Caught Redhanded (23 page)

I wasn’t prepared for him to launch himself across the desk and grab my wrist. I screamed without thought and began flailing wildly as I struggled to escape. He tightened his grip and began to twist my arm.

“No!” I grabbed the first thing that came to hand, the M. Anthony Compton name plaque. I swung indiscriminately at his arm, at his body extended over the desk, whacking him again and again. With a growl he released my wrist and hauled himself across the desk. I backed away until I was up against the file cabinet.

I still had the nameplate in my hand, but he had both longer arms and a baseball bat.

“Dear God, help!”

“Nobody’s going to help you, sweetheart,” Tony said, his face scarily devoid of all expression, even anger. He took one slow step, then another, the bat resting on his shoulder. I pressed into the wall, wishing I could push through it into the adjoining room.

As I glanced with longing at the window, I saw white out of the corner of my eye. I spun and grabbed one of Tony’s precious Cal Ripkin baseballs. I drew back my left arm and threw it at the window with everything I had.

The glass shattered as the ball sailed through. As I began to scream and scream and scream, I prayed the glass didn’t fall on anyone or the ball bean anyone. Then I grabbed the second ball and threw it at Tony, who stood staring in disbelief at the shattered window.

I wanted to hit him in the side of the head and maybe knock him unconscious, but at the last second he turned to me and the ball got him square in the nose. He bellowed in pain as blood spurted. He grabbed his face and went to his knees.

I ran forward and grabbed the forgotten bat and threw it into the closet. I bent and snatched my mini recorder from its resting place beside the leg of Tony’s desk where I’d left it when everything fell out of my bag.

Gripping it tightly, I raced into the reception room and reached for the office doorknob just as the door burst open. I found myself running into Curt’s open arms as he and Mr. Weldon burst into the office. Behind them, William Poole lumbered up the stairs.

TWENTY-SEVEN

T
hat evening as Curt and I drove to Jolene and Reilly’s for a late dinner, I wanted to tell him something that had been in the back of my head ever since I saw Tony swing that bat at me. I’d just needed some time for the thought to percolate through the exhilaration of survival and the business of making statements.

I took a breath, but before I could say anything, he grabbed my hand and, eyes still on the road, said, “I’ve been thinking about something, sweetheart.”

I knew from his tone that whatever it was was serious. I braced myself.

“When I heard you screaming and thought I might lose you—” He swallowed. “The possibility still makes me break into a cold sweat.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, my voice wary.

He gave a brief smile. “Anyway, it hit me how stupid I was being about where we were going to live. Anywhere with you would be wonderful, if nerve-racking upon occasion.”

I squeezed his hand. “I was—”

“No,” he interrupted. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath and swallowed. “I think it would be nice if we lived in Pittsburgh. You’ll enjoy your family and you were right. I can paint anywhere. While you were talking to William, I called the West Carolina Art Institute and told them I wasn’t interested.”

I stared at him. “You didn’t!” I felt the tears gather. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!”

He turned and gave me a quick grin. “I can love you wherever we live and you’re what counts. When I thought I might lose you, I realized that if I really loved you, I’d want you to be happy.”

“Even if you’re not?”

“But that’s what I realized. It’s you, not the place and not the job.”

“I love you.” I lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. “But we can’t live in Pittsburgh.”

He shot me a quick glance. “Why not?”

“While you were in the men’s room at the police station, I called Mr. Henrey and told him no to the
Chronicle’
s offer. When I thought Tony might do me in, I realized that wherever I was, if I was with you, that’s what counted and if you wanted to live in North Carolina, so did I.”

We pulled up in front of Jo’s and Curt turned off the motor. He turned to me and we just looked at each other.

“‘The Gift of the Magi,’” I said. “Carlyle-Kramer style.”

We were enjoying a pretty scorching kiss when there was a knock on my window.

“Save it for later,” Jo called. “We’re waiting for you.”

I knew I was still blushing when we walked into her lovely home. Reilly was standing in the entry hall.

“I told her to wait,” he said, “but she insisted on rushing out.” He looked at his wife with affectionate exasperation. “You know Jolene.”

“Come on into the living room and sit for a few minutes,” Jo said, leading the way.

I was looking over my shoulder, grinning at Curt as we entered the room, and was completely surprised when several people yelled, “Surprise!”

I jumped and stared at the roomful of friends. Maddie and Doug. Dawn and Mac, Mac looking like a weight had been rolled off his back. Edie and her husband, Tom. Mr. and Mrs. Weldon. Even Larry the sports guy and his wife, Lori. And in front of the love seat was a great pile of gifts.

“It’s a his and hers shower.” Jo showed us to our seats.

“Do we still get dinner?” Curt asked.

“After the presents,” she said. “In the meantime, nibble on the hors d’oeuvres.”

Quite frankly, I love presents, so I had a great time opening my half. Curt seemed both embarrassed and pleased to open his—mostly unexciting things like tools.

As I looked around the room at these people who had become so dear to me, I wondered how I could have thought to leave them. I leaned to Curt and whispered that thought.

“I was just thinking the same thing.” He tore the paper off what proved to be a pair of red boxers with white hearts all over. While everyone hooted, he said, “We’re Amhearst through and through, sweetheart.”

“Me, too? I’m no longer an outlander?”

“You’re an in-lander, if there is such a word.”

I let the joy of the evening wash over me, dissipating the lingering horror of my afternoon. Things didn’t get much better than this.

As all of us were walking to the dinner table, Mr. Weldon sidled up to me. “Merry, I’m so glad you are all right! I kept waiting for you to come out of Compton’s office to tell you I figured out who was saying those terrible things about Mac Carnuccio.”

I knew now that he’d gotten so worried about how long I was with Tony Compton that he called Curt, who called William. It turned out that William, having figured out the MAC, was already suspicious of Tony, and had been talking with the Harrisburg police about the death of Valerie Gladstone. Curt and William rushed to the office building and arrived just as the ball sailed through the window, landing on the roof of William’s patrol car, making a nice dent.

My screams had sent them rushing up the steps.

Standing now in Jo’s dining room, Mr. Weldon paused and glanced at Mac, talking with Dawn and the Reeders. “It was Compton who fed me all that stuff, but he was so clever about it. He’d stop me to ask about new lightbulbs or his name on the door and before he left, he’d drop a little something like, ‘It must be unnerving to the town to have someone suspected in a crime as the editor of the paper’ or ‘I heard at the courthouse that the police have a diary with the name
Mac
in it. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’”

“I’m not surprised, Mr. Weldon. He was trying to turn attention away from himself.”

He shook his head. “Well, I’m ashamed I fell for it. You didn’t. You were a true friend.”

“Well, I know Mac better than you do and I knew he was involved with Dawn. There was no way he was still seeing Martha. Then, too, we’ve been praying for him to become a Christian.”

Mr. Weldon glanced at his wife, busy talking with Jolene. “Mother says we should apologize.”

“I think that would be wonderful,” I said. “I think offering forgiveness would be good for him right now.”

Mr. Weldon nodded and went to get his wife. Together they approached Mac and Dawn. I wished I could hear the conversation, but I saw Mac reach out and shake Mr. Weldon’s hand, so I assumed it had gone well.

Dinner was wonderful and the conversation lively, much of it centering around my adventures of the afternoon. Mr. Weldon turned scarlet when everyone made a big thing of his calls to Curt and William.

When it was time to leave, Mac helped Curt carry our gifts to the car. I thanked Jo and Reilly and walked out with Dawn.

“I have news for you, Mac,” I said.

“Good news?” He looked at me skeptically, undoubtedly thinking of my
Chronicle
offer.

“I think so. I turned the
Chronicle
down.”

“Yes!” He pumped the air. “That’s my girl!” He gave me a hug.

“You won’t be moving?” Dawn asked.

Curt and I looked at each other and grinned. We shook our heads. And I found I was very satisfied with the thought of staying in Amhearst. This was where we belonged, where our friends were, where our lives were.

“We’ve got news, too,” Dawn said. She looked at Mac.

He looked embarrassed but he said, “I thought more about what you accused me of, Merry.”

“What I accused you of?” Wait a minute. I was one of the ones who didn’t accuse him.

“I’m not talking about the Martha thing. I’m talking about what I was saying about God and about Jesus’ death when I refused to accept the salvation and forgiveness they offered. I’m believing in God for the forgiveness He offers in Jesus.”

“Yes!” I threw myself at Mac and hugged him hard. Then I grabbed Dawn.

With this happy news, the week went into over-drive. A new wedding gown arrived all the way from England and Leslie had it ready for me by Friday afternoon. Our rehearsal dinner was great fun and the wedding went off without a hitch, something that surprised me as much as anyone, given the chaos of the previous week.

Saturday night was all I’d dreamed and on Sunday Curt and I flew to Seattle. From there we drove to Olympic National Park where we stayed in a little cabin on a cliff overlooking the Pacific and a beach filled with the trunks of trees washed out to sea and thrown back to collect in stacks higher than our heads.

Monday morning we woke up to look out over the ocean from our bed. We bunched up our pillows and cuddled, watching seagulls dive and soar.

“Happy, sweetheart?” Curt asked.

I smiled into his chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more foolish question.”

“I take it that’s a yes?” His arm tightened around me.

“A big yes.”

And it was. I had enjoyed the fun and excitement of the wedding and all its associated hoopla, but what I was really looking forward to was our marriage.

“You know,” I said as I watched the high tide dash itself upon the countless trunks on the beach, “anyone can have a wedding. A wedding is just an event. An important one, granted, but just an event. A marriage is a life. It only takes money to have a wedding. It takes guts and courage and commitment to have a marriage.”

“Well, I know you’ve got more than your share of those things,” my husband whispered in my ear. “Makes me think we’ve got the future all sewed up.”

I raised up on an elbow and looked at him, all rumpled, his beard shadow dark on his face, his breath less than fresh. “If loving were all it took, we’d be guaranteed a happy life, wouldn’t we?”

His slow grin made my heart race. “Oh, yes, sweetheart.” Then he sobered. “But we both know it takes more than just loving. I promised before God and witnesses to love and care for you always. Let me repeat that vow for your ears alone.”

Wow!

“Some day we may end up in Pittsburgh or North Carolina, but wherever we are, Merrileigh Kramer-Carlyle, with the help of God, I will love you as Christ loved the church and gave Himself for her.” Then he grinned again. “Your job will be to forgive me when I fail—which I can also promise I will do, though not intentionally, at least not usually.”

“Of course I’ll forgive you,” I said, knowing it would be much harder in the rigors of everyday life than it felt today. “And I promise to do my best to return that same kind of love with respect and appreciation.” I stuck a finger in his chest. “Your job will be to accept me when I fail.”

“Done,” he said, and we settled back to watch the action taking place outside our window, at least until our own action proved more invigorating.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-0470-0

CAUGHT REDHANDED

Copyright © 2007 by Gayle G. Roper

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.