Caught Redhanded (4 page)

I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Wilson if Martha had a live cat or two who needed care now that their owner was dead.

The only jarring note in the room was the disarrangement of the cats and the framed photos that sat in groups on the end tables and the top of the entertainment cabinet. Martha smiled out of several pictures, standing arm in arm with people I didn’t know. In three of the many pictures the same young man stood with Martha, his arms wrapped around her. Ken? If so, he didn’t look dirty or smelly to me. In fact, he looked pretty good to me. An adorable little girl with blond ringlets grinned from a frame that had been knocked over. A niece? A friend’s child? A couple who must be her father and stepmother sat in a rather rigid studio portrait. Beside them a ceramic cat that was washing an extended back leg lay toppled on its side.

On the floor, beside a stone cat sitting with his tail curled about his paws, lay a picture, facedown. Much as I was dying to see the photo since you never know what might be a clue, I didn’t touch it. I hoped William would appreciate my discipline.

In the neat, white kitchen a copy of today’s
Philadelphia Inquirer
lay on the table, opened to the puzzle page. Someone had begun working the Sudoku with a mechanical pencil that had a very worn eraser. The only other item not tucked away in a cupboard was a small glass with orange juice residue in the bottom. The back sliding glass door stood open, the screen pushed to the side.

Can you say escape route? I was willing to bet this was the swishing sound I’d heard when I first arrived. I gave a little shudder. I had scared someone off, someone I was very glad I hadn’t met, given today’s circumstances.

I peeked in the single bedroom where a faux brass bed stood, neatly made and covered with an Amish quilt in shades of blue and yellow. Blue and yellow curtains hung at the windows and once again everything was neat as could be—except for the night table whose drawer was wide open. An alarm clock and a book lay on the floor beside the toppled bedside lamp.

I looked in the bathroom last and there the mess left no doubt that someone had taken things or at the very least been looking for something specific. The medicine chest had been emptied into the sink, its door left gaping. Bottles, toiletries and a box of bandages lay in a heap; the toothbrush holder lay on the floor.

I wondered which one of Mrs. Wilson’s
they
had made the mess.

I went back to the kitchen and stared at the open sliding door. Hot, humid air poured in, melding with the crisp air-conditioning. The view out the door was the backs of another five-condo unit, separated from Martha’s by a row of conifers that had grown both tall and thick. I wondered if people were at home in those units and if one of them had looked out at the right time to see who had run from Martha’s place.

I stepped outside and felt my ankle turn again. At this rate I’d be walking down the aisle with a cane.

I looked down at the concrete slab that passed for a patio and saw I’d stepped on the edge of a book. I bent and picked it up without thinking. I grimaced, but the damage was done. My fingerprints were stamped on the red leather cover with or over someone else’s, someone besides Martha.

I grabbed my shirttail and held the book in it. Using the material to protect the pages, I riffled through it quickly. It was a diary or a journal, the kind with all blank, lined pages. Its pages were more than half filled with a pretty, straight up and down penmanship. By the dates marking each new entry, I could see Martha wrote in it frequently rather than daily. When I glimpsed the name
MAC,
I knew it was time to call William and grabbed my cell.

I’d just pressed the 9 of 911 when the glass door on the powder-blue unit slid open, and Mrs. Wilson stepped out.

Without a thought, I dropped the journal into my purse. No way did I want her to see it and ask questions about it, maybe even demand I leave it here. It was something for William’s eyes only.

I needn’t have worried. She didn’t see me. Her eyes were red, and she kept sniffing and wiping her nose with a crumpled wad of tissues. She stood staring at the conifers for a few minutes. Then she took a long, shuddering breath.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Wilson?” I asked.

She jumped and turned, her eyes wide and fearful. Her hand came up to cover her heart when she saw it was only me.

“You scared me out of ten years,” she gasped. She patted her chest rapidly. Then as fear fled, I could see suspicion replace it.

“What are you doing here? Why are you in Martha’s house?” She began to move slowly backward toward her door. “I never saw you here before.”

“Sure you did.” Maybe she wasn’t as sharp as I’d thought. “We talked out front.”

She shot me a scathing look. “I know that. Before today. And you shouldn’t be here. No one should be here. Martha’s dead.” It was a wail. Clearly she’d cared for Martha. “I called the police and told them there had been people here. I told them
you
were here.”

“Good,” I said, holding out my phone. “I was about to do the same thing.”

She blinked, uncertain what to think of me. I couldn’t blame her.

“How did you learn about Martha?” I asked.

“That phone call? That was my friend Jennie. She heard about it on the TV.” Tears filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her wrinkled cheeks. “She was so nice.”

“That’s what I hear.” I smiled sadly. “I wish I had known her.”

Mrs. Wilson drew back like I’d slapped her and I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

“If you don’t—didn’t know her, what are you doing here?” She shook her finger at me. “You go away. Right now.”

“I want to wait for the police,” I said.

“No. You go. Now.” Her voice quavered with distress, but her eyes were determined. She stepped back until she was at her door. She leaned, clearly reaching for something just inside. When she drew her hand out, I stared in disbelief at the object she held. She clutched the burglar bar for her slider and she swung it through the air with all the panache of a knight wielding his broadsword.

“Go,” she ordered as the rush of air from her mighty swing brushed my face.

“But—”

“Go!” She took a step toward me, her weapon raised. Clearly her years with Sergeant Major Wilson and the army had rubbed off on her.

Feeling like a Great Dane being chased by a miniature dachshund, I went.

FIVE

B
eing chased by an amazingly spry eightysomething-year-old lady was very unnerving, especially by one as intent on bashing me as Mrs. Wilson. When I jumped into my car, I half expected her to use her burglar bar on my windshield.

Instead she stood panting on the front walk and I had visions of her keeling over on the spot from a massive coronary; all the blame would be mine.

“But, honestly, officer, she came after me.”

“Yeah, right. Hands behind your back.”
Snick, snick
clicked the cuffs. “You have the right…”

As I drove away, I watched her in my rearview mirror in case she did collapse. The last I saw of her before a curve in the road hid her from view, she was giving the bar a final shake in my direction.

Now that I was safe, I became very curious about the man who had lived so many years with a woman as feisty as Mrs. Wilson. Had the sergeant major been Special Forces or some such highly trained group? Had he come home from work each day and taught her all he knew? Was their home life the Wilson version of Clouseau and Cato in the original Pink Panther series as they stalked each other from room to room?

I had just taken my seat at my desk back at the newsroom when my phone rang. William to tell me off about Mrs. Wilson and Martha’s place?

“Is this Merrileigh Kramer, award-winning journalist?” a man asked, his familiar voice booming down the line. Though he was reticent by temperament, he always projected on the phone like an out-of-work actor auditioning for a last-ditch opportunity at a starring role.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in disbelief. Why was Ron Henrey, my former editor back in Pittsburgh, where I had cut my reporting teeth first as an intern, then as a staff reporter, calling me?

“Are you still there, Merry?”

I jammed the phone back against my ear. “I’m here, Mr. Henrey.”

“Surprised you speechless, eh?”

“Something like that,” I admitted. He was certainly high on my list of People I Never Expect To Hear From.

“Congratulations on winning that Keystone Press Award. We taught you well, I’d say.”

“I’d say,” I agreed.

There was a little silence while I tried to imagine why Ron Henrey was contacting me. Certainly he wasn’t calling to interview a hometown girl made good. That would be an assignment given to a features reporter, the
Chronicle
’s equivalent of someone like me or Edie. Besides I hadn’t made good enough to be worth an article.

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m calling,” he said.

I made a little agreeing noise, which proved to be all the encouragement he needed.

“We’d like you to come back to the
Chronicle,
Merry. We’d like you to write two or three features a week and have your own column.”

Then he named a salary that made me blink in astonishment. I wouldn’t exactly be rich, but from my present perspective, I’d be close. The cynic in me, rarely used, kept looking for the catch, but I couldn’t see one. Since I’m not a very practiced cynic, it’s often hard for me to find the fly trapped in the ointment. However, the rose-colored glasses I wear with practiced ease illuminated a wonderful vista.

My own column! Real money!

I’d been asking Mac for a column for the past several months. He only looked at me and, cynic extraordinaire that he was, said, “In about ten years, Merry. When you finally grow up.”

I glanced at Mac, sitting at his editor’s desk by the great glass window that looked down from his second-floor perch onto Main Street. He was typing away on his PC, and I felt like a traitor to
The News
with Mr. Henrey trying to lure me away.

Suddenly Mac looked at me. “Hey, Kramer, when you’re finished, I need to see you.”

As I waved acknowledgement, I tried to imagine Mr. Henrey yelling across the
Chronicle
newsroom at me. Never happen. First off, the room was too big. Secondly Mr. Henrey, for all his booming phone voice, was a model of propriety. He would either IM me or give me a discreet
bring
on my desk phone.

“What do you think?” Mr. Henrey was still speaking, booming as ever. “Interested?”

I realized I was smiling. I also realized Jolene was watching me smile and would demand to know why as soon as I hung up. No way was I telling her. I might as well stand on my desk and emote like Mr. Henrey because everyone would know before nightfall.

“May I think about this?” I asked. “You’ve taken me by surprise.”

“You have a week,” Mr. Henrey yelled genially.

Long enough to develop an acid stomach as I debated the pros and cons, but not long enough to get an ulcer. “Sounds fine.”

I hung up, still not believing the offer. Jolene, dressed in a yellow narrow-strapped cami top and a denim miniskirt in spite of the scraped knees, pounced.

“What? Why were you smiling? And don’t try and tell me it was Curt whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He doesn’t yell in the phone.”

Curt! I blinked in disbelief. I’d been so caught up in the unbelievably good offer and so busy being impressed with myself that I hadn’t even thought of my fiancé. Granted I’d moved to Amhearst to learn to be independent, to stand on my own two feet, but a girl should at least wonder what the man she plans to marry in less than two weeks would think about moving.

Probably not much. He was as much Amhearst as Jolene and Mac.

There was nothing for it. I’d have to call Mr. Henrey back and decline his offer.

Maybe not, kid,
the perverse part of me said.
He’s an artist. Artists can paint anywhere, right?

Hmm,
thought the nicer me, jumping much too quickly to agree.
That’s true.

“Come on,” Jolene prompted. “Give.”

I tried not to look guilty as I scrambled for something to say that wasn’t a lie but wasn’t exactly the truth, either. I squirmed under her relentless gaze.

She stood and walked across the narrow aisle that separated our desks. I half expected her to stick her index finger under my nose and demand an answer. Instead she spun the little basket of cheery flowers that sat on my desk, checking for dead blooms among the pale yellow double begonia, the miniature pink rose, the crimson geranium and the pale blue dianthus. A regular Gertie the Gardener, Jolene focused the same intensity on her plants as on her insatiable curiosity. As a result the newsroom resembled a nursery with greenery on every available flat surface and a row of the healthiest African violets I’d ever seen lining the sill by Mac’s great window.

Suddenly Jolene turned and stuck that index finger with its lethal nail, today a deep crimson, right under my nose. I noticed that her broken middle nail was already repaired. “Talk, Merry. I’m not your best friend for nothing.”

Paralyzed, I stared at that nail.

“Kramer,” Mac called. “I asked to see you when your call was finished. Remember?”

“Gotta go, Jo. The boss commands.” With great relief I rushed to Mac’s desk.

“You owe me one,” he said as I stood at parade rest before him.

“What?”

“I saw that bit of action.” He jerked his head in Jo’s direction. “I saved you from a fate worse than death.”

“It’s not quite that bad.”

“Ha! I’ve known her longer than you have.”

“Yeah, yeah. The exclusive Amhearst club.”

“You’re just jealous because you didn’t grow up here.”

I thought of Martha Colby who had. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Mac turned grim. “Thanks. Me, too. She was a special girl.”

“Did you know she had your name tattooed on her shoulder? In a heart?”

“My name?”

“
MAC.
You can see it clearly in one of the pictures.”