Caught Redhanded (8 page)

I spent a long time wrestling with myself about turning the diary over to William. Even if it wasn’t our Mac, it would put him in a bad position because of his previous relationship with Martha.
Once again, Mac to the rescue.

But there was really no choice, and so here I sat watching William read the damaging words.

After a few minutes of silence William looked at me. “Who else has read this?”

“No one.” I felt sort of offended that he’d even think I’d share something so vital to the case with others.

“Not Curt?”

I shook my head. Of course, if we’d already been married and he’d been there in the middle of the night, I’d have shared it. I also would have cried on his shoulder.

“Jolene?”

“Good night, no.”

“Mac?”

Again I shook my head. I had wanted to. I wanted to point to the April 20 passage and say, “Where were you that night? Tell me this isn’t you. Prove to me this isn’t you.”

Of course I couldn’t show him or ask him about it. That was William’s job. If Mac was involved somehow in Martha’s murder, he had to be held accountable.

Oh, Lord, please! Not my Mac.

William looked at me sternly as he tapped the diary with the Ticonderoga eraser. “You can’t mention this to Mac, Merry.”

“I know.”

“And you can’t write about this.”

I looked at him, utterly miserable. “I have to write something. What can you give me?”

“The investigation is moving—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Apace. That is absolutely no help.”

He grinned, his shar-pei wrinkles shifting like a crumpled sheet of paper suddenly smoothed. “You could help us locate Ken Mackey.”

“Is he a suspect?” Maybe he could take the heat away from Mac.

“We just want to talk with him given his friendship with the victim.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Wilson told Officer Schumann that Ken has moved out.”

“But not where he went.”

“She didn’t like him,” I said. “He was dirty and smelly.”

William nodded. “He races motocross. I’m sure he’s often both.”

I thought of the pictures of him that littered the Web. In each he was muddier than the last or he was tumbling head over heels into a fence or another rider. There had to be safer, cleaner ways to have fun, but dirty and smelly it certainly was.

“Mrs. Wilson likes the new boyfriend,” I said. “Mac.” Mac, who had taken Ken’s place, if not in the house itself, certainly in Martha’s heart. “I bet Ken resented Mac a bunch.”

“Maybe.” William let the diary fall shut. “But we have to locate him to find out.”

NINE

B
efore I left home to meet with Sergeant Poole, I’d sent Mac several inches of story about Martha, the investigation, the murder weapon and Mrs. Wilson minus the burglar bar. Now I sat in my car and, using my wireless laptop, added a couple of lines about the police seeking Ken Mackey to talk with and sent it to Mac, too. He would cut as needed to fit today’s edition.

As a result I was able to go straight from the police station to my interview with Tug Mercer of Good Hands after one quick stop at a Turkey Hill Minit Mart to grab a Diet Coke and a cream-filled Tastykake coffee cake.

Tug was a big blond man, not so much tall as large. His navy polo shirt with the stitched Good Hands logo stretched over his shoulders and body, but he wasn’t lumpy or chubby. Just solid. Impressive. When he shook my hand and gave me his open smile, I automatically smiled back.

“I’m more surprised than anyone at what Good Hands has become.” He sat behind his desk with me facing him in a sturdy molded plastic chair. His office was in an old house that belonged to one of the churches in town and had been converted into cheap office space for various Christian enterprises. The office walls held pictures of before and after houses, doubtless Good Hands projects, as well as several framed prints that showed collections of hand tools or plumbing equipment or architectural paraphernalia. A manly office appropriate for one who oversaw the repair of dilapidated homes.

“How long has Good Hands existed?” I asked

“The idea first came to me twelve years ago,” Tug said, “but it took two years to figure out exactly what it was that God wanted me to do and the best way to do it.”

I looked up from my trusty notepad. “Explain.”

Tug leaned back in his chair. “I was sitting in church minding my own business when I got the idea of helping needy people in substandard housing in Chester County. It was one of those God-thoughts that is so outlandish that you automatically doubt it. One proof that the idea is from God is if it doesn’t go away but continues to eat at you. This idea eventually ate me whole.”

He grinned happily at the memory of being consumed with his God-thought. I liked Tug and his enthusiasm for what he considered his call from God. I could easily see him with a tool belt around his waist and a hammer in his hand. I wondered if Mac realized how much of a faith story this article was going to become.

I checked the tape recorder on Tug’s desk just to be certain the wheels were still turning. They were. “What did you do before you got the idea for Good Hands?”

“I taught school. I loved it and the kids. Often in the summers I took students to help out in Appalachia through the Appalachia Service Project. We helped repair houses, fixing and painting and building all kinds of things. So when the idea for Good Hands first came to me, I knew what would be involved. Trouble was, I didn’t want to leave my teaching.”

A knock on the door drew both Tug and me.

“Sorry, Tug, but we just wanted to say hi and goodbye before we go home.” A pretty, petite woman with huge brown eyes and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail stood in the door. “I forgot you had a meeting.”

Tug jumped to his feet. “Come on in, Candy. Meet Merry Kramer from
The News.
Merry, my wife, Candy.”

“Hi, Merry.” Candy Mercer gave me a brilliant smile as she held out her hand. After we shook, she met Tug at the corner of his desk. He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She reached up and patted him gently.

Behind Candy slouched a girl I judged to be about fifteen or sixteen, much fairer than her mother, several inches taller and many pounds heavier. Her daddy’s little girl, at least physically. She would have been pretty except for the sullen look and the heavy black makeup rimming her eyes. She wore a baggy black T-shirt and a black pair of sweatpants in spite of the warmth of the day. Her round cheeks were pale and her brown eyes sad.

“And this is Bailey,” Tug said. He smiled at Bailey as he gave her cheek a kiss, too. “We’re trying to decide if she’s turning goth on us and hasn’t gotten all the way there yet or if she just has a thing for black.” There was no rancor or mockery in his voice.

“Dad,” Bailey muttered, embarrassed, but she half smiled. Clearly this topic was a family joke.

“I certainly hope you never touch that beautiful blond hair with black dye,” I said fervently. “I’ve rarely seen such a wonderful color. Or colors.” I peeked behind Bailey to see how far down her back the yellow, gold and silver strands fell. It cascaded over her black backpack and I couldn’t help but grin at the incongruous sight of a couple of knitting needles sticking out of the backpack and through her hair. Lovely, fuzzy, pale yellow yarn pushed against the heel of one. How fascinating that the semigoth was working with such a delicate shade, one that would be absolutely wonderful with that gorgeous hair, especially if she eased up a bit on the black eyes.

Bailey flushed at my compliment, with pleasure, not embarrassment, I thought. Her parents looked at her with love and worry.

“Can you sit on it?” I asked, remembering that not too long ago my hair had been long like that, though not that stunning shade. Cutting it had been part of my decision to remake my life, as had been my move to Amhearst.

She shook her head, pushing one side of the glorious sweep behind an ear. “I keep it cut at my waist. It’s hard enough to get it dry now. I don’t need any more.”

“It’s absolutely gorgeous. You’re very lucky. And guys do seem drawn to blondes, you know.” I grinned at her.

She dropped her eyes and shook her head, her pallor returning.

Touchy topic. I wondered how hard it was for her with her excess weight, how much the kids teased her at school, how much she disliked herself. Being her age could be so hard!

“I’ve been telling Merry how Good Hands got started,” Tug announced in the small silence that followed Bailey’s apparent embarrassment.

Candy followed his lead and pointed a finger at him. “Did you tell her how I started wondering if all you were ever going to do was plan this organization and its purposes and never get around to actually fixing up houses?”

Tug took her out-thrust hand. “I’m sure you’ll tell that part better than me.”

Candy smiled at him as he continued to hold her hand. She turned to me. “Tug’s got two friends who are in the business world, and they met with him for breakfasts, lunches, dinners, evening snacks—you name it. They planned Good Hands meticulously, applied for and got not-for-profit status, wrote mission statements, vision statements, anything you can imagine. Not that all that wasn’t good. It got Good Hands off to a wonderfully sound start, but I thought they’d never get beyond planning.”

“That’s because we didn’t know how to get local needy home owners to want our services. We just couldn’t walk up to someone and say, ‘Your house needs fixing. Let us do it for you.’ Also, there’s no way to know by looking whether the house was owned by the people living there or rented. We aren’t in business to do what landlords should be doing.”

I saw Bailey sort of flinch. She grabbed Candy’s arm. “Come on, Mom. I need to get home.”

Candy nodded. “Tell Merry about Simon,” she ordered as she leaned forward to kiss Tug goodbye.

“Wait a minute,” he said though he leaned in for the kiss. “Before you go, show Merry your storeroom.”

“Storerooms, plural,” Candy corrected. “Come on, Merry.” She turned and walked down the hall. I followed her while Bailey stayed with Tug. Candy opened one room stuffed with used furniture.

“All donated,” she said proudly. “We’ll refinish it or reupholster it as needed.”

She opened a second door and I saw a room lined with shelves, all but one stacked with fabric in various bright prints. Three sewing machines sat in the middle of the room.

“Sheets, blankets and quilts, mostly,” Candy said, waving at the shelves. “We go to Appalachia two or three times a year and buy quantities at wonderful prices at the various mills located down there. We use the sheets to make great curtains and bed hangings.”

“What’s stored there?” I pointed to boxes stacked on the other shelf.

“Wallpaper borders.”

As we walked back to Tug’s office she described how she and a group of women with skills in interior design would go into a house that Good Hands was working on and redecorate if asked.

“We always put a rocking chair in a baby’s room,” she said. “And we try to make the master bedroom as beautiful as possible, especially for the single moms who for financial reasons have to put themselves last. Freshly painted walls, a colorful border and new sheets with curtains that match can make such a difference to a woman.”

My head was swimming with the scope of all Good Hands did as we reentered Tug’s office. Candy collected Bailey, who was sitting in an unhappy lump on my chair, pausing at the door to again remind Tug to tell me about Simon, the mailman.

“Yes, dear.” He made himself sound put-upon, but it was obvious that the bond between Tug and Candy was deep and lively. Just like Curt and me, I thought—until I remembered North Carolina.

Lord, please change his mind. Help him see how perfect going home will be.

I watched as Tug walked Candy and Bailey to the office door, then stood there, his eyes sad as he watched them down the hall and outside.

“I worry about her,” he said. “She’s so unhappy.”

Bailey of the glorious fall of soft gold, Bailey who was very overweight and wore the ugliest clothes she could find, Bailey of the excess eye makeup, Bailey who wanted to be different but wasn’t rebellious enough to become fully goth.

“It’s the age,” I offered. “She’ll probably slim down and wash away the black gunk in a year or two.”

“From your lips to God’s ears. It’s just her older sister was so easy! Candy and I were spoiled.” He walked back to his desk and sat down. “Now let me tell you about our friend Simon, the mailman, who had the poorest mail route in Amhearst and found us our first clients. He told us which people we could trust to have legitimate needs and he told them that they could trust us not to rip them off.”

By the time I returned to
The News,
I had more than enough information about Good Hands for an article, but I wanted more. I wanted that magic three points of view. Tug had given me names so that I could contact some of the nearly one thousand volunteers who gave up their Saturdays to help the many home owners—mostly widows, seniors and single moms—who were somehow scraping by but with no extra funds to hire someone to repair things and no time or knowledge to make the repairs themselves. I also wanted to interview some of the people Good Hands had helped and find out about the difference the assistance had made in their lives.

“At first all we thought about were the houses,” Tug had said. “Then we started to notice the people and the serious problems they often faced. Our motto became Hope, Joy, Dignity, reflecting what we hoped to offer our clients.

“Then we finally realized that often our clients had spiritual needs, too, so we’ve now incorporated spiritual goals into the program. We ask each client to have a ten-minute Bible study with us when we come. One or two of each team have volunteered to help this way and the clients seem to like being cared for and prayed for in this format.”

I was feeling really good about the world and the way some people made positive differences until I walked through the door of
The News
and saw Mac, Jolene and Edie standing around my desk. Larry, the sports guy, was frowning at me from his desk across the room.