Caught in a Bind Page 19
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”
I gave up on the Merry business and said simply, “I know.”
He quieted, and I wondered again how I was going to get help.
In the distance I heard a car and wished I had a means of communicating with it. I’d just have to wait until Tom fell asleep again and then go for help. Hopefully that amount of time wouldn’t do him any more harm than the time he’d been here already.
Loud bumps sounded from immediately outside and the light from the window overhead was blocked.
“No,” I cried, visions of the shutter being replaced dancing like a nightmare through my head. “We’re in here.”
I lay Tom’s head gently on the floor and stood. I sagged with relief when I saw not a shutter but a large man in a tan uniform at the window.
“Who’s we and why are you here?” The voice was full of authority and no sympathy. “These windows are boarded shut to keep people out.”
“We need an ambulance,” I said. “There’s a seriously injured man in here.”
A flashlight shone in my face. I closed my eyes against the assault and stood still, letting the man look at me. In a short time the beam moved away and focused on Tom.
“Are you Merrileigh Kramer?” The man’s voice was abrupt but no longer unkind.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Your purse is out here.”
I remembered dropping it when I started working on the shutter. “Get an ambulance, will you?” I asked. “He’s been hurt somehow, but I can’t see how in the dark. He’s burning with fever. And call the police. Ask for William Poole. Tell him it’s about Tom Whatley.”
He hesitated, then grunted and disappeared. While I was sorry to lose his presence, I welcomed the sunlight that flowed again into Tom’s little cell.
It wasn’t too long before the front door of the cottage was opened, admitting more light, and shortly thereafter the police arrived in the comforting person of William Poole, then the ambulance for Tom.
“Have you called Edie?” I asked William as the EMTs worked on Tom. We stood outside in the fragrant fresh air.
“I’m just about to.”
“When you’re finished, can I talk to her for a minute? I need to know what she wants to do about Tina and the kids.”
“What kids?”
“The ones she and Randy took in for the night.”
“Randy’s home?” He looked none too pleased.
“He went home with the kids. He had to. He slept with them. Oh, William, you’d have been so proud of him last night!”
He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t think I want to know about this now.” He reached for his phone. Edie was crying with relief and joy when he finally passed it to me “for one minute only.”
“What about Tina and the kids?” I asked, cutting through her thanks. “Are they all right? Should I come over so you can go to the hospital?”
“Tina’s mom picked them up about fifteen minutes ago. Merry, how is he?”
“I don’t know, Edie. He’s unconscious.”
“He’s truly alive? You’re not just telling me that, and then I’ll get to the hospital and they’ll tell me the truth?”
“Edie! You’ve been reading too many novels.”
William held out his hand.
“I’ve got to go. William wants me off the phone. And he’s fine. Well, not fine maybe, but certainly not dead.”
And with those happy words, William took the phone. I waited until Tom left for the hospital, never regaining consciousness, then turned to walk to my car.
“Where’s she going?” the ranger asked William. “Don’t you need to question her?”
“Don’t worry about her,” William Poole said. “We know where to find her.”
I frowned at him. “You make me sound like I’m one of your regular troublemakers.”
He grinned, the furrows on his brow undergoing a seismic shift.
SIXTEEN
I walked into the newsroom feeling as weary as I’d ever felt. The poor night’s sleep and the fatigue following the adrenaline high of finding Tom combined to make me crave nothing more than sleep.
I was shocked awake by the great rainbow bouquet of balloons soaring above my chair and the huge vase of velvety red roses sitting in the middle of my desk.
“What’s all this?”
Jolene leaped from her chair. “Oh, Merry! Congratulations!” She threw herself into my arms.
“Thanks,” I said somewhat breathlessly. “But what for?” In answer, she giggled.
I watched a grinning Mac stride toward me. Grinning. Mac. Those words rarely went together these days. “You’re happy,” I told him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. You’re just a pessimist.”
I rolled my eyes. Talk about the pot talking to the kettle!
He grabbed me in a bear hug and shouted in my ear, “You did it, girl!”
When he released me and I could hear again, I put my hands on my hips and demanded, “Okay, what is going on here?”
He held out a Web site printout.
I grabbed the paper and read. I read it again. I looked up in shock. “Me?”
Mac grabbed me again, dancing me around my desk. Any residual fatigue vanished as it hit home. I’d won a Keystone Press Award! Me, Merrileigh Kramer! I’d won for the articles I did last winter on His House, Dawn, and the pregnant girls who lived there.
I began to giggle just like Jolene and doubted I’d ever be able to stop.
“We’re saved!” Mac hugged me again. “You saved us!”
Jolene flicked one of the balloons. “Mr. Montgomery can’t very well fire a reporter who has just won such a prestigious journalism award, or the editor who came up with the assignment, now can he?”
“Are these from him?” I indicated the balloons and flowers.
Mac shook his head. “He doesn’t know yet. At least I don’t think he does.”
“We thought we’d tell him tonight at Curt’s show,” Jolene said. “Nice and publicly.”
I wasn’t sure about that idea. “But it’s Curt’s show. We can’t distract from him.”
“Yeah, we can.” Jo waved that consideration away just like she did everything she didn’t want to think about or agree with. “He’s so nice he won’t care.”
She was undoubtedly right, but still…
Mac grabbed my arm. “You can tell Monty what a wonderful editor I am—”
“Monty?” Jo and I said together. He ignored us.
“—and I can tell him what a sterling reporter you are, a veritable paragon of prose, a princess of perspicacity, a woman of wondrous wisdom.”
“And he can’t possibly fire any of us!” Jo finished triumphantly.
I shook my head at the two of them. They were both clever to a fault, unbelievably frustrating more times than not and incredibly dear to my heart. What if I’d chosen to stay safe in Pittsburgh instead of risking a life in Amhearst? I’d have missed these two wonderful, nutty people, to say nothing of Curt.
“Curt!” I said. “I have to call Curt!”
I grabbed my phone and called his home number, his cell phone and finally Intimations. No answer anywhere, but today it didn’t bother me. I’d won a Keystone!
“The balloons are from me,” Mac said, unable to keep the news of his thoughtfulness quiet any longer.
“Balloons,” sniffed Jolene. “Flowers are the proper gift, you idiot.”
“Flowers wither.”
“Balloons deflate.”
“Flowers die.”
“Balloons crawl on their bellies on the floor.”
They were crazy, both of them, but my life would be so flat without them. I grabbed them about their necks, one in each arm, and hugged.
“By the way,” Jo said, rubbing her neck after I released her. “I took your basket to Freedom House.” She looked at me sternly. “That place is falling down.”
“True,” I said, “but yo
u don’t need to frown at me. It’s not my fault.”
“Um.” She studied me cynically. “You sent me there on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Sure. I needed the flowers delivered.”
She snorted. “Don’t think you can charm me. I know a setup when I see one.”
“And?” I waited expectantly. Oh, Lord, let her help! Please let her help!
“The least I can do is buy decent furniture for her office.” It wasn’t what I’d hoped for at twenty-five thousand dollars a month for twenty years, but it was a start.
I hugged her. “Thanks, Jolene. That’s kind of you.”
“And maybe see that the place gets painted and fixed up.”
I grinned. “That’s even better!”
“And maybe pay the rent for the first year so they can get Like New up and running.”
“Jolene!” I was overcome.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that enough?”
I pulled a rose out of my bouquet and handed it to her. “You are wonderful.”
She leaned over and put the rose back in the vase, smirking all the while. “That’s what Reilly always says.”
My phone rang as I tried to think of a comeback.
“Thought you’d like to know,” William Poole barked in my ear, “Whatley’s main problems are blood loss and dehydration. He should be fine in spite of a nasty shoulder wound.”
“Thanks, William. That’s wonderful news.”
At the name William, both Mac and Jolene stiffened like a pair of spaniels on point.
“The doctors said that if you hadn’t found him when you did, he’d have been in big trouble. Not that he’s not hurting anyway, but at least it’s not life threatening. We’re waiting for him to gain consciousness and tell us what happened.”
“How’s Edie doing?”
“She hasn’t stopped crying since she got here.”
I was laughing when I hung up. So many wonderful things happening all at once!
“What does Poole want? And what’s it have to do with Edie?” Mac demanded.
“You know how Tom’s been missing?” I began.
“He’s been found?” Jolene clapped her hands.
“Where? How? By whom?” Mac demanded, ever the newspaperman hot on the scent of a good story.
“Hibernia. By following a blood trail. Me.”
“You? You found him?”
I glared at my editor. “You don’t have to act so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I just can’t believe you didn’t say anything sooner.”
I glanced at the flowers and balloons. “I got sidetracked.”
Mac barely gave my gifts a glance. They were fluff. The story was all. “So give, woman. Tell me every single detail.”
So I did, ending with the news that Tom was in the hospital, still unconscious, with Edie at his side.
“But he’s going to be okay?” Jolene asked.
“So William said.”
“Flowers,” she said, completely in character. “We’ll send a huge colorful bouquet of spring flowers, including irises and lilies and daffodils.”
Mac nodded approval. “Good, Jolene. Tell them to put a balloon or two in the arrangement. Merry, you get that story written. I’ve got to call Dawn. She’s been praying.”
Jo and I looked at each other in amazement. Poor Mac. He was well and truly smitten. And he certainly had good taste, finally, after years of chasing everything in skirts. But I still had reservations.
I made quick notes about my adventure with Tom, then turned off my computer and gathered my belongings. My brain was mush. It was time to go home, regroup for a few minutes before going to see Mike Hamblin and then moving on to Intimations. I gathered my balloons and roses.
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring them back,” I assured Mac, who frowned as he watched me try to shepherd the uncooperative floaters through the door.
Whiskers loved my flowers.
“Get away from them!” I shouted, shoving him to the floor from the bureau where he sat trying to eat them. “Go bat a balloon.”
In fact the balloons scared him as they hovered and shifted and twisted in the drafts. He eyed them fearfully and wouldn’t go near them. With an eye to saving my roses, I wrapped the balloon strings about my jewelry box and pushed it next to the roses.
Whiskers sat on the bed and looked longingly at the fragrant flowers, then fearfully at the balloons. He made no move to approach either. Safe for the night.
I pulled on my black dress, nothing as classy or expensive as the one Delia, Miss Little Black Dress herself, was certain to be wearing. Still, as I checked myself in the mirror for cat hair, I didn’t think I’d shame myself or Curt. I thought I looked as sophisticated as I’d ever get with my black hose and shoes and my one piece of good jewelry—a miniature portrait on ceramic that my great-great-grandmother had painted—pinned to my shoulder.
As I pulled into Hamblin Motors at 6:23, I was listening to KYW, the all-news station out of Philadelphia. I wanted to know if there were any reports about Tom Whatley being found. I didn’t think the news had leaked yet, but I wanted to know before I talked with Mike Hamblin. One thing was sure: I wasn’t going to be the one to tell prematurely. There was too much at stake, like finding the bad guys responsible for whatever had happened to Tom.
I found an empty parking slot near the front door of the Hamblin showroom, no mean feat with the limited open space on the lot where cars, vans and pickups sat cheek by jowl. Hamblin’s sat on Route 30 just east of Amhearst, and the four-lane highway passed mere feet from the showroom. Down the road about a quarter of a mile was a well-lit shopping center with my favorite bookstore. I reached for the keys when a knock on my window made me jump. Howard the salesman peered in at me.
I rolled down my window. “Hello, Howard.”
He smiled with what he thought was charm. Today he was wearing a cream twill shirt with Hamblin Motors over the heart. He looked much healthier.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” he said. “Our colleague died this morning, and we’re closing early in memory of him.”
I nodded. “Bill Bond.”
Howard seemed surprised. “Yes.”
I pushed my car door open and stepped out. I flipped the lock switch down and closed the door, feeling virtuous about how well I was caring for Mr. Hamish’s car. “Mr. Hamblin is expecting me. It’s all right.”
Howard didn’t look convinced and followed me to the glass doors. I pulled the doors open and walked into the showroom. Howard followed.
“It’s okay, Howard. Truly. I promise not to steal any of the cars, toy or real.”
He frowned at me. Obviously humor wasn’t one of his strong points.
“Say.” I paused. “Do you guys wear denim shirts one day a week?” I pointed to the Hamblin Motors logo on his cream shirt.
Howard looked disconcerted by the change of topic. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “On Thursday. We have a different shirt for each day of the week. Today’s is cream twill, and everyone wears that, even Mike. All except Bill. He likes…” He swallowed convulsively and looked suddenly sad. “Liked to wear a dress shirt and tie. Mike let him since he was sales manager. It set him apart.”
“Was Bill good to work for?” I asked gently.
Howard nodded. “I liked him a lot. Every so often he’d get temperamental, but mostly he was fun. He was good at his job.” He sighed deeply. “It’s so sad!”
I made a noncommittal noise. How could a man be one kind of person at work and another at home? I made a mental note to ask Stephanie if this was a common phenomenon.
Howard led me to a handsome man with dark curly hair standing by the toy showcase against the outside wall of the showroom. The front of the showcase was open, and he had been rearranging the contents, trying to make room for something else by the looks of it.
He smiled warmly when he saw me. “Merry Kramer? I’m Mike Hamblin.”
We shook hands while Howard stood watching.
Howard nodded, though he still looked at me suspiciously. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Mike.” He turned and walked away.
Mike watched him go. “He’s a nice enough guy,” he said like he had to explain Howard. “Lots of our customers like his slow, thorough service. He makes them feel safe.”
I nodded, not really interested in what the customers thought of Howard. “What did your customers think of Bill Bond?”
“Come on back to my office where we can talk more comfortably,” Mike said.
I nodded and followed him across the showroom to the door that Howard had prevented me from going through on my last visit.
When we entered Mike’s office, I was immediately taken with a large toy car sitting on his desk. It was about two feet high and three feet long, much larger than any of the toys out in the showcases. It had a long hood, a flat roof and a rumble seat. Spare tires were mounted on the running boards on both sides just behind the hood. The door to the driver’s side was open, and I could see the seats had upholstery that looked as good as new.
“That’s one big toy,” I said.
Mike laughed. “It’s not a toy. It’s a showroom sample. I found it at an antique show over the weekend. Some guy sold it to me for a thousand dollars.” Mike laughed. “Poor chump.”
I looked at the scarred metal of the car. “A thousand dollars sounds pretty pricey to me.”
He shook his head. “A model this size is probably worth between twenty-five and thirty grand.”
I looked from him to the car in disbelief.
He grinned. “Amazing, isn’t it? But I know what I’m talking about when it comes to cars, whether toys, samples or the real thing.”
“Do you have any real antique cars like Model Ts or anything?” If he did and Mac thought it would make a good story, I’d give it to Larry, the sports guy. He actually knew one model of car from another, unlike a certain charming journalist who shall remain nameless.
We talked about his antique car collection and the huge garage he’d had built at home to house all ten of them. Rather, he talked and I listened. He told me about the shelves that circled his garage for the huge toy car collection he had, everything from a Stutz Bearcat to the latest Matchbox.