where does his family live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who are his friends?”

Edie’s head came up and her shoulders straightened. “Me.”

William looked at her for several ticks of the antique mantel clock. Edie held his stare. Then he gave a little smile. “Thanks for talking with me, Edie. If Tom comes home, please have him contact me immediately.” He handed her a card.

“When Tom comes home, he’ll call you immediately.”

After William was gone, Edie curled up in the corner of the blue sofa, hugging herself like she was trying to warm the chill inside.

“Where is he?” The tears she had controlled when William was here flowed down her cheeks unchecked. “Doesn’t he know how scared I am?”

I watched Edie and struggled with what to do with the information we had just received from Sergeant Poole. The missing money definitely made the missing man a news story. In fact, it made Tom a major story in a small town like Amhearst.

But Edie was my friend. How could I lay her pain before the whole county? But how could I not? I knew Mac would go with the story as soon as he became aware of it, and the fact that Edie was an employee of the News wouldn’t make any difference. In fact, it couldn’t be allowed to make a difference.

And wasn’t it better that I write the story than—than who? There was Edie or me. Or Mac. Obviously this story wasn’t one Edie could write. And it was definitely better that I write it than Mac. Given his major grouchiness these days, anyone was better than Mac.

“You know this is going to make the News,” I said.

Edie nodded in resignation. “I know. You’ll write it, won’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Please. I want it to be you. I know you’ll be fair. You’ll make it clear that just because Tom is gone and the money is gone, they don’t have to be together.”

I nodded and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I thought my days in the paper were over.”

I looked at her, intrigued.

She shook her head, obviously regretting her slip of the tongue. We sat in silence for a while. Then suddenly Edie started crying again. “Oh, Merry, where is he?”

I had no answer, just useless sympathy. “Edie, why don’t you go to bed? You need some rest.”

“Like I could sleep.” She looked at me through puffy eyes. “But you go on home, Merry. There’s no reason one of us can’t have a good night’s sleep.”

I sat in the blue leather chair, my feet tucked beneath me so I wouldn’t slide onto the floor. “I can’t leave you like this.”

“Pish-posh. I’ll be fine.”

“Pish-posh? Now where did that come from?” If you aren’t patting, distracting is good.

Edie gave a weak smile. “My father always said that.”

“What was he like?” I asked, pleased that distracting was working. Maybe I should ask Mac about doing an advice column.

“He was a professor at the University of Delaware, a charmer, a marvelous guy—when he wasn’t drunk.” She became very interested in the needlepoint pillow in her lap, picking at nonexistent loose threads. “He was a nasty drunk.”

I made a distressed noise. So much for the efficacy of distraction.

“Don’t let it worry you,” she said. “He’s dead now. And Mom and I survived.”

I wondered what was involved in survived. “Where does your mother live now?”

“Still in Newark.” She said it with the ark in Newark getting just as much emphasis as the New, unlike Newark, New Jersey, where the accent was definitely on the first syllable. “That’s where I lived until I divorced Randolph.”

“That’s about an hour away. Randy must get to see him frequently. Wait. I’m assuming Randolph is still in Newark.”

“He’s still there, but Randy doesn’t see him much. Randolph’s lack of interest is probably the main reason Randy fights with Tom and me all the time. A kid always wants what he can’t have. Greener grass, I guess. It’s an ego thing or a control thing or something. Or maybe it’s just as simple as a broken heart. He can’t do anything to make Randolph pay attention, so he takes out the pain on us because we’re handy and won’t turn him out.”

“You guys are very good to him.”

“Of course we are.” Edie looked surprised that I’d find that fact worth commenting on. “I’m his mother.”

And that said it all.

I watched Edie trace the pattern on the pillow she held. “Did you meet Tom in Newark or here? Or somewhere else?”

“Here. When I moved here, I lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment and drove the oldest, most endangered car you’ve ever seen. Finally the car died, and I had no choice but to buy another even if I couldn’t afford it. I went to Hamblin Motors and the rest, as they say, is history.” She smiled softly to herself.

“Love at first sight?”

“At least serious like,” she said. “He asked me out as soon as I signed the sales papers. I found out later that the price was so good because he didn’t take his commission.”

“Wow! That is indeed serious like.”

“We were married in two months, and I’ve never regretted a day of it.”

At least until last night, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

The front door flew open, crashing into the hall wall.

Edie sat straight up. “Tom?” The hope in her voice broke my heart.

Randy stalked by the living room without so much as a glance in our direction. He continued down the hall to the back of the house. In a moment I heard him opening the refrigerator.

Edie checked her watch. “It’s 1:05. No kid his age should be out this late, but tonight I’m just not up to the confrontation. All I can think about is Tom.”

I nodded, thinking that Randy had been counting on just that and was taking advantage of her preoccupation. The kid was clever, a master strategist and champion manipulator. Usually that meant a keen intelligence. What a waste, I thought, to use your mind to wound and distress.

“I just hope he hasn’t been with that adorable little Sherrie all this time. Too cute. Too many hormones.” Edie shivered.

Randy appeared in the doorway, a can of Mountain Dew in one hand and a bag of Chips Ahoy in the other. He had enough caffeine and sugar there to keep a small town awake for hours. He’d probably wolf it all down and fall immediately into a deep slumber.

“No word from Tom-boy?” he asked his mother.

She shook her head.

He smirked. “Aliens, Mom. Or else he’s deserted you.”

“Randy!” I couldn’t help it. He was being so unkind.

He ignored me. “Just like you did Dad.” His smirk deepened. “I guess you’re finally getting what you deserve.”

Edie sighed. “I’m not going to discuss why I left your father, Randy. You know that. He’s your father, and I won’t talk against him.”

I watched Randy absorb his mother’s comments without any perceptible change of expression or posture. I concluded that Edie’s comments on this subject were as familiar and frequent as were his barbs. He turned to me without a blink.

“That your car in the drive?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I’m getting a car in a couple of months.” He looked back at his mother and said, “My father is giving it to me.”

Obviously he meant Randolph, not Tom.

He laughed. “It’s a good thing because Tom wouldn’t get me a car if I was the last person on earth.”

“And neither would I.” Edie’s eyes were unflinching as she looked at her son. “Things like cars and the trust to let you have one have to be earned.”

Randy shrugged. “I guess I’m lucky that Dad doesn’t agree.” He turned to me. “Want to see my car?”

I glanced at Edie, who raised her hand in a be-my-guest motion. I turned to Randy. “Okay.”

He put his Mountain Dew on the glorious occasional table in the hall, and I could see Edie bite her lip to keep from reprimanding him about it.

Randy opened the blue bag of cookies. He pulled out a handful to fortify himself while he showed me his dream car.

I expected him to pull out a picture, but he didn’t.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s in the garage.”

I glanced again at Edie.

“Randolph can never remember Randy’s birth date,” she said. “He thought it was sometime in the spring, so he sent the car ahead so he wouldn’t be late.”

Randy turned on his mother. “He knows my birthday! He wants me to have the fun of anticipation.”

Edie shrugged. “If you say so.”

“When is your birthday?” I asked.

“July 13.” Randy scowled at me, daring me to make something of the midsummer date.

I merely nodded. “Well, show me.”

Still scowling, Randy led me down a level, through the family room, to the connecting door to the garage. He went through first and flicked on the lights. I followed and blinked at what I saw. I knew then that Edie and Tom didn’t have a chance.

There, gleaming softly under the harsh overhead light, sat a silver, ragtop Porsche convertible.

“It came three days ago.” Randy ran his hand lovingly over the sleek curve of one fender. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“That it is.” I began to circle the car. All I could think of was how inappropriate this expensive, classy, powerful car was for a novice driver. The potential for tragedy was incredible!

I bent down to peer inside. I might as well study the upholstery before it was drenched with Randy’s blood.

Someone had beaten Randy to it.

Blood stained the passenger seat and floor, great quantities of blood, overwhelming quantities of blood. I knew there had to be very little if any left in the very dead man who slumped against the gray leather interior.

FOUR

I made a noise halfway between a scream and a burp at the sight of the body. My first thought was that Tom had finally come home.

“What’s the matter with you?” Randy demanded, ever sympathetic to a woman in distress.

I couldn’t find my voice, so I pointed. He bent and peered in. Next thing I knew he was retching in the corner. So much for perpetual cool.

I made myself look in the car again. I had to know if the corpse was indeed Tom.

It wasn’t. First, the body looked too tall, even slumped. Tom was slight all over, and this man had wide shoulders and a paunch. Also, Tom wore his hair closely cropped, and this man had straggly hair that should have been cut weeks ago. And of course, this man had the wrong face, with strong, broad features instead of the narrow, almost delicate ones that typified Tom.

I straightened from my quick second glance with a deep sigh of relief and turned to Randy, who by now was leaning weakly against the side of the car.

“Get off the car! It’s a crime scene!”

Randy, green around the gills, jumped and obeyed.

“We don’t want to touch it and contaminate any evidence.” Randy nodded as he swayed.

I gave him a push. “Back into the house. We need to call 911.”

Edie took one look at Randy as we stumbled inside and surged to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a dead guy in my car!” Disbelief was Randy’s dominant emotion now that he was away from the scene. Feelings of outrage and violation would follow shortly. “And there’s blood all over!”

Edie looked wide-eyed at me, seeking confirmation—or denial—of Randy’s comments.

I nodded. “Where’s the phone?”

They both pointed to the kitchen.

I called 911 and returned to the family room just as Edie and Randy walked back in from the garage.

Edie was white-faced as she looked back toward the garage. “I never saw him before in my life.”

The police didn’t recognize the corpse either.

“How’d he get here?” Randy demanded of anyone who’d listen, and that was usually me. “And why in my car?”

Like I knew.

“How long’s he been dead?” he demanded of the police. “How did he die? And why in my car?”

“Speaking of your car, son,” William Poole said quietly, “when was the last time you looked into it?”

“Ah.” Randy looked very wise. “You want to know when the body got there.”

William nodded. “That’s the idea.”

“Well, I sat in it just before I left for dinner. I met Mom at Ferretti’s, not that she invited me.”

“And there was nothing unusual about the car or the garage when you last saw it at what? About 5:30?”

Randy thought for a minute. “Yeah, about 5:30. And if by unusual you mean there was a dead body lying around bleeding all over the place, no, there was nothing at all unusual. I just sat behind the wheel making believe I was driving.” Randy’s hands were in front of him, steering.

William adjusted his gun on his hip. “One piece of advice, son. Don’t even think about taking that car onto the road before you have your license.”

Randy blinked and flushed. “I’d never do something like that.”

I could almost hear William’s mental Right.

“Besides,” Randy continued, “Mom has the keys.”

William nodded. “Good. Make certain you leave them in her care. If you break the law here, we can make it twenty-one before you get a license.”

Randy stared. “Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-one,” William repeated. “But since you’re not going to take her out early, there’s no problem. Right?”

Randy nodded reluctantly. Busted by the cops before he even committed the crime!

“And when you do get your license,” William continued, “don’t see how fast she can go.”

Randy held up his hand. “That’s two pieces of advice. You said one. Two’s one too many.”

William ignored the disrespect, and Randy resumed pacing, cursing and muttering under his breath. I suspected that beneath the distress and excitement of being part of an official murder investigation, he was livid about the blood spilled all over his new upholstery.

This suspicion was confirmed when he leaned close and whispered out of the side of his mouth like a gangster in a B movie, “How do you get blood out of things?”

I was tempted to say, “Wash it thoroughly in cold water,” and offer him the hose, but he was just being fifteen and Randy.

For Edie a dead man in the garage upped the ante considerably on the scariness of Tom’s disappearance. The fact that the police no longer seemed to see Tom as a husband jumping his matrimonial ship added to her tension. The big question became whether they now saw him as another potential victim like their John Doe, or whether they saw him as a thief and a murderer. Neither option was comforting.

Edie lay on her sofa under a blanket that I’d brought from upstairs, and still she shivered as with a terrible chill.

“I know this is hard, Edie,” William said. “But you know the drill.”

She nodded. “I’ve never seen him. I don’t know who he is.”

William was unfailingly polite, but I thought I detected a subtle skepticism. Not a happy observation.

After the police, the coroner and the body left, Randy disappeared in the general direction of upstairs and, I presumed, his bed. I knew he would have preferred to begin clean-up operations on his car, but it was off-limits as part of a crime scene. With any luck, the police would impound it until his twenty-first birthday, saving themselves a few years of dealing with him behind the wheel of that speed machine.

Edie and I stayed in the living room where she slept restlessly on the sofa, muttering occasionally in her sleep, at other times sighing as though in despair. I took catnaps in my cushy leather chair.

I pulled myself awake at seven and took my burning eyes and sour mouth into the guest bath where I did my best to transform myself. It was about as hopeless as turning coffee dregs into fresh brew. Still, when I pulled up to the window at McDonald’s and ordered an Egg McMuffin, the sleepy teen who took my order and money understood what I said.

I wrote the story on Edie’s mysterious body, still a John Doe when we went to press. He had carried no wallet, no driver’s license, no credit cards. His clothes were from Penney’s, his jeans were Levis, available countless places, and his sneakers Reeboks, same thing.

With Mac’s approval I had chosen not to mention the missing money in my story. There was, after all, no definitive connection between the murder and the money. As soon as I finished writing, I turned the article in to Mac and left the News before he thought of anything else I should do. I made it to bell choir practice with one minute to spare.

The good thing about bell choir is that it takes every ounce of my concentration not to mess things up, so every other worry gets put aside for the duration. It’s the only real benefit I have found to being a marginal musician. Smiling to myself, I lined my bells up, C-sharp, C, B and B-flat, glad to put Edie, Tom, Randy and the corpse aside for a while.

When we played the first piece for the third time and I actually got it right, I was euphoric.

“Maddie, did you hear that?” I turned to my best church friend who stood next to me and played the D and E bells. “I got it right!”

“You’re wonderful,” she said. “Talented and beautiful and…” She peered at me. “And you’ve got dark circles under your eyes that rival mine. I know it wasn’t a late night with Curt because he’s on the retreat with my Doug and the rest of the men. And you can’t blame it on a baby like I can. What gives?”

“Covering a story,” I said. “Read about it in the News.” I didn’t want to shatter the respite of bell choir by reviewing the crime. To divert her, I asked, “How’s Holly?”

Maddie’s face lit up. “Even after a sleepless night like last night, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.” She turned toward her pocketbook resting on the floor behind her. “I’ve got pictures of her getting her bath.”

In the few months of Holly’s life, her every move had been recorded and lovingly shared with anyone breathing. I was tempted to ask how this week’s pictures of Holly bathing differed from last week’s pictures of Holly in the tub, but I was afraid Maddie would tell me. “See? She’s got a bigger smile. And that’s a boat floating there, not the rubber ducky. And her hair is a sixteenth of an inch longer!”

“All right, people,” said Ned, our director, arresting Maddie mid-search.

“Later,” she whispered.

“Later,” I agreed.

“You may remember,” Ned said, “that we will be accompanying the youth choir on Easter morning. We won’t actually practice with all the kids until next weekend, but today we’re going to practice with the soloist, Sherrie Bauer.”

As he spoke, a familiar raven-haired beauty walked in. She had music in one hand and dangled a backpack from the other. I half expected to see Randy trailing after her, tongue lolling.

Sherrie Bauer had a wonderful voice, very full and controlled for someone as young as she. For her solo, we traded our bells for chimes which made a much softer sound and didn’t drown out her voice. They also didn’t amplify my mistakes as clearly as the bells.

As I listened to Sherrie and concentrated on my notes, I thought that Ned might have inadvertently given me the perfect combination of things to get Edie and Randy and hopefully Tom (fully restored to his family from wherever he was) to church. Easter and Sherrie sounded like an unbeatable combination to me.

When rehearsal finally ended, I managed to escape before Maddie remembered Holly’s pix. I felt like a lousy friend, but I was just too exhausted to wax enthusiastic over chubby little knees and shampoo Mohawks. All I wanted to do was collapse and sleep for hours, but I couldn’t. I had an interview ahead with just enough time for lunch and a shower first.

Whiskers met me at the apartment door with several gruff meows. For a time he stalked around the living room, tail held high, mad at me for being away so long. Then he forgave me and butted my shins until I picked him up. He purred like a formula car awaiting the green flag at Indy.

I fed him, and while he ate I listened to my answering machine.

Jolene: “So what happened when you went home with Edie last night? Terminal boring, I’ll bet. Sort of like my night without Reilly.”

Wait until she read the paper. That’d teach her to shirk doing good deeds.

Curt: “Where are you, darlin’? Out carousing with the girls, I bet. Sigh. I miss your sweet voice, Merry. I remember when a weekend with the boys was at the top of my fun-things list. Not anymore. I’ll see you tomorrow evening at 7:30—if I last that long.”

I smiled, delighted that I had replaced the boys in his life. He’d certainly replaced everyone else in mine.

I glanced at the clock. 1 p.m. An hour before I had to meet Stephanie Bauer at Freedom House. Six and a half before I saw Curt. I smothered a yawn and hoped a shower would do something to stimulate my brain cells.

Forty-five minutes later I drove to Freedom House. I loved interviewing people, learning about them, looking for what made them tick, finding out what mattered to them. I parked in front of a large Victorian in what used to be the elite section of Amhearst. In fact the whole street was full of once-great homes that were now medical and dental suites, photography studios and offices for financial planners, psychologists and ministries. Some of the homes still had their pride intact with their well-tended lawns, fresh paint and gilt signs. Some were showing their age, all wrinkles and creaky joints, peeling paint and sagging shutters.

Freedom House was in the latter category, a dull gray with white-and-rose trim. It desperately needed painting before the rose became grayer than the gray. The wooden steps were soft underfoot, and the wraparound porch rippled like a lake under a strong breeze. Two spindles were missing from the porch railing, and the shutters looked like they had a bad case of psoriasis.

No financial resources to speak of, I guessed. The perennial problem of ministries.

Stephanie Bauer met me in the front hall. “Welcome!”

Her smile was so warm I smiled back automatically. “Hi. I think I saw you last night at Ferretti’s.”

Stephanie nodded. “I was there with my son and daughter.”

“I was there with the mother of the tall kid who crashed your family party.”

“Randy.” Stephanie laughed. “What a delightful, funny guy.” Randy? Delightful? Funny? Wow! Wouldn’t Edie love to hear that.

“I’m also in the bell choir, and I heard Sherrie sing this morning. She’s wonderful.”

Stephanie beamed, a proud mama. “She is, but I’m proudest of her for her commitment to the Lord.”

What a refreshing thing to hear a mother say about her child. “It’s probably from watching you and Freedom House.”

Stephanie grimaced. “I haven’t always been the best example of a healthy Christian woman.” She turned toward the back of the house. “My office is in the old dining room. Follow me.”

On the way we had to step around considerable clutter in the entry hall.

“We’re getting ready to open a secondhand clothing shop,” Stephanie explained. “We’re collecting both clothes and supplies in preparation.” She waved her hand at a couple of clothing racks, a slightly dirty, well-used store counter and several bags of clothing shoved into a corner. “We want to use the store as a training facility so that the women we counsel can become financially independent if they need to. Too many women stay in abusive situations because of lack of money.”

“When will the store open?”

“In a couple of months. We’re going to call it Like New. That’s what the women are when they find Christ and learn that with His help, they can control their lives.” She grinned. “We just signed the lease for a store in the center of town, and I have no idea where the monthly rent is going to come from. As you undoubtedly noticed, we can’t even afford to paint this place. If the store succeeds, it’ll be all because of God.”

She spoke as if trusting God this way were commonplace, and I thought that for her, it probably was.

I peered into the living room as we walked past. It was filled with chairs of all sizes, colors and fabrics.

“A motley mess, isn’t it?” Stephanie said cheerfully. “But we don’t have the luxury of being choosy. If someone offers us a chair, we take it. As long as it’ll hold a woman up safely, we don’t complain about the looks.”

We settled on a dirty, well-used sofa and chair in a corner of Stephanie’s office. I checked my little tape recorder to make certain it was working properly. Satisfied, I leaned back.

Stephanie patted her chair, and thousands of dust motes burst free, sailing through the air like seeds from an exploding pod. “A mission in Allentown was going out of business and they offered us first dibs on their furniture. Isn’t it comfortable?” She was clearly delighted.

“It is,” I agreed, though I had just been thinking that I wouldn’t give the ratty stuff house room. I swallowed, feeling shallow and materialistic.

“How did you get involved in Freedom House?” I asked. I knew the short answer to this question from my research, but it was still a good place to begin.

Stephanie looked away from me for a minute, staring out the window.

“It always amazes me when I have to admit that I was an abused wife. Not that I’m ashamed or feel guilty. I’m just amazed. How did I let myself get trapped like that?”

“How did you?” I marveled that someone as strong and assured as the Stephanie sitting in front of me had once been a victim.

“I got trapped for two reasons. I wanted to please. And no one had ever taught me the power of choice. And I was only eighteen when I married.”

“Is marrying at a young age typical of abusive situations?”

She nodded. “Often, though not always. In our case it was too many stresses before we had the ability to handle them. When I married Wes, I was in a romantic fantasy. I saw him as strong and knowing, my knight to protect me from the world. I would be the best wife a man could ever have, and he wouldn’t lose his temper at me anymore because I’d make him so happy.”

She looked into space, I suspected seeing herself at eighteen, twenty, twenty-five. “I bent over backwards to please him. When he got angry, I knew it was my fault because I hadn’t tried hard enough. When he hit me, I knew I deserved it. When he heaped verbal abuse on me, I knew I was all those terrible things he called me. After all, he’d never say them if they weren’t true.”

“But you’re an intelligent woman,” I protested.

She nodded. “But he was incredibly clever, a master manipulator. And he always begged for forgiveness with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you. You just made me so mad. Let’s agree that you’ll never do that again. Then I won’t have to hurt you again.’”

“That’s no apology at all.”

Stephanie nodded. “I know that now, but then I only heard the I’m-sorry part, not the it-was-Stephanie’s-fault part.”

“How long were you married?”

“Nine years. Nine long years.”

“Why did you finally leave?”

“Deep inside I knew it was wrong to hit people, even stupid wives. I just couldn’t admit it out loud. But I started reading things about abuse after a nurse talked to me the time Wes gave me a concussion and broke my arm.”

“How did he break your arm?” I cut in.

“He threw me down the stairs for not making the bed with the sheets he wanted.”

I blinked. “You’re kidding.”

She shrugged. “At least that’s what he said.

In reality he was about to lose another job and was taking it out on me. You see, if it was my fault he hit me, then he was still the good guy. I was the evil woman.”

She smiled grimly. “When you’re in an abusive marriage, it’s like you’re addicted. There’s this intimacy and these soul ties from the sex, often violent or demeaning. You think you can’t live without him even as he’s killing you. You think it’s normal to live with this tension, this pain. And you know everything will be all right if you can just love him enough.

“Which of course you can never do because for him the issue isn’t love but absolute authority. Total control. That’s the goal of every abuser.”

“The puppeteer pulling the strings,” I said.

“That’s too kind an image, but it definitely gives the idea.”

“How were the kids during this time?”

Stephanie smiled. “They were the one bright spot in my life. But they misbehaved, as all kids do, and I began to fear that Wes would beat them too.”

I thought of vivacious Sherrie and felt sick at the thought of someone hitting her. “Did he?”

She shook her head. “Wes never laid a hand on them, but they learned what they saw modeled. One day I was outside in the garden when I heard Sherrie begin to cry. She was about five years old. I rushed inside and found her and Rob in the living room. Rob was yelling at her like Wes yelled at me. He was calling her the same names that Wes called me. And on her cheek was a red handprint from where Rob had hit her.”

My blood chilled as I thought of the handsome kid in the booth last night at Ferretti’s.

“‘She didn’t do what I asked,’ Rob said. ‘I told her to get me something to drink and she didn’t.’ ‘I didn’t, Mom,’Sherrie said, hanging her head. ‘I’m sorry.’”

Stephanie swallowed hard, the memory obviously still painful. “‘You can’t hit her like that, Rob,’ I told him. ‘It’s not right.’ ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘Daddy hits you.’” Stephanie looked at me. “That’s when I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t let my children become Wes and me. I called that nurse and she sent me to a safe house. We lived there for two months. I couldn’t go to my regular job because Wes could find me there, but I found another one in another town nearby. And for some reason I began to go to church.”

She turned and pointed to the photo of a little white building that looked more like a VFW hall than a church. It hung on the wall beside this year’s school pictures of Sherrie and Rob.

“The safe house gave me protection when I needed it and helped restore order to our lives, but it was at church that I met Jesus. There I learned the power of choosing God’s way. That’s when I determined to offer women everything the safe house had offered me plus the power of God to redeem broken lives.”

“And Freedom House is the result?”

Stephanie nodded. “We only make a small dent in a very large problem, but we can do that.”

“Did you ever see your husband after you left?”

“I saw him in court when I fought for sole custody of the kids.” Stephanie smiled. “I won. After all, I had all those medical records of my various injuries. And a judge who understood the issues at stake.”

The phone rang.

“Excuse me.” Stephanie went to her desk. “I’m on a twenty-four-hour page because of the nature of Freedom House.”

I thought of my father, who was an absolutely wonderful husband and father. I thought of Curt, so kind and loving, and I was suddenly ashamed for all I’d taken for granted.

“Tina!” The command in Stephanie’s voice drew me. “Tina! Now listen to me. A bad morning at work doesn’t give him the right to unload on you.”

Tina murmured something.

“We’ve talked about this before, Tina. You’re panicking, doing what comes naturally to you. Don’t let yourself do that. You’ve got to choose to do the right thing, not the known thing. It’s your choice. To stay or to go—it’s your choice.” She listened for a minute. “I know it’s scary. Oh, Lord, please give Tina Your strength and Your courage. Help her make wise choices for her children’s sakes. And protect all of them, Father. Protect all of them.”

I listened to Stephanie’s prayer and wondered how many women she’d prayed with through the years, either over the phone or in person. How many women now lived without fear because of Freedom House?

Stephanie hung up and sat quietly for a minute or two with her eyes closed. Then she looked at me.

“One of the things we do for women who want to escape and are willing to take that risk is plan what to take and where to go. Some, like Tina, have been under their husbands’ thumbs so long that we have to begin with things as elementary as getting their purse and the kids. And some like Tina need time to save the taxi fare.”

“Do they live here if they bolt?”

She shook her head. “Once in a while someone stays here if there’s no other option. But I don’t take people in often for two reasons. My family and I live here, and I don’t want to endanger my kids. Also, we’re too public to be a safe house. A true safe house is a closely guarded location.”

“If this isn’t a residential facility, what do you do besides plan escape routes?”

Stephanie stood and walked back to the easy chair across from me. “We’re basically a training ministry. We teach women all about the power and freedom of choice. We teach them they can make good choices or bad choices. It sounds so obvious, this choosing well, when we say it to each other, but it’s a new truth to many women. And of course we teach the women that the greatest power and freedom of all come from choosing to believe in Christ.”

“So how do you teach this? What specific programs do you have?”

“I have a staff, mostly volunteers, who work with me. We teach Bible studies. We have support groups. We counsel. These programs might not sound like much, but they represent hours and hours of work each week.”

I didn’t doubt that for a minute. “May I come to one of the Bible studies?”

She looked at me carefully. “I need to know that you’ll respect the privacy of these women. It’s crucial to protect them. Their lives are literally at risk.”

“Believe me,” I said, hastening to reassure her, “I understand that. I promise to protect them.”

She nodded. “Okay then.”

A knock sounded on the door of the office, and there was Sherrie grinning at us.

“Hey, honey,” Stephanie said. “Is it three already?”

“Just about.” Sherrie came in and sat on the sofa beside me. Her eyes sparkled with life and good humor.

“This is Merry Kramer,” Stephanie said. “She’s a reporter at the News. She’s going to write an article about Freedom House.”

Sherrie looked at me. “Hey, that’s great. Somebody needs to write about Mom and all the good stuff she does.”

The phone rang again, and Stephanie went back to her desk to take the call.

Sherrie leaned toward me. “Can I be in the Freedom House article? I’ve got stuff I want to say, stuff I think kids need to hear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve lived here for a long time now, and I watch the women.” Her young face was serious, her brow furrowed. “I listen to Mom when she talks to them. I even go to some of the Bible studies. I’ve reached some conclusions that might keep girls from getting into marriages with the wrong guy. Sort of preventative stuff.”

I smiled broadly. “I think I’d like to talk with you. Monday after school at the News?”

“I’ll be there.” She grinned happily.

A high-pitched, desperate voice wept through the phone loudly enough to attract both Sherrie and me.

“Easy, Tina,” Stephanie said calmly. “Tell me the place you’ve chosen to go in times of trouble.”

“Poor Tina.” Sherrie shook her head. “She’s a nice person, but she’s a waffler.”

“A waffler?”

“She can’t decide whether to get out or not. One minute she’s leaving him, the next she’s going back because he loves her.” Sherrie snorted. “He doesn’t love her. He likes to control her.”

Tina’s terrified voice cut across the room again, her apprehension clear even if her words were not.

“How will you get to your parents?” Stephanie said into the phone.

I was now openly listening and thinking like mad. I had Stephanie’s personal story. I had the facts about Freedom House and the services provided. I might even have a sidebar article from Sherrie aimed at kids. But an interview with an abused wife! And right in the middle of a crisis! Wow.

I leaned toward Stephanie. “Can I help Tina? Drive her somewhere?”

Stephanie looked at me thoughtfully. “Just a minute, Tina. I need to check something.”

“I mean it. I’ll be glad to help.”

“She’s not just fodder for an article,” Stephanie said bluntly.

I flushed, caught. “I know that.”

“Promise you won’t write about her without her permission, and promise you’ll flatten her story so she can’t be identified.”

That wasn’t a hard promise to make. I certainly didn’t want Tina to suffer any more harm or hurt. “I promise.”

Stephanie nodded, satisfied. “She needs a ride to Phoenixville. Public transportation isn’t a possibility. And for financial reasons neither’s a cab.”

“Phoenixville’s not that far,” I said. “About a half hour up Route 113.”

“It’ll be very messy emotionally,” Stephanie warned. “And that’s the best possible scenario.”

“That doesn’t bother me.” Anything for story color. “Has her husband come home? Is that why the sudden panic?”

“He called from work and is full of fury. Apparently things have gone badly today, and she and the kids are about to bear the brunt of his frustration if we don’t get her out.”

“Where does she live?”

Stephanie returned to the phone. “Tina, I have someone here who can take you to your mother’s. I want you to tell her how to get to your house.”

I took the phone. “Hi, Tina. I’m Merry. I’ll be glad to drive you where you need to go.”

“I’m scared,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

“I know. Now tell me how to get to your house.”

She gave me directions hesitantly, pausing several times to yell at a crying child who responded by wailing louder.

“I’ll be there in about ten minutes,” I assured her.

She sniffed. “The kids and I will be waiting. And please, please hurry!”

FIVE

Tina’s cozy, tree-lined street looked like a Norman Rockwell setting made for raising happy, well-adjusted children. I wondered what secrets lived in the other houses.

A new red sports car sat in the driveway of Tina’s home, its sticker still on the window. I glanced at the price as I walked past and flinched. He might be having trouble at work, but obviously he made a good income. Too bad Tom Whatley hadn’t been at Hamblin’s to make the sale. There had to have been a very nice commission on this one.

As I stood on the front step, I could hear raised voices inside, first deep and masculine, then shrill and feminine. Then I distinctly heard a slap and a cry of pain.

Suddenly getting a good bite for my story seemed unimportant, even selfish. A woman’s very life might well be at stake, and journalism faded to insignificance. I put my shaking finger firmly on the bell.

All noise within ceased. Then the woman inside this house began to cry.

I rang again.

The door opened and a floridly handsome man glowered at me from the other side of the storm door. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing strong arms and wrists. Did he develop those muscles with exercises other than beating on Tina?

“Hi.” I smiled brightly, ignoring the turmoil in my stomach. Not only did I have the long tradition of Nellie Bly and Brenda Starr to uphold; I had right on my side.

“We don’t want any,” he snarled. “I gave at the office. Go away.”

I grabbed the storm door and pulled, praying it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t. The door opened wide. He blinked in surprise at my audacity.

“You must be Tina’s husband. I’m Merry.” I held out my hand and stepped into the house. He was forced to either collide with me or step back. He stepped back. He did not shake my hand.

“Hey, Tina, I’m here,” I called gaily.

She appeared behind her husband, a red handprint clearly visible on her cheek. Her eyes were full of fear, her face wet with tears, but her chin was held at a determined angle.

“Ready to go?” I asked.

“Go?” He sputtered like an outboard motor misfiring. “Go where?” He glared at Tina, then at me.

Tina and I ignored him. She turned and disappeared.

I’d lost her! “Tina?”

She reappeared with two small children, a boy about six and a girl about four, each carrying a little backpack. They looked more frightened than children should ever have to look. The girl had obviously been crying, her face mottled, her nose running.

Tina’s husband turned to her with a roar and grabbed her by the upper arm. She winced, and I knew she’d find a bruise there in a short time.

“Go,” she whispered to the kids. “Out to the car.”

“Mommy?” The girl looked at Tina with huge eyes dripping tears.

“Aren’t you coming, Mom?” the boy asked, trying not to cry.

“I’m coming,” Tina said. With her free hand she shooed the children. “Go.”

“Don’t you dare!” At their father’s voice, both children froze halfway down the steps.

I turned to them and smiled, hoping my lips weren’t quivering too much for my smile to be reassuring. “Why don’t you two climb in the backseat and buckle yourselves in?” I suggested quietly. “Your mom and I will be right there.”

The boy looked at his father, at his mother, at me. Then he grabbed his sister’s hand. “Come on, Lacey.”

Together they ran to the car. He pulled the rear door open, and I almost smiled as he helped her in and tried to buckle the seat belt around her.

“You can leave if you want,” Tina’s husband told her in a steely voice, “but I’ll find you, you know. You’re mine. You can’t escape. Ever.”

Could she possibly stand up to such focused intensity from someone who absolutely vibrated with the necessity to bend her to his will?

For a long minute she said nothing, just stared at him like a trapped rabbit.

“Tina,” I said. “Look at me. Look at me!”

“You stay out of this,” he hissed, his eyes never leaving Tina. “This is between my wife and me.”

“Tina!”

She pulled her gaze from her husband’s.

“It’s your choice.” I tried to remember what Stephanie had said. “Remember—the power of choice.”

When she responded, her voice was only a whisper and she talked to the floor, but she’d made her choice. “Let go of me, Bill. I’m going with Merry.”

He was startled at her unprecedented audacity, and taking advantage of his shock she wrenched her arm from his grasp.

He grabbed for her. “That’s what you think.”

I stepped quickly out the door onto the porch, though I kept the storm door open. I looked at the empty yard next door and called, “Hi, how are you doing today?” I even gave a little wave.

The idea that there was someone watching what was happening caused Tina’s husband to check for a minute. She saw her chance and darted past him, ducking as he slapped at her. She and I hurried toward the car.

I stopped halfway down the walk and turned back to the house. He stood on the front steps, his face red with fury, his hands clenched in fists.

“There’s something you should know before you lay a hand on your wife again.” I was so angry my voice shook. “I write for the News, and I’d be delighted to write about you by name. I’m sure they’d like to know at work just what kind of a man you are.”

He stared, clearly surprised. Then he shouted, “You wouldn’t dare! I’d sue you for all you’re worth! You have no proof.” He looked at his wife who was climbing into my car. “And who in their right mind would ever believe her?” The contempt in his voice gave me the chills.

“How about me? I believe her.” And I turned my back.

When we arrived at Tina’s parents’, they welcomed her and the children with obvious relief.

“Finally,” her father said with tears in his eyes. “And this time you’re staying.”

Tina burrowed into his arms as he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Come on, Lacey, Jess.” Tina’s mother took a small hand in each of hers. “I bet I can find some ice cream in the freezer.”

“Don’t let them eat all mine,” their grandfather said in an attempt to lighten the moment.

“It’s okay, Grandpop.” Lacey stopped in the doorway, trying to swallow her disappointment. “We don’t have to have any.”

With a sad smile, Grandpop said, “Honey, I was teasing. You eat as much as you want.”

Lacey looked at him hesitantly. “I mean it,” he said. “It’s all yours.”

“It’s okay, Lacey,” Jess said. “Isn’t it, Mommy? It’s okay here.”

“It’s okay here,” Tina repeated and began to weep.

Tonight’s black-tie reception was important for my career as I’d be meeting my new superboss for the first time, and I wanted to impress him. I was going to wear one of those rare, it’s-exactly-right dresses that made me feel like a million dollars but which I bought for thirty bucks in a secondhand clothes store. It had a fitted sapphire blue silk top covered with so many sequins that I shimmered like the Caribbean Sea awash in sun jewels. Its soft silk skirt fell in a graceful column.

But it was Curt I really wanted to impress. I wanted to knock his socks off, make him drool, froth at the mouth and go weak at the knees. I grinned at the absurd thoughts. I’d be happy if I could make him whistle.

I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my underwear, one eye made up, my hair in hot rollers, when I realized that my dress, fresh from the cleaners, was still hanging in the car. I shuddered when I thought of its condition after sharing a backseat with Lacey and Jess, but it was the only truly fancy dress I owned—unless you counted four frou-frou bridesmaid dresses, including one from Jolene and Reilly’s wedding. Of course I wouldn’t be caught dead in any of them outside a church.

I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes before Curt arrived. I grabbed my new red coat and threw it on over my undies. I ran out the front door. I was halfway across the porch when I heard the door not only slam closed but snap in the way that meant only one thing: locked. And the key was in my purse on the sofa.

I stared at my front door. A couple of months ago someone had broken into my apartment by shattering one of the small panes of glass in the door. After that I’d lobbied my landlord for a new, all-wooden door. He hadn’t been happy with the idea, but when I offered to share the cost with him, he’d agreed. My new, solid door with the peephole was impregnable, unless you happened to be carrying an axe in your coat pocket.

I had ten minutes—no, probably about eight by now—to get back inside before Curt arrived and found me in my rollers, underwear, half-made-up face and slippers with the Winnie the Pooh heads on them. I began a frantic search for a secret way into the apartment.

I was behind the yew hedge by the front window, trying in vain to open it, when I heard a deep voice say, “It’s a cinch that no one at the reception will hold a candle to you tonight.”

For once the voice didn’t thrill me to my toes.

I turned to face him. He looked absolutely gorgeous with his black curly hair and dark eyes behind his new brown wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a tux. A tux! And I was wearing a coat and underwear!

He studied me closely, looking from one eye to the other. He was trying rather unsuccessfully not to laugh.

I stalked out from behind the bushes, clutching my coat to me. “I’m locked out.”

“Ah.” Then he saw my feet. “Hey! Maybe I can get a pair of Tiggers!”

“Very funny. Go away. Come back in twenty minutes.”

Instead he leaned over and kissed my cheek, getting poked in the temple with a roller in the process.

“Sorry.” I rubbed the little red marks left by the roller’s teeth.

He looked at the front door. “You’re sure it’s locked?”

I just looked at him.

“All right then.” He retraced the route I had just taken, trying all the windows I had just tried. Whiskers followed his progress from window to window, meowing encouragement from inside. I was perversely pleased to see that he had no more luck than I.

“So you really are out in the cold,” he said.

“And it’s getting colder. It’s breezy under here.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just break a window and get me in!”

“I guess there’s no alternative. But let’s make certain it’s absolutely necessary first.” And so saying, he pulled open the storm door of my apartment and tried the front door.

It opened obediently.

I stared at the open door, feeling betrayed. “But it clicked!”

“Yeah. That was probably the storm door.”

I wanted to gnash my teeth.

I had finished my second eye when I realized that my dress was still in the car. I grabbed my red coat out from under Whiskers, who had decided that if it was dumped on my bed, it could be his bed. He glared at me and I glared back. I went once again to my traitorous front door.

“Well, your eyes match,” Curt said as he looked up from the magazine he was reading. Today’s Christian Woman. I bet he was enjoying that. “But something tells me you’re not quite ready yet.”

“My dress is still in the car.”

“I’ll get it. At least I’m decent.” And he grinned.

I looked down and saw that while I clutched my coat closed above the waist, below the waist the left side had caught behind me when I swung it on. The only thing I can say is that it wasn’t quite as bad as if I’d caught my skirt in my panty hose.

When I finally got myself together and emerged from the bedroom in one piece, Curt let out a low wolf whistle.

Suddenly the evening looked enchanted.

I chatted happily as we drove across town, telling Curt all about Edie’s troubles. “And Tom’s still missing,” I concluded.

Curt raised an eyebrow. “Missing?”

I nodded, grinning at him.

“I can tell by your smile that you’re very concerned.”

I blinked. “Of course I’m concerned.” I leaned toward him and smiled again, full wattage. “I’m smiling because I’m with you,” I all but purred.

This time he blinked.

City Hall was a beautiful old stone mansion. I loved the grounds with the gracious beech whose branches swept the ground like the skirts of a great lady, the towering oak that stood like a sentinel watching over the lady and the glorious magnolias whose waxen, white petals even now promised spring as they dared a frost to wither their beauty.

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