I turned to Jolene just as she entered the kitchen. I raised my camera, flicked the switch to continuous exposure and pressed.

As the lens click-clicked, she stopped abruptly, frozen. I heard a quick intake of breath and saw a flash of tightening jaw through the viewfinder. Then she let out an unearthly shriek.

“Arnie!” She ran into the kitchen, out of my sight for a moment. “No! No! Arnie!”

The hairs on my arm rose at her tone, and I ran into the kitchen myself. I froze for an instant, too.

On the floor by the stove lay Arnie, staring upwards, blood puddling beneath and beside him on the yellow tiles. Jolene knelt in the blood, shaking him, calling him, trying to rouse him.

She would never succeed.

GAYLE ROPER

has always loved stories, and as a result she’s authored more than 40 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. Several writers’ conferences have cited her for her contributions to writer training. 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 the Act
Gayle Roper

When I am afraid, I will trust in you.

—Psalms 56:3

For my brothers and sisters

at Calvary Fellowship Church

“I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.”

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

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

“Merry, could you drop me at my parents’ after work?” Jolene Meister asked as we left The News office for lunch. “My father brought me in this morning.”

I’d only have to go out of my way a couple of blocks, so I said, “Sure. No problem.”

And that easily and innocently I precipitated my involvement in murder.

Again.

Jolene and I walked to Ferretti’s, the best eating our small town had to offer. The winter wind on this dingy December Tuesday bit through my new red coat, and I suspected my nose was turning almost as rosy as my wool blend. The two scars on my nose that I’d gotten in a bike accident when I was eight years old would be turning a contrasting blue.

Ah, well, I thought. If I smile, I can have a patriotic face: red nose, white teeth and blue scars.

Gene Autry was serenading downtown Amhearst about Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer over a tinny public address system by Santa’s little house. How come a cowboy had made millions off a deer’s red nose and all I got from mine was a color scheme?

“Hey, Jolene.” Ferretti’s hostess, a brassy blonde named Astrid, seated us with a smile, then left.

It never ceased to amaze me how everyone in Amhearst knew everyone else. As a recent arrival I found it both cozy and unnerving. “How do you know Astrid?”

“I went to school with her younger sister, Elsa. She’s a real dingbat.”

“Who? Astrid or Elsa?”

“Both.”

Knowing Jolene as I did, that probably meant that the two women were very nice and rather intelligent.

“Does anyone ever move away from Amhearst?”

“Sure.” Jolene indicated our waitress whose name tag read Sally. “Sally’s daughter Caroline moved to California to be in the movies, right?” She looked at Sally.

“Yeah,” Sally said. “But she moved back home last month. Astrid’s sister, Elsa, got her a job as receptionist at Bushay’s. Elsa’s Mr. Bushay’s administrative assistant.”

Didn’t sound like dingbat territory to me, but it sure sounded like Amhearst.

I ordered a Caesar salad and Jolene ordered a huge plate of eggplant parmigiana.

When Sally disappeared with her order pad, I looked at Jolene.

“And how do you know Sally?”

“She and my mom were in the PTA together.”

“And you know Caroline, the would-be movie star?”

“Sure. She was three years ahead of me in school.”

“See? Weird.”

Jolene shrugged and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Do I look flushed to you?”

“Like you’re getting sick, you mean?” Jolene was a hypochondriac.

I looked at her big brown hair and bangs, her bright brown eyes, her flawless skin. “You look great to me.” In an overblown sort of way.

Our lunches came, and I looked from my salad to Jolene’s spicy, cheesy dish. “How can you eat that and not gain weight? It’s swimming in oil. It’s not fair.”

“Fair?” She leveled a forkful of dripping eggplant at me. “Is it fair that you have two gorgeous men chasing you?” She snorted, a noise that sounded decidedly odd coming from her delicate nose. “Don’t give me fair, Merrileigh Kramer. I’m not listening.”

I grinned. I’d never in my life had one man chasing me with any real enthusiasm, and suddenly I had two. It made me feel nervous and powerful. It made me giggle.

It also made me check over my shoulder constantly because I hadn’t quite figured out how to break the news to my new boyfriend that my old boyfriend, suddenly ardent, had come a-courting. And what was worse yet, old Jack didn’t even know that a warm, delightful and charming man named Curt Carlyle existed.

“So Jack just showed up at your door on Sunday?” Jolene buttered a piece of Italian bread with real butter.

I crunched a particularly large chunk of romaine. “You go with a guy for six years, and he refuses to make a commitment,” I began.

“Six years?” Jolene’s voice squeaked with disbelief.

I held up a hand. “Don’t ask. Just accept my word that he’s charming and I was stupid. Anyway he’s hardly contacted me since I moved here in September, and boom! There he is. Although I guess it really wasn’t boom, was it? Four months is hardly boom.”

“Merry Christmas, my Merry,” he’d yelled when I opened my door Sunday afternoon. He pushed a giant silk poinsettia into my hands, smiling broadly at my confusion. Then he grabbed me and hugged me tightly, crushing the poinsettia painfully between us.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, ever gracious.

“Is that any way to greet your sweetheart come this great distance just to be near you?”

Just four months ago I’d have swooned with delight if he’d deigned to call me his sweetheart. Now all I felt was an incipient case of heartburn.

“I’ve moved to Amhearst,” he said, taking off his coat without an invitation. “At least for a while.”

I think he thought I was paralyzed with delight, but it was horror as I tried to imagine him fitting into the new life I’d found when I fled my old in despair over him.

He threw his coat across the back of the chair. A sleeve flopped down and slapped my dozing cat, Whiskers, in the face. He sat up with a sleepy scowl and decided right then and there he didn’t like Jack. When Jack saw the cat, I could tell that the feeling was mutual.

Bad sign.

“You’ve moved to Amhearst?” My voice was heavy with disbelief. “Why?”

“To be near you, sweetheart.” His eyes went soft and dark.

“But—” I sputtered. “Your job. You didn’t quit your job!” Jack was a CPA with a large firm back home in Pittsburgh.

“Of course I didn’t. I’m here doing an audit on Bushay Environmental, and it’ll take weeks at the very least.”

I planted my fists on my hips. “Your company sends you here, and I’m supposed to believe that indicates undying affection for me?”

“I campaigned for this assignment,” he said earnestly.

He reached for my hand, and I suddenly saw him as a giant vacuum cleaner, ready to suck me up and spit me back into the past. The image terrified me. I dodged him, leaned over and filled both arms with Whiskers, who immediately began to purr.

Jack either didn’t understand my move or made believe he didn’t. He kept on talking as if he always reached out and found nothing, as if it didn’t matter that I preferred a cat to him.

“Amhearst isn’t exactly a desirable location,” he informed me. “It’s out here in the western edge of Chester County miles away from anything.”

I scowled at him as if he’d insulted me. I liked Amhearst, and part of its charm was its rural setting. And Philadelphia was only an hour away, for heaven’s sake.

As usual he missed my reaction. I used to wonder if his lack of response to how I felt was a power play designed to get his own way, or if he was just too dense to see what was in front of him. As I watched him in my living room, I decided he was just dense. That idea made me sad.

“I asked to be sent here instead of Atlantic City and a casino audit.” He reached over Whiskers and touched my cheek. “I gave up a plum assignment, and all for you.”

Atlantic City in December didn’t sound all that plum to me. Cold, damp, depressing.

Jack continued to recount his campaign for the Bushay job, trying to convince me of his ardor. “‘You’ve got to send me to Amhearst,’ I told Mr. Proctor. ‘I want the Bushay job even though it means weeks away from home to complete it.’” He smiled impishly. “I didn’t tell him about you.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow as Whiskers jumped out of my arms.

“But I knew you were my reason.” He reached for me again. “My girl.”

I dodged his grasp again by grabbing my coat from the clothes tree in the corner and throwing it over my shoulders. “Well, I may have been your reason for coming here, but I’m not sure I’m your girl anymore.”

And I walked out. I had absolutely no place to go, but I knew I’d never again have such a wonderful exit line. And six years of no commitment was a long, long time, no matter how you looked at it.

As I finished my tale, Jolene eyed me with something like admiration. “So where’d you go?”

“To The News. Where else?” I crunched more Romaine.

“Was he there when you got home?”

“I didn’t get home until ten-thirty, and Jack can’t stand waiting for five minutes, let alone five hours.”

Jo’s eyes widened. “What did you do for five hours?”

Suddenly I felt embarrassed because I knew what her response to my answer was going to be. I cleared my throat. “I had a date.”

“What?” she shrieked, just like I knew she would. She started to laugh so hard I thought she’d choke on her eggplant. “This guy moves all the way from Pittsburgh for you, and you go out with someone else? Merry, my estimation of you has jumped off the charts. You are a wild woman after all.”

My mind tried to comprehend me as a wild woman, but the idea was as impossible to grasp as a soap bubble from a wand was for a child.

“You’re so lucky,” she said. “I haven’t had anyone chasing me in years.” Her lovely brown eyes looked forlorn beneath her brown bangs.

“Of course not. You’ve been married.”

She shrugged carelessly—which said volumes about her view of marriage. “But I’m not married now.”

“True and false. You’re not divorced, either. Maybe you and Arnie will get back together yet.”

Again the careless shrug. Poor Arnie. I hoped he wasn’t pining for her because it looked like he’d waste away to nothing before Jolene returned.

She mopped up the last of her eggplant with the last of her bread. “So what did Curt say when he heard Jack was here?”

I concentrated on corralling the last of my salad. “He doesn’t know yet.”

“What?” She laughed until I thought for sure her mascara would run.

I looked at her sourly. Clowns in the center ring didn’t give the laughs I did. “I plan to tell him next time I see him.”

Her smile was a mile wide. “You’re afraid to tell him.”

I stuck my chin in the air and gave my version of her snort. I wasn’t about to admit she was right.

“One thing I want to know,” Jolene said, making one of her patented changes of topic. “How can someone who looks so much like a football player be an artist?”

I smiled, picturing Curt’s dark curly hair and glasses and shoulders so broad he could block an entire movie screen at thirty paces.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he told me recently.

“No, you’re not,” I said in something like panic. “We hardly know each other. Love takes time to grow.” I knew because my mother had told me so all my life.

Still, when he looked at me a certain way, my knees buckled, I had trouble breathing and my heart barrumped in time with the Minute Waltz.

“Things between Curt and me are fragile,” I told Jolene. “New. Too new. I don’t know how to tell him.”

I must have looked as disconsolate as I felt because Jolene patted my hand. “It’ll work out. Don’t worry.” She grinned at me. “Just keep me informed, you hear?”

We took our checks to the cashier by the door. Jolene eyed me while she waited for her change.

“You didn’t tell Curt about Jack. Did you tell Jack about Curt?”

I made a big deal of buying one of those little foil-wrapped mints.

She snickered. “You’re better than any movie I ever saw, girl. And I want to be around when they meet.”

Perish the thought!

“I have to visit the ladies’ room,” she said. “Come on.”

I followed her into the cozy, well-lit room, admiring her black leather and faux-fur coat and black boots. The lady had style if not class.

I looked at myself in the huge mirror over the sink. My short, thick, spiky black hair was drooping a bit as usual. I wet my fingers and ran them through it, trying to wake up the mousse that was supposed to keep it sticking up in what the beautician had assured me was a very stylish do when she cut off my almost waist-length hair back in August.

Sighing, I gave up on my hair. I stared instead at the Christmas candle sitting on the vanity.

Christmas. My first in Amhearst, and I was facing it with some excitement (two men) but also with much misgiving. For the first time ever, I wouldn’t be with my family for our warm and wonderful celebration. No fat Christmas tree with Grandma Kramer’s heirloom angel gracing the top bough. No hot mulled cider that Dad tried to foist on everyone. No marvelous turkey smells and no Aunt Sissy’s famous pumpkin pie.

Jolene would have a warm, cozy family Christmas with hugs and presents and all that stuff. She wouldn’t sit alone all day, staring at her cat. That would be me.

Every time I thought about my holiday solitude, I suffered mild depression. As a result my little apartment on the first floor of an old carriage house sported only a wreath on the door. I hadn’t gotten myself a tree or put electric candles in my windows like everyone else in Amhearst. Of course I now had a silk poinsettia sitting on an end table.

It was my job that prevented a trip to Pittsburgh and home. I had only Christmas Day off, if being on call means “off.”

“Someone has to be available in case a big story breaks,” said Mac, my editor at The News. Then he grinned. “I guess you’ve drawn the short straw, Merry.” He didn’t even feel sorry for me.

I kept telling myself that I didn’t mind. I was an independent career woman, pressing on with my new life. I didn’t believe myself for an instant. But, I reminded myself before I started weeping on the spot, I was the one with two men!

Not that I needed or wanted two. One would certainly be more than enough since monogamy was my preferred lifestyle. I just had to decide which one.

“Hey!” Jolene said as she came out of a stall. “You’re smiling. Which one are you thinking about?”

“Not telling.” I swung my purse strap back onto my shoulder and slammed the bag itself into the blonde woman walking out of the other stall.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

She smiled at me, her gray eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t worry about it. It’s o—”

Her voice faded to nothing, and her face lost its pleasant smile. She stared past me with a sudden look of great distaste. I blinked and turned to see what she was looking at, and there stood Jolene. Her face had also lost all its charm and warmth.

“Well, well,” Jo said. “Look who’s here.”

“Hello, Jo,” the woman said in a tight, tense voice. “How are you? And how’s Arnie?”

“We’re both fine.” Jolene matched icy politeness for icy politeness. I could get frostbite just standing here.

“Tell him I said hello,” the woman said.

“Like he cares,” Jolene spat the words like little pellets flying from a straw to land stinging blows on the back of an unsuspecting neck.

The woman sighed in disgust. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Jolene bristled. “Watch it, Airy. I don’t like being in the same room with you any more than you like being in the same room with me.”

My eyes widened. I am Polly Peacemaker, and if I’m caught in conflict, I never know what to do. But it appeared I was the only one uncomfortable here. These two women were obviously sluggers, though Jo was clearly batting champ.

“Believe me,” Airy said, “if I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have avoided Ferretti’s at all costs.”

Jolene, face haughty, sniffed. “My coworker and I were having a business lunch.”

Airy sneered. “Don’t give me that snotty attitude about your job, Jolene. People at your level don’t have business lunches.”

Jolene glared. “You just think you’re so smart.”

I looked at Jolene, disappointed. Certainly she could do better than that worn-out old line.

“Tell me.” Airy’s voice dripped acid. “Which of us graduated valedictorian? Um? It certainly wasn’t you.”

What? At twenty-five years old or so, she was bringing up high school? What was next? Elementary school jealousies?

“Like test grades show intelligence,” Jolene scoffed with a wonderful disregard for the entire educational system. “I’d rather have my social smarts than your boring IQ any day.”

“You used to be nice, you know.” Airy nodded slightly as if agreeing with herself. “Up until about third grade. It’s been downhill ever since.”

Yikes, I thought. Elementary school.

“And you’ve been jealous of me ever since.”

“Oh, pu-lease! I’d kill myself before I ever became like you.”

A woman pushed the ladies’ room door open and froze halfway in, caught by the nastiness of the voices. She locked eyes with me for the briefest of seconds, then withdrew, condemnation in every line of her body.

Not me, I wanted to tell her. I’m an innocent bystander. I know better. I have class.

Jolene and Airy hadn’t even noticed her. They were too busy pouring out a lifetime of vituperation.

Suddenly Jolene turned sly. “By the way, Airy, how’s Sean?”

All color drained from Airy’s face. “Don’t you even mention his name,” she hissed. “Don’t you even think about him.”

Jolene just smiled. If I’d been Airy, I’d have been tempted to sock her one for her arrogance.

“How do you like his new mustache?” Jolene asked innocently. “I think it makes him look quite debonair, don’t you?”

“His new mus—How do you—?” Airy was so angry that she was sputtering. And scared? She shut her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Then she said in an urgent, passionate voice, “Sean is off-limits to you. Don’t you ever, ever come near him.”

“Oops. You mean I shouldn’t have had lunch with him yesterday?”

Airy looked as if she had turned to stone. She didn’t even appear to draw breath.

Jolene did everything but smack her lips at the reaction she had gotten. “Why don’t you just settle for Arnie? You and he would make a great pair. The leftovers.” And she turned away.

Airy reached out and grabbed Jolene’s arm and spun her around. Jo blinked in surprise. The guppy was taking on the shark.

“I mean it, Jo. Stay away from Sean. You may have taken Arnie away from me once upon a time, but not Sean. Not Sean! He’s mine.”

Jolene raised an eyebrow and looked down her perfect nose. “Only if you can keep him, sweetie.” She shook Airy’s hand from her arm as if she was flicking garbage off a plate and strode out of the room.

I was left staring at my toes, unsure what to do. What did one say to the loser in a catfight? It was one of life’s little lessons that Mom, usually so good at preparing me, had neglected.

I heard a soft sigh and glanced up. Airy looked so sad.

“I’m sorry,” I said, even though I had nothing to do with any of it.

Airy nodded and smiled weakly. “You’d think I’d have learned to deal with her by now, wouldn’t you? I mean, I’ve known her since I was four years old. Princess Jo.”

She pulled a packet of tissues from her purse and wiped ineffectively at her nose.

“Merry Christmas,” she said and walked out without looking back.

When I left the ladies’ room, I looked to see if Airy was still in the restaurant. She wasn’t but Jolene was, standing straight and beautiful and haughty as she waited for me.

It was a silent walk back to The News.

TWO

“Merry, come here!” My editor, Mac Carnuccio, cocked a hand at me as soon as I came in from lunch.

Mac was king of our little world. His style was exactly the opposite of our previous editor, the erratic stacks of paper littering his desk being but one instance. Still, in the short two weeks that he’d held the job, he’d put out a paper as good as or better than our former editor.

And he clearly loved being in charge, taking a kid’s pleasure in the subtle perks of power, especially the enormous desk by the enormous window.

“I love sitting here,” he’d told me last week as he leaned back in his new ergonomically correct executive chair. “I feel like I own all of Amhearst.”

I’d looked out on Main Street and agreed it was an impressive sight. “Monarch of all you survey, eh?”

Mac smiled broadly at an iridescent gray pigeon taking its afternoon constitutional on the other side of his window. Then his face sobered.

“I’m not really editor, you know.” He glanced at me. “I’m only acting editor. The rag’s for sale, and who knows who will buy it and what will happen then. Ever since I saw Cary Grant in His Girl Friday, I wanted to be a suave, fast-talking editor. And—” his grin returned “—for now I am.”

Now this suave, fast-talking editor was waving to me, his Rosalind Russell.

As I hurried through the newsroom, I zigged and zagged as necessary to avoid being eaten by the spectacularly healthy plants that Jolene insisted on growing here. The huge grape ivy that sat on the soda machine had been joined by a gigantic red poinsettia, one of several that sat about in case we forgot that Christmas was a mere week away. On the great windowsill of the picture window African violets bloomed pink and purple and variegated in spite of the time of year, and Jolene’s Christmas cactus in a teeth-jarring shade of fuchsia hung nearly to the floor.

Mac’s policy was the same as our former editor’s: ignore the greenery and maybe it would die.

“Have I got an assignment for you, Beautiful,” Mac said when I stood before his cluttered desk. “You’ll love it!”

“Yeah?” Whenever Mac told me I’d love something, I got nervous. We were so different that most things he thought were great, I thought were vulgar, profane, and/or without redeeming social value.

“And if you don’t love it,” he said, “the penalty is dinner with me. Alone. At my place.”

“I can tell already that I’m going to like this assignment a lot.” I smiled to let him know I knew he was joking about the dinner, though I wasn’t certain he was. He asked me out with great regularity, and I refused with equal regularity. The last thing I wanted or needed was an office romance with a guy like Mac. Besides, a third guy would definitely be more than I could handle.

“I already assigned you Longwood Gardens at Christmas, right?”

I nodded. Longwood Gardens was a local wonder that I was to do a piece on for the December 26 issue, something I could write ahead, an informative filler that wouldn’t change, unless, of course, the conservatory decided to burn down or something.

“Good.” He nodded. “Don’t forget.”

I scowled at him. Like I’d forget an assignment.

He fumbled through one of his multiple stacks of papers. He grunted with satisfaction as he pulled a sheet free. “You know about His House?”

“Whose house?”

“His House.”

I looked at him blankly.

“You know. Like in God.”

“God’s house? Like church?”

“What’s church got to do with anything?” Mac looked as confused as I felt.

“Church is God’s house.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess it is. But I’m not talking about church. I’m talking about His House.”

We were back where we started.

“His House is a place for girls in trouble.”

“Ah,” I said. “In trouble with the law? With pregnancies? With their parents?”

“Probably all the above, but mostly with pregnancies. I want a tearjerker story on some of those girls. I want to wring the readers’ hearts.”

I nodded. I could do that.

“I want your story to be so compelling that our readers will admire these girls, no, will love these girls for their courage to carry their babies instead of terminating their pregnancies. I want heartbreaking stories of desperation and blossoming maternal love, of perseverance in the face of abandonment by families and, most terribly, by the babies’ fathers.” He rose from his seat, carried away by his own rhetoric. “I want the readers to cry!”

I stared at him in astonishment. Where had all this emotion come from?

He grinned sheepishly as he noticed not only me but Edie Whatley, the family page editor, staring at him.

“Lapsed Italian-Catholic guilt,” he explained as he sank into his new chair. “I’m conflicted over abortion. I’m conflicted over the Church. And Christmas always makes it all worse. I mean, what if Mary had aborted Jesus? Did you ever think of that?”

“Mac!”

“And then there’s all the other seasonal questions. Should I go to midnight Mass on Christmas Eve? It sort of makes me feel good to go, you know? But isn’t that hypocritical if I never go any other time? And shouldn’t you go to church to talk to God, not to get a warm seasonal buzz? But it’d make my mother happy. The question is: would it make God happy? And why would he want to see me after the way I’ve acted the rest of the year? If there is a God.”

I couldn’t help laughing at his expression, but I realized he was asking some very serious questions.

“Come to church with me on Christmas Eve,” I said.

“Are you asking me for a date?” He looked much too eager.

“Absolutely not, but you could sit with me.”

His eyes lit up.

“I wouldn’t want you to feel awkward in strange surroundings,” I said primly.

“Too kind, kid. Here.” He handed me the sheet of paper.

I read Dawn Trauber, Director, His House, followed by a phone number.

“Call her,” he instructed. “Set up an interview.”

I nodded. “Thanks. I agree with you. This will be a great story.”

“It better be, Schweetheart,” he said in his best Humphrey Bogart. “I may not go to Mass, but consider me the Little Drummer Boy bringing my gift of the story to the manger. You’re the drum I’m beating on, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.”

I went to the file cabinet along the wall, slid the gigantic jade plant—now festooned with an equally gigantic red bow and white fairy lights—to the rear of the cabinet, and dived into the H drawer. Certainly the clipping service had something for me on His House. I pulled the information out.

I carried the file back to my desk by way of the soda machine. As I walked past, I tossed my head. Just that quickly I was attacked by the great grape ivy. Its tentacles reached out and wrapped themselves about my spiky hair, twisting and twining themselves until I was imprisoned against the dollar slot.

My file fluttered to the floor. I gurgled in outrage and began struggling, though I didn’t want to be too rough because I was more afraid of Jolene, the mad gardener, than I was of the plant. But I didn’t want to be dinner for a carnivorous organism, either. So I pulled and twisted, and no sooner did I get one spike free than another fell prey to the shoots.

I could just see the headline: “Reporter Vined to Death. ‘But it seemed such a nice plant,’ friends say.”

As I struggled, a tendril reached down the back of my collar and wound itself around my neck. I felt it begin to choke me.

“No!” I lashed out wildly. I felt my feet slip on some downed leaves just as Jolene and Mac reached me. I grabbed for them to keep from slamming to the floor, but they calmly sidestepped me and grabbed the falling grape ivy instead. I hit the floor with a great thud, but all I heard was, “Thank goodness! We caught it just in time.” That was Mac.

“Merry! What were you thinking? You might have harmed it.” That was Jolene.

As I sat there with my skirt around my ears and my hip announcing its fury at my inconsiderate treatment, Mac and Jolene patiently unwound the vines from my hair and with a great show of concern put the plant back on the soda machine.

“Poor thing,” Jolene murmured as she patted the villainous tendrils of green.

Snarling, I grabbed my fallen file, pulled myself to my feet and limped back to my desk.

A minute later a laughing Mac stood beside me offering a peace Coke. The absurdity of the whole thing struck me just as I took my first swallow. Mac had to swat me on the back several times to prevent me from choking.

“You made my day, Merry,” he said as he walked away. “You made my day.”

In the work situation, all I ever wanted was to be a consummate professional. Well, professionals are people who please their bosses, right? I perked up a bit.

I went into our e-files to supplement the His House paper file, which wasn’t exactly fat, and between the two sources found several news articles, many of them about local church women’s groups who had showers and in-gatherings to benefit the House. There were several pictures of smiling women sitting behind stacks of hand-knit baby sweaters and blankets while boxes of diapers rose like block towers beside them. There was a picture of the House itself, a huge, old Victorian just east of town.

I looked carefully at a picture of the director, Dawn Trauber, woman around thirty who reminded me of Katie Couric. Same nice face. Same warm smile.

According to the article that chronicled her coming to His House, Dawn had wonderful credentials. She had a degree in social work from Philadelphia Biblical University and an MSW from Temple University in Philadelphia. She had worked for several years as a houseparent at a children’s home near Lancaster. According to the article, she had now been in Amhearst three years.

There was nothing in either file about any of the girls who stayed there.

As I thought about it, I wasn’t surprised. If I had to stay in a facility like His House, I didn’t think I’d want my story and picture splashed all over the local paper. Obviously I couldn’t keep my situation a secret. I might not even want to. But to let a bunch of strangers in on it was another whole issue.

Well, Lord, you’re going to have to help me find a way to do this story. I don’t think it’s going to be easy.

I called His House and asked to speak with Dawn Trauber. When she came on the line, I explained who I was.

“I’d like to do a holiday story about some of your girls. You know. Coping with extraordinary circumstances at a time of year that’s often difficult in the best of situations.”

“Well,” Dawn said, drawing the word out. I could hear the reluctance. “Certainly you can speak with me and certainly you can find out all you want about how we operate. As far as talking to the girls themselves, though, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“What if one or two are willing to speak with me?”

“We’ll see. Come out and let me meet you. I need to assess whether I can trust you.”

We made an appointment for the next morning, and I hung up uncertain whether this drum was going to rum-pa-pum-pum.

Suddenly Jolene stood at the side of my desk. I looked at my watch. Exactly 5:00 p.m.

“Ready?” she asked. She smiled sweetly if somewhat vaguely at me, the very picture of a lovely, somewhat ditzy woman without a care in the world. In other words, she had returned to the woman I worked with each day. Gone was the mad gardener who let me fall while she saved her plant or the shrew who so masterfully dissected Airy at lunch.

Airy. What was it short for? Arianna? Ariadne? Arabelle? Certainly not Aristotle.

“What’s Airy’s real name?” I asked as I tucked all the clippings into the His House file and slipped it back into its place in the H drawer. “And how does she spell it?”

“Airy?” She sounded as if she’d never heard of anyone by that name.

“You know,” I prompted, “the woman we met in the ladies’ room.” Though come to think of it, I hadn’t met her. No one had been in an introducing mood.

“Oh.” Jolene nodded in “sudden” remembrance. “Valeria.”

“Valeria?”

Jolene nodded. “Valeria Lucas Bennett. Sounds high society, doesn’t it?” And she laughed sarcastically.

I shrugged my red coat on, and we left The News by the back door. Jolene talked as we crossed the parking lot behind the building.

“She was Val until I started calling her Valentine’s Day when we were in first grade. Valentine’s Day, go away. Don’t come near for another year.” Jolene sang the rhyme. “She decided she didn’t like Val anymore. I suggested Larry from Valeria. She said that was a boy’s name. Then I told her she should be A-i-r-y, like a breeze floating wherever she wanted to go. Airy, Airy, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With weeds and seeds scratching your knees and ugly prickers all in a row.”

I shuddered for poor Airy as I unlocked my car doors. We climbed in and I cranked the heater as high as it would go.

Jo loosened her scarf. “Airy and I sat next to each other all through school. Lucas and Luray—that’s our maiden names. By the way,” she said as I turned toward her parents’ home, “I need to stop off at my house for a minute.”

“Oh.” I thought of her very upscale condominium in the new development on the old Greeley farm south of town, fifteen minutes from here. How like her to neglect to mention this little detour until now.

“I don’t mean the condo,” she said, reading my mind, a trick of hers I found very disconcerting. “I mean my house. I need to see Arnie, and he’s there.”

“You have a house and a condo?”

She looked at me as if to say, “Doesn’t everyone?”

“How long will this take?” I knew I was committed no matter how long it took. After all, she was already sitting in my car.

“Not long. No more than fifteen minutes.”

“To get there or to talk with Arnie?”

“Yes.”

Sighing softly, I told myself that I wasn’t being taken advantage of, that I liked going miles out of my way. After all, I had nothing better to do, unless you counted eating dinner, petting Whiskers or relaxing a minute before running out again to take a picture of the committee for the Amhearst Annual Christmas Food Project, or AAC-FOP as Mac called it.

Fifteen minutes later we pulled up before a gorgeous, gigantic mansion—I couldn’t think of any other word for the glorious vision in front of me. “This is your house?”

“Yeah, it’s mine.” She climbed out of the car.

“Wow!” I wondered about Jolene with her cloying lily of the valley perfume and big hair. Thoughtfully I glanced at her coat. Maybe that wasn’t faux fur after all.

The house drew me. Light streamed in wide ivory ribbons from Palladian windows and picture windows, bow windows and plain old regular windows, casting a golden glow on perfect shrubbery and a winding brick driveway and front walk. Through one large window a Christmas tree trimmed in little white lights twinkled from its place next to a sofa bigger than my entire apartment. A chandelier that looked like it would fit in well at the White House shone through the great window over the double front door.

“Look at all those lights,” Jolene said in disgust.

“They’re wonderful,” I said, mesmerized.

She gave her unladylike snort. “Arnie loves lights. When he was a kid, they didn’t have any money. I mean none. His mother would only let them have one light on at a time, and that was a sixty watt. Now he puts on every light in the house, all a hundred watt. You need sunglasses at midnight! ‘I can afford it,’ he yells. ‘Don’t you turn a single switch off!’”

I grabbed my camera from the backseat. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about using a flash.

“Has the paper ever done a feature on this place?” I asked. I could see it as the first in a series of Great Homes of Chester County, some new like this, some historic, some remodeled places like the barn over on Route 322. I’d have to talk to Edie Whatley, the home page editor. This was more her territory than mine, but I’d love to do such a series.

I stopped halfway up the walk and stared at the magnificence of it all. “Why live at your condo when you have this?”

“Because Arnie goes with this.”

I’d never met Arnie, but how bad could the man be if he could provide all this electricity? “Why did you two break up, Jolene?”

“Irreconcilable differences.”

“Yeah? What about?” I leaned to the left, peered into the dining room and admired the crystal chandelier over the mile-long cherry table. I stared at the silver tea service sitting on the sideboard. Like Jolene ever served tea.

Suddenly I could hear my mom, loud and clear.

Merrileigh Kramer! What are you doing, asking such personal questions about the demise of Jolene’s marriage? How rude can you get? Apologize right this instant!

It’s the opulence, Mom. It threw me.

It’s greed, Merry. And poor manners-which you never learned from me.

I placed a hand on Jo’s arm. “I’m sorry. I had no right to ask what went wrong. That’s your private concern.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Everyone asks. Even my parents.” She turned and opened the door.

I blinked. Even her parents? If I ever separated from a husband, should I ever actually get one, my parents would be first in line asking why. And I’d better have a very good reason, too.

I followed Jolene inside, my heels click-clicking on the parquet floor of the entry foyer. Ahead of us, rising to the second floor in a great curving sweep, was a staircase worthy of Scarlett and Rhett.

The foyer walls were covered with a yellow and cream floral sateen with thin navy stripes running through the pattern. I reached out a finger, and it bounced on the batting beneath the fabric. This was real class.

Jolene ignored the beauty of it all and kept talking. Of course she’d seen it all before.

“Arnie and me had differences over everything.” She waved at the foyer chandelier. “Electricity. Me working. Eating dinner at my parents.” I knew Jolene ate there every night. “Where to go on vacations. What wallpaper to pick. Can you believe he hated this?” She pointed at the fabric.

Arnie was obviously a philistine.

“Then we couldn’t decide whether to buy a weekend place down the shore or up the mountains. And he couldn’t decide on fidelity.”

I was so busy photographing the yellow living room with its pale yellow carpeting and its accent wall of navy paper patterned with white daisies that I almost missed Jolene’s last comment.

I lowered my camera and looked at her with compassion and sympathy, but she was stalking across the foyer toward the back of the house, apparently uninterested in my commiseration.

“Arnie!” she bellowed. “Where are you? I haven’t got all day. Dinner’s waiting and you aren’t invited.”

I followed her, my head swiveling as I walked. Suddenly I stopped before a painting of a Chester County stone farmhouse surrounded by snow-laden evergreens. I checked the bottom right corner, though I already knew what I’d see. Curtis Carlyle. GTG.

“Jolene, you’ve got an original Carlyle! How come you never told me?”

She stopped and turned to look at the picture. She shrugged. “I forgot. But I’ve got a question for you. What’s that GTG thing in the corner after his name?”

“He puts that on all his work. It stands for Glory to God.”

She looked at me without comprehension, then at the picture.

“It means that he’s thanking God for the talent and opportunity to paint,” I explained.

“Oh.” She looked at the picture once more, shrugged again, and continued her trek across the vast expanse of foyer.

I stretched out my hand and traced Curt’s name and the GTG. What a great guy he was.

I turned back to Jolene just as she entered the kitchen. In profile she was as beautiful as she was full on. I raised my camera, flicked the switch to continuous exposure, and pressed.

As the lens click-clicked, she stopped abruptly, frozen. I heard a quick intake of breath and saw a flash of tightening jaw through the viewfinder. Then she let out an unearthly shriek.

“Arnie!” She ran into the kitchen, out of my line of sight. “No! No! Arnie!”

The hairs on my arms rose at her tone, and I ran into the kitchen myself. I froze for an instant, too.

On the floor by the stove lay Arnie, staring upwards, blood puddling beneath and beside him on the yellow tiles. Jolene knelt in the blood, shaking him, calling him, trying to rouse him.

She would never succeed.

THREE

Poor Arnie. He would never need all his lights on ever again.

I set my camera on the table, ran to Jolene and caught her by the shoulders.

“Jo, come on away from him,” I said softly. “The police won’t want us to touch him or move him.”

“Merry, we’ve got to help him!” Her brown eyes shimmered with tears and pain. “CPR! Do you know CPR?”

I knelt and hugged her. I could feel the sticky blood beneath my knees. “Jo, it won’t help. He’s dead.”

“No, he’s not!” She reached for him again. “He’s still warm.”

I pulled her hands back. “He’s dead,” I repeated softly. “Someone has killed him. We don’t want to move him or do anything that would cover up evidence.”

She stared at me. “Someone killed him?”

We turned together and looked at Arnie. He stared blindly at the ceiling, gravity pulling his eyelids back into his skull. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows and one pant leg was crumpled about his calf. There was a round hole in the left lower chest area of his tan button-down shirt, not far below his heart. Blood had soaked his shirt front, though it wasn’t flowing anymore. Arnie’s heart no longer pumped.

I didn’t want to think about the exit wound beneath him from which blood must have rushed in a torrent. It was hard to comprehend that the great pool of it covering the yellow tiles had recently flowed through his veins as surely as mine swept through my body.

“Come away, Jo.” I stood and pulled her up with me. “We need to call the police.”

I led her to the kitchen table and pushed her into a chair. I grabbed the wall phone and dialed 911.

“Jo,” I said as I hung up in spite of the fact that the 911 voice wanted me to stay on the line. “Is there someone else we should call?”

She looked at me blankly. “Like who?”

Many days I wondered about Jo’s mental acuity, but tonight I knew the slowness was shock. “Like Arnie’s parents. Brothers and sisters. Pastor. Your parents.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “He didn’t have a family. His mom’s dead and his dad disappeared when he was four. There are no brothers and sisters. And there’s certainly no pastor.”

She sighed in pain. “I have to tell my parents face-to-face. It’s not telephone news, you know? My dad will be so upset. He loved Arnie. He was the son he never had.” She shook her head. “Poor Dad.”

I looked at the man on the floor. Poor Arnie was more like it.

Since Jolene had no calls to make, I quickly dialed The News, connecting with Mac’s desk.

“Mac, I’m at Jolene and Arnie Meister’s house where we just found Arnie shot to death.”

He made a distressed sound. “Let me talk to her.”

I gave Jolene the phone and listened to her murmur into it. Suddenly she held it out. “He wants you.”

“You know what you’ve got to do, right?” Mac asked.

“Yeah, I know.” A story by deadline tomorrow. The News is an afternoon paper of twelve to sixteen pages, and our deadline for news is nine, editing ten, and it’s ready for delivery by noon.

I hung up and led Jo to the foyer, away from Arnie. “Come on. We’ll wait in the living room.”

She kept wiping her bloody hands down her coat again and again. I caught them and held them and felt them shaking.

She looked over my shoulder. “He has the tree up.” She took a step toward the living room.

“Give me your coat before you go in there.” There was no need to track blood through the house. I helped her slip out of it.

I took mine off, too, and we dropped them in a pile on the parquet floor. Then we sat awkwardly next to the beautiful Christmas tree on the sofa bigger than my apartment. But there was blood on our shoes and clothes as well as our hands, and we marred the pale yellow carpet and the huge sofa. Jolene never noticed.

She stood up almost as soon as we sat down. “I can’t leave him alone on the kitchen floor.” Tears wet her cheeks. She started unsteadily toward the kitchen.

I nodded and followed her. “We’ll sit at the table.”

“I want to hold his hand.”

I remembered Sergeant William Poole of the Amhearst police saying to me once, “The first rule of any investigation is never touch anything at a crime scene. Never, never, never! It contaminates the evidence and makes convictions hard, should we find the perpetrator.”

“I think we can’t touch him, Jo. I’m sorry.” I led her to a kitchen chair with a yellow plaid seat cushion.

She sat and laid her head on her arms on the table. I looked at her sadly, wishing I could ease her sorrow and knowing I couldn’t.

I turned to the room. Putting my hands behind me, I made a slow circle, looking at everything and anything. Who knew what would be important for my story? Or for the solution of the crime?

“Jolene,” I said hesitantly. “I’ve got to take pictures.” It seemed so intrusive to go flash, flash here and flash, flash there.

She raised her head. “For the paper?”

“Yes. But also to reconstruct the scene and look for possible clues.”

She gave me a watery, wavery smile. “You’ve got the detective bug.”

“Sort of,” I confessed, blushing at the actual verbalizing of that thought. How pretentious of me, though I had actually solved another murder. “But I won’t take any pictures if you don’t want me to.”

“The cops are going to photograph him, aren’t they?”

I nodded.

“Then you might as well, too. Just don’t put him in the paper like that.”

“I’ll tell Mac,” I promised.

I picked up my camera and began circling the room. As I walked, I talked, as much for myself as to keep Jo from falling prey to greater shock.

“How’d you meet Arnie?” I snapped the refrigerator and the couple of notes that were held to it by magnets shaped like fruit. One note from a scratch pad said: Jolene—5:30. The other, an 8x10 printout on a certificate template, read: $50,000.00!

Jolene looked at Arnie. “We met the first day of kindergarten. He was this shrimpy little kid with big glasses and a bigger mouth. He liked to boss everyone around. I hated him.”

I glanced at Arnie. “He’s no shrimp now.”

Jolene shook her head. “But he was all through high school. The littlest guy around. Mr. Brainiac. He and Airy were quite the pair. Two dweebs.”

I thought of the beautiful Airy Bennett. “Dweebs? Airy? Arnie?”

“Hard to believe, huh? I hung out with Airy because I felt sorry for her. And people were nice to Arnie because he’d tell you all the answers or write your paper for you or whatever—for a price. He loved that kind of stuff. But Airy wouldn’t even let you copy her homework. ‘It’s cheating, Jo.’” Jolene’s voice took on a hard edge. “She was the most self-righteous thing!”

I’d never let anyone copy my homework either, but I thought I wouldn’t tell Jolene that little piece of trivia.

In the sink I noticed two glasses with dark liquid dregs. I leaned over and sniffed. Iced tea. I looked for telltale lipstick on one of the glasses, hard to do since I couldn’t pick them up for fear of disturbing prints. If Jolene hadn’t been keeping Arnie company anymore, maybe someone else had.

I sighed. She, if there was a she, either wore that lipstick that never came off or she wore none. Or she’d wiped the glass clean of any evidence. Interesting thought, that.

I noticed a wastebasket tucked in the corner by a cabinet. I walked over and peered in. I saw crumpled paper towels with blue hearts and flowers on them, a clear plastic wrapper from some package, an empty half-gallon Tropicana orange-tangerine juice container and the box and plastic tray from a Lean Cuisine dinner, chicken marsala. No clues as far as I could see, but I took a picture anyway.

“If Arnie was such a brainiac dweeb,” I said as I took a picture of the bullet lodged in the cabinet directly behind where he must have been standing when he was shot, “how did you two ever get together?” I glanced again at the man lying on the floor. “And how did he get to be such a handsome guy?”

“After high school he went away to college,” Jolene said. “He’d earned all these scholarships and stuff. I didn’t see him for about almost four years. Then I went to a New Year’s Eve party, and there he was. I couldn’t believe it! He’d gotten so tall, and he’d started wearing contact lenses. And he pumped iron all the time. There’s all kinds of weight equipment in the room down the hall.”

She looked at me vaguely “He was gorgeous, wasn’t he? I fell for him big-time.”

“And he fell for you?” I prompted as I took a seat beside her. I pushed her purse, gloves and scarf away from the table’s edge.

“Remember, he’d gone with Airy for years. It took me a couple of months to convince him to drop her.”

I looked at Jolene. “Arnie had been going with Airy?”

“Since seventh grade.”

“And you cut her out?”

“Yeah.” Jolene unconsciously sat straighter. “It was easy.”

I nodded as the ladies’ room animosity suddenly made more sense.

“Would you say Airy was a late bloomer, too?” I asked.

“She’s still waiting to bloom,” Jolene said with more than a trace of the nastiness I’d seen earlier. I also recognized a case of wishful thinking. Airy had definitely blossomed.

The doorbell rang, causing us both to jump.

“I’ll get it.” I stuffed my camera in my purse and went to let the police in. I led the two uniforms to the kitchen where they took one look and phoned home. In a few more minutes, my friend Sergeant Poole of the Amhearst police arrived. A crime scene team from the state police followed quickly, as did the coroner. Even a fire truck showed up as part of the first-response team, even though I’d told the 911 operator we didn’t need AFD personnel.

In no time Jolene and I found ourselves back on the huge couch again, our scarves and gloves tumbled in the pile of coats on the floor in the hall.

“What will I do about the blood on my coat?” Jolene asked, staring across the room at the collection of garments, fixing on a problem that had comprehensible ramifications. The busyness of the men in the kitchen and their purpose bewildered and overwhelmed. “I love that coat. Arnie got it for me before our troubles.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I patted her hand. “I’ll take it to the cleaners for you when I take mine.”

She nodded and slumped back on the sofa. We sat silently in the brightly lit room and waited as we had been asked by Sergeant Poole.

Finally we were interviewed, though I didn’t have much to say. I sat stiffly in one of the cherry dining room chairs, hoping I didn’t appear guilty of anything because I wasn’t. I just get a guilty complex around extreme authority. It probably went back to the time when I was a little kid and lied to my mother about where I got the candy bar I’d stolen. As I sat straight and still, stoically waiting my grilling, I studied the porcelain in the china cabinet on the far wall. One shelf was Royal Doulton figurines, their colorful images a contrast to the shelf of sleek, sophisticated Lladro porcelains. The top shelf was full of collectors’ pieces of blue Wedgwood with rings of white flowers encircling them.

Where had the money and the good taste for those things come from?

Sergeant Poole sat across the table from me.

“How can I help, William?”

“How did Mrs. Meister get the blood on her hands and her coat?” he asked.

“She knelt beside Arnie when she first found him. She tried to pick him up and hold him. She didn’t realize he was dead.”

“Um,” he said and waited. I waited, too, because I didn’t have anything else to say. He knew me well enough to realize that if I had been trying to protect Jolene or if I had anything further to say, I would have blurted it when he waited. That authority reaction thing again.

Finally he asked, “What do you know about the victim?”

“Very little. I never met him. In fact, I never even saw him before tonight.”

“Not a great way to make an acquaintance.” And he smiled sympathetically.

I smiled back and relaxed a bit.

“Why did you come here today?” he asked.

“Jolene—Mrs. Meister—was supposed to meet her husband here.”

“Meet him here? Doesn’t she live here?”

“No. They were divorcing, and she lives in her own condominium.”

His eyebrow rose. “Acrimonious divorce?”

“I don’t think so.” I knew exactly what he was looking for. The spouse is always the first suspect.

“Are you and Mrs. Meister good friends? Would she tell you if things were nasty between them?”

“Work friends, that’s all.”

He nodded. I could see my influence as a character witness shrinking faster than a blown-up balloon without a knot in the end.

“Why were they meeting?” he asked.

“I have no idea. She didn’t tell me. She just asked for a lift.”

“She doesn’t have a car?”

“Her father drove her in to work today.”

“She lives with her parents?”

I shook my head. “I told you. She owns a condo. Maybe she’d spent the night with them or something. Or maybe her father drove out to her place to get her and then drove her to work. Or maybe her car’s in the shop.”

“Was Mrs. Meister surprised when she found her husband?”

“Very,” I said, picturing her reaction. “I think she was devastated.” I paused, then asked a question I wanted answered. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”

He raised his eyebrows, then said politely, “I’m not giving half-baked opinions to the press, Merry. We’ll wait for the coroner’s report.”

“Don’t get so testy, William. This isn’t for publication,” I hastened to assure him. “This is for me. I want to know how close you think we came to walking in on a murderer. I mean, nothing appears to have been touched or stolen. Is that because we arrived and scared someone off? Is there a very mad person out there who might not like Jo and me anymore?”

He studied me for a minute. “Okay, off the record. I don’t think you scared anyone away. I think he’s been dead for maybe three hours.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You sure you want to know?”

I nodded, hoping I wouldn’t regret this.

“The white, waxy condition of his skin, the flatness of the eyes indicating loss of fluid and the lividity.”

I’d noticed the purple-blue on the back of his arms and on the underside of the exposed calf where the blood left in his body had gathered in response to the pull of gravity.

“And,” he finished, “rigor appears to have begun in the smaller muscles.”

“But he’s still warm to the touch.”

“The body cools slowly, a degree or two an hour.”

“Dust to dust doesn’t take long, does it?”

Sergeant Poole grunted noncommittally. “Where were you all afternoon, Merry?”

“Me?” I think my voice squeaked.

He nodded.

“At work. Lots of people saw me. Lots.” And a cannibalistic plant. “You don’t think I had anything to do with Arnie’s death, do you?”

William Poole smiled slightly. He had an interesting lopsided smile which sat pleasantly on his furrowed face. “Not really, but I have to ask. It’s what I get paid for. Now what about Mrs. Meister? Where was she all afternoon?”

“At work, too.”

“Do me a favor,” he asked congenially. “Write down the times you had any conversation or contact with Mrs. Meister during the afternoon. One of my men will stop by for the list tomorrow.”

“I’ll have it ready.” I’d be more than happy to provide Jolene’s alibi.

“Do you know you have blood on your hands, Merry?”

I looked at them and shivered. The blood was dried around my nails. “I got it when I pulled Jolene away from the body. I know I have some on my shoes and on my coat from when I knelt beside her. Even my knees.”

Shortly after that, I was dismissed. Both Jolene and I were in the living room waiting for permission to leave when an officer came to us.

“We’re going to remove the body now,” he said. “I wanted to warn you because I don’t know if you want to see him carried out in a body bag. I’d like to give you the opportunity to leave the room.”

I glanced at Jolene who looked horrified.

“A body bag,” she whispered. “Oh, no!”

I heard the wheels of the gurney roll across the parquet. I grabbed Jolene, turned her from the door, and held her as they wheeled Arnie from his brightly lit home for the final time. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I didn’t even know the man. I couldn’t imagine how Jo felt. Her shoulders were shaking.

When she and I were finally given permission to leave, I glanced at my watch. It was 8:30. We’d been at the house for about three hours. I was already a half hour late for the photos of the AAC-FOP committee, and I had to take Jolene home yet. I shrugged. Hopefully the committee had lots of last-minute plans to make and would still be there by the time I managed to make it.

We drove back to Amhearst in silence. I kept thinking that one second you’re alive, and the next you can be dead. One minute your brain is zipping electrical impulses all over your body, the next it’s flat line. One minute your blood is racing through your veins, and the next it’s a pool all over the yellow tile floor.

A mystery, if ever there was one. What did you think about this phenomenon called death if you didn’t believe that absent from the body was present with the Lord?

We drove through downtown Amhearst, past the cluster of brightly decorated stores open until nine in a mostly vain attempt to attract the Christmas business back from the malls. Shortly we pulled up before half of a double on Houston Street in the older, less prosperous part of town.

The light by the front door showed a porch covered with bright green indoor/outdoor carpeting and lined with black wrought-iron railings. In spite of it being December, two white molded plastic chairs sat on either side of a small white plastic table in the center of the porch. On the table was an arrangement of plastic greens and an angel whose head turned from side to side. A wreath of plastic greens with a mashed plaid bow hung between the storm door and the inside door.

I couldn’t imagine anything more unlike the mansion we’d just left.

Jolene grabbed my arm. “Come in with me, Merry. I can’t face my parents alone. They loved Arnie. They really did.”

The last thing I wanted to do was help break the news of the tragedy, but I opened my car door and climbed out. We started up the steps as the door of the other half of the double opened. A man in a camel topcoat came rushing out only to stop short when he saw us.

“Jolene,” he said and sort of reached for her.

“Reilly.” Jolene nodded at the man but kept walking up the stairs, making it obvious that she wasn’t stopping for conversation.

Reilly watched her with a hungry expression, but when Jolene kept moving, he went down the steps to a car at the curb.

“Who’s he?” I asked as we reached the porch.

“Reilly Samson. He works with Arnie. His grandmother lives next door.”

“Her?” I indicated the gap between the curtains next door where an eye stared at us. I smiled and nodded. The curtain promptly fell back in place.

“Old Mrs. Samson, the world’s nosiest neighbor,” Jolene muttered. Her face twisted. “Wait until she hears about Arnie! She’ll probably celebrate.”

“What?” I was shocked.

“She hated him.”

“Why?”

“Who knows. She’s just a bitter old lady who hates everyone.”

“Even Reilly?”

“Sometimes I think so.”

“Even you?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Especially me,” Jolene said.

“Really? Why?”

“Because I got rich.” With that, she opened the front door.

The house was a typical Amhearst double with two stories plus basement and attic. The rooms ran in a front-to-back pattern of living room, dining room, kitchen, and back porch on the first level with a large staircase in the front hall running to the second floor where a hall opened into three large bedrooms and a bath. The third-floor attic where the roof pulled the walls in would be a single huge room. A postage stamp of a backyard finished the property.

As soon as we came through the front door, an older man and woman rushed into the hall, swooping down on us and burying us in solicitude and questions about Jolene’s tardiness. I was surprised because I hadn’t realized that Jolene’s grandparents lived here, too.

“Come in, come in,” the man kept saying to me, beaming as he tried to take my coat. A slight Southern accent colored his voice. “I’m so glad Jolene brought a friend home with her!”

“Are you all right, Jolene Marie?” The woman scanned Jo’s face and hugged her shoulders. “You don’t look well, dear. Maybe we need to make it warmer for you? We can turn up the thermostat, can’t we, Alvin? Or maybe you just want to come into the kitchen. I saved your dinner. There’s plenty for your friend, too. Are you certain you’re all right?” And she pulled Jolene to her bosom again.

Jolene pulled away from the smothering arms and said, “Mom, that’s enough! Dad, make her stop.”

Mom? Dad? Not Grandmom and Grandpop?

“Easy, Eloise,” Jo’s dad said, patting the woman on the shoulder. “We need to meet Jolene’s friend.”

Suddenly I was being stared at by two curious elderly gnomes, one with vague blue eyes, one with sharp brown ones.

“This is Merry Kramer, Merry as in Christmas. We work together.” Jo made it sound as if I were a fellow escapee from a chain gang.

“Merry.” Jolene’s mother smiled sweetly at me. “What a lovely name, especially this time of year. Were you born in December, dear? I just bet you were.”

“June,” I said.

“Oh.” She looked confused. “I thought Jolene Marie said Merry.”

I must have looked equally confused because Jolene’s father said, “The month of June, Eloise. Not the name.”

The woman smiled sweetly. “Oh, of course. Silly me.”

She looked older than my Grandmom Kramer by several years, though I knew she couldn’t be. Grandmom Kramer was seventy-nine, and there’s no way she could have a daughter as young as Jolene. Of course the appearance of age could have been caused by this woman’s determinedly gray hair and the too-tight permanent, the unbecoming glasses and the lined face.

As I smiled my sweetest at Jolene’s mother and father, I searched my mind for Jolene’s maiden name. Carlsbad. Mammoth. Jewel. It had something to do with caves or caverns. Ah! Luray!

“Mr. and Mrs. Luray, how nice to meet you.” I shook their hands prettily. My mother would have been proud.

“Right this way, girls,” Mrs. Luray said. “The food’s waiting.”

Mr. Luray was wrestling me for my coat while my stomach growled at the wondrous aromas that filled the air. No wonder Jolene came home for dinner every night. “I can’t stay.” AAC-FOP was waiting. “I’m sorry.”

“I wish you would.” Mr. Luray’s fingers wrapped around my coat collar as he tried to drag it off my shoulders. He was bald, homely, wore thick glasses and had muscles on muscles. It was obvious he and Arnie had bonded over weights. “Jolene doesn’t bring friends home much.”

“Dad,” Jolene said sharply. “Let Merry alone, for heaven’s sake!”

Mr. Luray nodded pleasantly. “Okay.” His hands fell from my collar.

Mrs. Luray peered first at Jolene, then at me. “You do look pale, Jolene Marie. You do. So do you, Merry, but then maybe you’re always pale. I wouldn’t know, would I?” She smiled vaguely at me, patting my hand.

I smiled vaguely back.

“But are you sure you girls are all right? Have you had a disagreement or something? I know that when I have a fight with Mrs. Samson, Dad can always tell because I look so pale.” She smiled at me again. “Not that we have that many fights, you know. But that’s how it shows when we do. Or maybe—” and her smile faltered as she turned to Jo “—maybe you had a fight with Arnie, dear? You didn’t have another fight with him, did you, Jolene Marie? I can’t stand it when you two fight.” She looked as if she might cry.

Jolene looked at me in helpless frustration.

“Now, Mother,” Mr. Luray said. “Don’t get yourself so worked up. Your heart will start fluttering.”

Oh, boy. A fluttering heart. Just what we needed with the news we were bearing.

“Do you take heart medicine, Mrs. Luray?” I asked.

“Aren’t you sweet to be concerned,” she said. “Yes. I keep it handy all the time in case I need it.”

“Where is it?”

“In the kitchen on the windowsill over the sink. And upstairs both in the bathroom and on my night table.”

“Mr. Luray,” I said, “I think it would be a good idea if you got your wife’s medicine.”

Mr. Luray looked at me with narrowed eyes, saw something in my face, and headed for the kitchen and the windowsill.

“Bring a big plastic bag back with you, Dad,” Jolene called. A muffled assent drifted to us.

“What?” Mrs. Luray seemed confused, which I now suspected was a normal situation. “What’s wrong? Jolene Marie, why do I need my medicine? Oh, I knew it! You and Arnie did fight! You didn’t hit him, did you, dear? Tell me you didn’t hit him! Or throw something at him. It’s so unladylike.”

“Mom!” Jolene shouted fiercely. “Can’t you ever shut up? I can’t stand you when you run on like that!”

Mrs. Luray and I both stared at Jolene. I, in startled disbelief at her tone of voice, her mother with accpetance.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to upset you, but then I can see that you’re already upset, aren’t you? Why, dear? Tell Mommy. You’ll feel better if you tell me. Don’t worry. I can take it. Just tell me. You did fight with Arnie, didn’t you?”

Jolene put her hands to her face in aggravation.

Mr. Luray appeared, a pill bottle clutched in his right hand and the plastic bag in his left. Jolene took the bag and handed it to me. As I held the bag open, she stuffed her coat in. “My scarf and gloves are still in the car.”

I nodded, pulling the ties to shut the bag. “I’ll get them.”

“What’s she doing with your coat, Jolene Marie?” Mrs. Luray asked. “It’s a special coat because Arnie gave it to you. What’s she going to do with it?”

“It’s dirty, Mom,” Jolene said through gritted teeth. “She’s taking it to the dry cleaners for me.”

Mrs. Luray’s face lit with joy. “Why, how sweet, June,” she said to me.

I opened my mouth to say “Merry,” but refrained. She wasn’t listening to me anyway.

“Daddy,” Mrs. Luray said, her high voice tinged with sorrow. “Jolene Marie and Arnie had a fight. She’s just going to tell us about it. Isn’t it too sad?”

“What’s wrong, Jo?” Mr. Luray said. His manner was stark and aware.

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Luray’s hands fluttered with a life of their own, pale butterflies with age spots marking the wings. “Tell us.”

Jolene took a deep breath, then looked steely eyed at her parents. “Arnie’s dead,” she said baldly. “He was shot.”

Mrs. Luray gasped once, twice, three times, clutched her chest, and sank to the floor.

FOUR

I stared at the frail woman lying on the floor. “Should we do CPR? Call 911? Stick that medicine under her tongue or something?”

Jolene and her father looked at each other, then shook their heads in unison.

“Don’t worry,” Jolene said wearily. “She’ll be okay.”

“Jolene!” I fell to my knees beside the unconscious woman. “What if she dies right here on the floor?”

Jo and her father continued to ignore Mrs. Luray in favor of a conversation about Arnie.

“Is he really dead?” Mr. Luray asked.

Jolene nodded.

“Shot?”

She nodded again.

He hugged himself, and a tear slid down his wrinkled cheek. “Oh, Jolene! Why? Who?”

“I have no idea, Daddy.” Jolene went to her father. She held him and rocked him like a mother might comfort a hurting child. His shoulders shook and his breath came raggedly. The man was heartbroken.

I was moved by his grief, but I kept looking at Mrs. Luray, lying there on the floor. I pulled a fuchsia and kelly green afghan off the back of the red sofa, and tucked it around the woman. I searched for her pulse, expecting to find a thready, thin, and erratic rhythm. I blinked. Her pulse was so strong you’d have thought a tympanist was in there whopping out the “wonderful, counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” section of last week’s performance of The Messiah at the Community Center.

“She’s fine,” I blurted.

Jolene released her father, and they both looked down at me.

“Always,” Mr. Luray said. He sniffed and swallowed. “Come on, Jo. We’d better get her on the sofa. She’ll be upset if she finds herself on the floor.”

Jolene nodded. She and her father bent in unison and lifted Mrs. Luray, afghan and all, and laid her gently on the sofa. Jolene stuck a fluffy kelly green pillow under her mother’s head. They’d obviously done this many times before.

“I’m sorry if you were scared.” Mr. Luray held out a hand and helped me to my feet. “It’s just Eloise’s way of dealing with things she doesn’t want to think about.” He looked at her affectionately. “She’s very delicate, very sensitive, you know.”

I looked at Mrs. Luray. I wasn’t certain delicate and sensitive were the words I’d have used.

She began to stir. “What happened? Where am I? Alvin?”

Mr. Luray sat on the edge of the sofa and opened the pill bottle. He slid a flat, white disk into his hand. “Shh, Eloise. I’m right here. Put this pill under your tongue, and you’ll be fine in no time.”

Jolene leaned toward me. “It’s a Tums,” she whispered.

I stared at Mrs. Luray. “Does this happen often?”

She shrugged. “Depends on how you define often. She was passing out several times a day when Arnie and I first separated. Now she can talk about it without any trouble. You saw that.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Luray said suddenly and in great distress.

I spun around, expecting her to black out again as she recalled the terrible news about Arnie.

“Smell that!” she said. “Jolene, your dinner’s burning!” She struggled to her feet and moved quickly to the kitchen. “I’ll save it!”

Jolene watched her mother leave the room, then went to her father. “Are you all right, Dad?”

“Not really.” He put his arm around her waist and they leaned into each other, sorrow etched on both faces.

I collected Jolene’s coat and let myself out as Eloise Luray called, “Everything’s all right, Jolene Marie. I saved your dinner for you.”

Bone-weary, I wanted to go home and climb into a hot tub and soak away the traumas of the day. Instead, dutiful employee that I was, I drove to the Community Center.

I was over an hour late, and I hadn’t had time or opportunity to do anything about cleaning myself up. I raced into the AAC-FOP meeting room, hoping the blood on my coat didn’t show and that no one noticed my fingernails and knees. At least the blood on my shoes was long dried or worn off.

I found the committee huddled around a table, faces focused in concentration, papers strewn in organized chaos. A barrel-chested man with a mane of white hair and a slight limp was prowling the floor, talking and gesticulating, but I hardly noticed him.

All I could see was Curt whom I hadn’t realized would be here. He looked so strong and sane and normal. All I wanted was his embrace to wash away the past few hours.

When he saw me, he lost his polite, I-wish-I-were-somewhere-else expression and smiled broadly.

“We can do it, folks!” the white-haired man was saying, and I pulled my attention reluctantly from Curt. “I know we can do it. We can feed not only the needy of Amhearst but of the surrounding communities, too. Why, we’re almost past last year’s total, and we have another week to go. And the local grocers have yet to make their contributions. With the coverage The News is going to give us, the Amhearst Annual Christmas Food Project will make history!”

He was so good at pep talks that even I, weary as I was, felt a slight urge to cheer with the other wildly clapping people around the table. Instead I concentrated on dragging my camera out of my purse.

“And here, I presume, is our photographer now!” The white-haired man said and everyone turned.

I smiled weakly in apology for being so late.

“Come on, everyone,” the man said. “It’s free PR time. Let’s get ourselves set for our picture.” And he began telling everyone where to stand. He finished with, “Curt, stand right there in the middle. You’re our celebrity and honorary chairman, and we want to take advantage of that.”

I felt Curt’s eyes on me and became unexpectedly shy. I studied my camera intently, adjusting this and manipulating that. My problem was that I could never quite figure out how to react to him in public.

Back when I’d gone with Jack, he ignored me most of the time, sort of expecting I’d follow along, which like an idiot I did, so public response wasn’t an issue. Now I worried about Curt. I couldn’t rush to his side because we weren’t really going together or anything—though I suspected that was more my fault than his. I also couldn’t ignore him. Basic manners aside, I didn’t want to. I mean, maybe someday he and I would be going together. I hope, I hope. I think. Maybe.

So I stood there flat-footed and thought about how gorgeous he looked and how worn I must look and how shallow I was not to be thinking of the tragedy of Arnie.

Curt ignored his orders to stand in the middle and walked over to me. “Hi.”

Sudden tears sprang to my eyes. “Hi.” It came out as a whisper. I realized for the first time how close I was to losing control.

Curt took my arm, concern leaping to his face. “Are you all right?”

“Barely.”

He began to lead me to a chair. “Sit down.”

I pulled my arm free and shook my head. “If I sit, I’ll start to cry and ruin my professional image. If I have one left after my lateness.”

He started to protest, but I cut in. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” I saw over Curt’s shoulder that the white-haired man was bearing down on us. “And you’d better go stand in the middle before you’re dragged there.”

He went to stand where he’d been told as the white-haired man came up to me.

“Hello, there, darlin’,” he said, smiling with great charm. “I’m Harry Allen Bushay.”

I looked at him with interest. Was this the Bushay of Bushay Environmental where Jack was working on his audit?

“How do you do, Mr. Bushay.” I extended my hand, blood encrusted nails and all. He took it and held it a moment or two too long. He leaned close.

“Just call me Harry Allen, darlin’.”

“Thank you,” I said noncommittally.

With a cozy, just-between-you-and-me grin, Harry Allen turned and took his place next to Curt. I snapped several pictures, hoping that everyone looked decent in at least one of them. I had pulled out my spiral tablet to get everyone’s name when Harry Allen handed me a sheet of paper.

“Here are our names,” he said helpfully. “They are in order and all spelled correctly.”

“Thank you,” I said as I flipped my tablet closed. “How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m a thoughtful kind of guy, darlin’.”

I smiled weakly. The last thing I felt like dealing with tonight was a flirt with white hair, no matter how premature the white or how charming the manner.

I needn’t have worried. Harry Allen turned and with a clap of his hands called the AAC-FOP meeting back to order. “Only fifteen more minutes, people. Only fifteen more minutes.”

Everyone took their places at the table except Curt.

“I don’t have to stay,” he said as he helped me into my coat. “I’m only the honorary chairman.”

“It must be tough being a celebrity,” I teased. “Why, I even saw an original Carlyle hanging in a mansion tonight.”

He grinned. “I hope you were properly impressed.”

We walked out of the meeting room and into the front hall, shoulders rubbing companionably. I still had trouble comprehending that this man said he was falling in love with me. Me!

I was slim enough and not too tall, but I had this spiky hair that insisted on drooping, a striped nose, and a prickly side to my nature that had been asserting itself with a vengeance since I’d moved to Amhearst. I kept waiting for him to realize his mistake and fall for someone like, say, Airy. Someone beautiful and lovely and all those other wondrous, feminine things. Why, I bite my nails, for goodness sake!

Curt stopped in the hall and checked over his shoulder. When he was certain we were alone, he turned me to face him. “What’s wrong, Merry?”

“Oh, Curt,” I sobbed, burying my face in his chest. “We found him shot, and then she tried to move him and the police questioned us and her mom fainted and they ignored her and—”

“Whoa.” He patted me gently on the back. “Just cry and then tell me. Both at once don’t work too well.”

Of course, as soon as he told me I could cry, the tears dried up, sort of like a toothache disappearing as soon as you entered the dentist’s office. I huddled against him a few minutes longer, then stepped reluctantly back.

“Poor Arnie,” I said.

“Arnie?”

“Meister, Jolene’s ex or almost ex. Though now I guess he’ll never get to full ex status, will he?” Somehow that seemed very sad. Not that ex status was a good thing, but never to achieve it or anything else ever again, that was sad.

Curt took hold of my shoulders. “If I follow you correctly, you’re saying that Jolene’s husband has been shot?”

I lifted shaking hands and brushed my hair out of my eyes. “Killed. Murdered. We found him.”

He looked at me with such concern that the tears sprang to my eyes again. This man could do extraordinary things to me.

Suddenly the phone on the receptionist’s desk in the darkened office to our right began to ring. I jumped at the noise.

“Should we answer it? Maybe it’s for someone here.” I took a step toward the office.

He put a hand on my arm. “The answering machine will get it. That’s what it’s for.”

Sure enough, the machine kicked in after the second ring.

“If anyone can hear this,” a voice boomed loudly, “and Harry Allen Bushay is still there, please get him to the phone. This is the police.”

Curt and I looked at each other. Then I lunged for the phone, and he took off for the meeting room.

“We’re getting Mr. Bushay,” I told the person on the other end. “He’ll be right here.”

“Thank you,” said a familiar voice.

“William, is that you?”

“Who’s this?” he countered suspiciously.

“Merrileigh Kramer.”

There was a short pause. Then William asked, “What are you doing at the Community Center with Mr. Bushay?”

“Taking his picture.”

“What?”

“For the paper. He chairs the Amhearst Annual Christmas Food Project, and my assignment is to take a committee picture. I’m just fortunate they were still here because I was very late.” I minded my manners; I didn’t say it was his fault.

“Interesting that you have been with two people closely associated with Mr. Meister this evening, isn’t it, Merry?”

Harry Allen was associated with Arnie? “Coincidence, Sergeant.”

“So you say,” he answered, but I could hear a smile in his voice.

Before I had time to respond, Harry Allen came hurrying down the hall, worry and apprehension written all over his face. He grabbed the phone from me.

“Yes?” he barked. “What is it?”

Whatever William Poole said, it seemed to alleviate Harry Allen’s fear. His shoulders eased and his brow cleared. Then, abruptly, he jerked upright.

“What? You can’t be serious!”

As Harry Allen listened some more, I looked at Curt. Should we leave or should we wait and see if he needed assistance of any kind—though the idea of Harry Allen Bushay needing assistance seemed ludicrous to me.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I’ll come right away. No, I do not wish to wait until tomorrow. I want to get it over with. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

He hung up the phone and stood still a minute, lost in thought, appearing almost disoriented.

“Can we do anything for you, Harry Allen?” Curt asked. “Help in any way?”

He looked up. “Yes,” he said. “You can tell the committee that the meeting’s over for tonight.”

Curt nodded.

“Oh, never mind,” Harry Allen said in disgust. “I’ll do it. I have to go back in anyway to get my coat. I have to go to the police station.”

I looked at him with great interest. “Arnie Meister?”

He focused all his intensity on me. “How did you know that call was about Arnie Meister?”

“I talked to Sergeant Poole tonight at Arnie’s house. I was with Arnie’s wife when she found his body.”

One bushy eyebrow rose. “Bad?” he asked.

I nodded, tearing up yet again. Curt put his arm around me and pulled me close.

Harry Allen snorted, half in distress, half in disbelief. “Arnie Meister’s dead. Murdered. Absolutely unbelievable. Wait till they find out that he and I had a big fight yesterday. I mean a big fight. And wait until they try to get me to tell them what it was about.” He looked at us, his lips clamped together. “I’m not talking to anyone.”

FIVE

Curt and I sat in a booth at McDonald’s where I stared unenthusiastically at my cheeseburger.

“Come on, Merry,” Curt urged. “You’ll feel better if you get some food in you.”

I pulled a French fry out of the red cardboard holder and nibbled. “It feels like everything’s sticking in my throat.”

“Take a drink.”

I obediently sipped, and the moisture helped the dryness. Maybe the Coke’s bubbles would settle my stomach.

“There was so much blood, Curt. It’s hard not to keep seeing it.” I shivered as I looked at the little cup of catsup he had placed next to his fries.

He took my hand in his. “Merry, you’ll be okay. Just give yourself time. But for now, eat.” He put my cheeseburger in my other hand. “Bite. Chew.” I did. Satisfied, he took a huge bite of his Big Mac.

The door behind me flew open, and I glanced over my shoulder. Anything to stop staring at the cheeseburger. Airy Bennett and a strange man entered, followed by my old Pittsburgh flame and current Amhearst pursuer, Jack Hamilton.

Ack! Just the perfect ending to a perfect day. Jack and Curt and me, a jolly threesome at McDonald’s. Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub. I could feel an ulcer developing as I sat there. I shrank as low in my seat as I could.

But Jack didn’t see us. He was too busy talking to his companions. He paused in his story only long enough to order his meal and follow Airy and the man to a table across the room where he sat with his back toward me. Risk diminished.

But not alleviated. He might glance around at some point and see me. Surely even self-absorbed Jack got curious about the people around him, didn’t he?

All unaware of potential disaster, Curt continued eating. When his eyes slued from his food to someone approaching our table, I knew the worst was about to happen.

“It is you, isn’t it?”

That wasn’t Jack’s voice. Giddy with relief, I smiled at Airy Bennet.

She looked anxiously at me. “You’re the woman who was with Jolene Meister earlier today, aren’t you? I recognize the red coat.”

I nodded.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve got to apologize. I am very embarrassed by the way I acted.”

I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, though it’s kind of you to say so.” She smiled, and I thought she was probably a nice person when away from Jolene. At least she didn’t deny her complicity in the fight.

She continued. “Jolene has brought out the worst in me for years. I’m always dumb enough to get sucked in, no matter how many times I promise myself I won’t let her push my buttons. I see her again and boom! I explode.” She sighed. “Maybe someday I’ll grow up.” She said it without much hope.

“Don’t worry,” I repeated. “As far as the traumas of the day go, it’s at the bottom of the list, believe me.”

Since she didn’t know about the traumas at the top of the list, Airy thought I was just being polite. “Believe it or not,” she said, “it’s not like me to be so nasty.”

I nodded. Standing here with her coffee in her hand, she looked like a regular person, reasonably polite and intelligent. Besides, I knew Jolene.

“When I told Sean how I made a fool of myself, he couldn’t believe it.” She glanced back toward Jack and the other man. “That’s Sean,” she said. “The blond guy.”

Sean looked up at that moment and smiled widely at Airy. I noticed the mustache Jolene had referred to. It wasn’t very obvious at this distance, his being blond and all, but it looked nice as far as I could tell. He saw me looking at him and dipped his head in acknowledgment. Jack started to turn to see who Sean was looking at, and I spun around so fast I made myself dizzy.

“By the way, I’m Airy Bennett,” she said, holding out her hand. “We never did get introduced earlier.” She grinned ruefully.

“Merrileigh Kramer,” I said. “And this is Curt Carlyle.”

Airy looked again at Curt. “Of course,” she said, and I grinned proudly at him. Big-time artist. Name recognition. “Mr. Carlyle. I thought you looked familiar. You teach phys ed and coach—what? Soccer or something?”

So much for being a famous artist. I was disappointed, though he didn’t seem to mind.

“I coach soccer and tennis,” he said, “but I don’t teach anymore.”

“I was a senior the first year you taught.” Airy grinned. “We girls were all so impressed to have a single male teacher who was good-looking and all. I bet they miss you now.”

“I doubt it,” Curt said with his charming smile.

Airy suddenly waved her arm toward Sean. “Come here, honey,” she called. “I’d like you to meet some people.”

Double ack! I wondered if I could slide under the table before Jack saw me, but Curt and Airy’d probably notice.

The blond man walked to our table, soda cup in his hand. Introductions were once again made. I smiled weakly.

“So you like to eat late, elegant dinners just like we do.” Sean raised his cardboard cup.

“Class all the way,” agreed Curt.

Everyone smiled and wondered what to say next. Into our little silence my social bomb detonated.

“Merry? Merry! Is that you, sweetheart?” Jack had approached when I wasn’t looking. “What are you doing here?” He slid into the seat beside me and kissed me on the cheek. His breath smelled like French fries. He looked absolutely delighted to see me.

I sat turned to stone. I wanted to look at Curt and see his reaction, but I couldn’t make myself lift my eyes from the stupid cheeseburger.

“This is the girl I was telling you about,” he said to Airy and Sean, no doubt beaming as he took one of my fries and dunked it in Curt’s catsup. “She’s the reason I took the job at Bushay. Isn’t she wonderful?”

Help me, Lord! Help me get out of this mess! I’ll never shirk from saying what needs to be said again. I promise! Just please don’t let it get any worse!

Jack looked at me. “Sean here works at Bushay. He’s their comptroller, and he’s helping me get acclimated as I begin the audit.”

I found I could look at Sean. “That’s nice,” I managed.

“I’m Jack Hamilton, by the way.” He stretched his arm across the table to shake hands with Curt. “Merry’s boyfriend.”

Oh, Lord, I asked that it wouldn’t get worse!

I still couldn’t look at Curt, who no doubt was wondering how he could have fallen for someone cowardly enough to keep Jack’s presence in town a secret. Or maybe—and I almost gasped audibly at the thought—maybe he thought I was trying to be coy and play him against Jack!

“Her boyfriend?” Curt said. “Really?” I shivered as I heard the acid in his voice.

“Really,” Jack said happily, complacently. “She’s my best girl, my only girl.” With a proprietary air, he slid his arm across my shoulders.

I jerked as the weight of his arm fell on me. When I did, my left elbow snapped forward, bumping hard into my Coke. It toppled, the lid popped off and the dark liquid ran unerringly and with great speed across the table and into Curt’s lap.

I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut.

Curt sputtered as the cold Coke drenched him. He jumped to his feet as much as he could in the booth and grabbed for a cluster of napkins. He built a paper dam to hold back the surging flood, but it breached the dam at the sides and made new caramel-colored spatters on his khakis.

Such was the state of my nerves that I started to giggle. I slapped a hand over my mouth, but I couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” I said or tried to say. I think I got as far as I before the giggles got me again. I may not be good at a lot, but at making a fool of myself, I’m first-rate.

“Are you okay, old man?” Jack asked Curt with a complete lack of genuine interest. If I wanted to think bad thoughts, I’d think Jack was enjoying the whole mess.

“Here.” Airy thrust a handful of napkins at Curt. She slapped others down on the soda on the table, sopping it up. She at least had been practical and run to the condiment stand where she’d grabbed as many napkins as were available.

“We need a cleanup over here,” Sean called to a girl behind the counter. She nodded and disappeared into the back, never to return.

“Thanks,” Curt took the proffered napkins from Airy and brushed at his soaked pants. He tried to slide out of the booth without getting splattered anymore and ended up sitting on a couple of ice cubes that had flown straight and true to where they could do the most damage.

“You’d better go home and get changed,” said Jack blandly. “We wouldn’t want you to catch a cold or anything. I’ll take care of Merry.”

He sounded so proprietary that I almost gagged. That’s what happens, I told myself, when you neglect to tell someone that things have moved beyond his knowledge of the situation.

Curt looked at me and I looked sadly back. I had stopped giggling, but now all I wanted to do was cry. He probably hated me for not being open with him.

Well, no. I caught myself. Not hate. That was too nasty a word for Curt. Maybe he just disliked me, thought I had deceived him, duped him, played him false, hoodwinked him, defrauded him, taken him for a ride.

I took a deep breath. When I started reeling off synonyms, I was in way over my emotional head.

Too much for one day, Lord. Way too much.

“Merry, are you all right?” Curt asked quietly as he stood beside the booth.

I saw that he understood how confused, distressed and embarrassed I felt. Maybe he even understood what a rotten person I was sometimes. Tears began to slide down my cheeks. I didn’t deserve someone as nice as him to fall for me. I deserved someone insensitive and unfeeling like Jack. Not that I wanted him, but I deserved him.

Airy looked at me in surprise. “It’s okay, Merry,” she said kindly. “His slacks will clean.”

Jack looked at me and stiffened when he saw the tears. “Come on, Merry. What’s the big deal? It’s only spilled soda.”

“She’s had a very bad night,” Curt explained. “I need to get her home.”

Everybody looked at me, and all I could do was nod and sniff. I smiled a wobbly smile in Curt’s direction and grabbed my scarf and purse. Not only did I need to get out of here before I made a greater fool of myself; I also had to get Curt away before he mentioned the cause for my bad night. It appeared that Airy didn’t yet know that Arnie was dead, and I didn’t want to be there when she found out. Curt, of course, didn’t realize the danger.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.