Downhome Crazy (11 page)

“Then there are the prizes,” I explain. “If you win, it’s something like a box of baby wipes or a rattle, which you hand off to the expectant mother. Personally, I think we’d all do a lot better if the winner got a bottle of Jack Daniels and a couple of lottery tickets.”

That’s when he asks me if I’d like to dance. My living room is small, but not much space is required to dance cheek-to-cheek to a tune crooned by Rosemary Clooney. I relax against Carson’s shoulder, following his lead as we slowly move in a small circle. Eyes closed, I take in the scent of his aftershave and soap, the feel of his arms around me, the pleasure when our bodies touch. He keeps us dancing as the music segues into another song. If I was called home to heaven right now, here in his arms, I’d die a happy woman.

Luckily, I keep on living. As the second song ends, Carson whispers, “Ready for bed?” in my ear, and I kiss him to show my enthusiasm for the idea. He leaves the music playing as he takes my hand and leads me to my bed. Our bed.

Miss Priss has the good taste to stay out of the bedroom as we undress and slide beneath the sheets. When Carson pulls me close and starts kissing me, I forget everything, but what he’s doing and where he’s touching. And when I curl next to him after a thoroughly satisfying yee-haw sis-boom-ba moment and slide into deep sleep, I realize again how truly perfect my life has become.

* * * *

I awaken the next day with my morning person already up and in the shower. Deciding to surprise him, I slip out of bed and into my old chenille robe and fuzzy slippers. By the time Carson makes an appearance, I have breakfast well underway. He drops a kiss on the top of my head and pours coffee for the two of us. His hair is damp and tousled from a towel drying and stubble lines his jaw. He’s wearing boxers and a tee, which makes me wonder whether he’s underdressed or I’m wearing too many layers. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I could look at him all day.

“Sleep well?” he asks. I know he’s teasing because I know just how little sleeping we did last night.

“Like a rock,” I say, offering a sassy smile as I slide scrambled eggs onto two plates and heap on a helping of bacon. He gives my butt a little smack as I bend over to pull the biscuits from the oven.

Although it’s cozy warm in my house, the way the leaves remaining on my front tree shake in the wind leads me to believe autumn has arrived in full glory.

Carson and I do the dishes together before I head for the shower and he plunks down on the couch to check his morning e-mail. The hot water sliding across my skin feels so good I almost forget about the tornado of weirdness that keeps making encore visits to Fortuna. Almost, because every day that goes by without word of Miz Waddy makes me wonder if there’s going to be a happy ending here.

As I lather my hair with honey-baked ginger shampoo, I close my eyes and run through everything that’s been done so far to find her. Except for the sudden closing of that one bank account, her financials seem to be what Carson thinks they should be for a shopkeeper in a small town. The small ray of hope created by knowing she’d been in Pennsylvania has dimmed significantly. What are those stupid kidnappers waiting for? Having trouble spelling out their ransom demands in letters cut from newspapers?

A tap on the door is followed by a muffled, “Need a ride?” from Carson.

I shout back “Meet you at the police station!” because spending a little more time at my job today seems like a wise idea. It is reassuring to know Carson has my back, and I’m not going to miss anything big if I’m not tagging at his heels every moment.

I realize as I walk into the studio that news of Fortuna’s flip-outs has spread through town. The room falls silent at my appearance, but I keep on moving to forestall curious questions. Until the chief decides to make an official statement, I intend to pretend I know nothing.

I offer the most succinct update possible on the school situation, basically just an “all’s well on the high school front” kind of statement. Luckily the news fax has been flooded with press releases, so I can fill the time informing folks that this year’s Winter’s Sparkliest Snowflake baby pageant is now accepting entries and forms are available at Ted’s Ammo and Saw Sharpening and Henny Penny’s Feed and Seed on Main Street. After ending the news with a congrats to couples celebrating anniversaries today, I head back to my truck without making eye contact. When the receptionist shouts at me, I wave my cell phone at her. If she wants to believe I’m chasing a hot tip, that’s fine with me.

Shivering and wishing I’d remembered my stocking cap, I walk briskly to my old faithful pickup and fire ‘er up. Carson’s SUV is in the municipal parking lot when I pull in, which seems like a good sign to me. Noticing that the chief’s car and Luther’s cruiser are parked in front of the police station really brings my spirits up.

None of the three men I’ve been spending time with are in view when I walk in. The dispatcher gives me a friendly wave and calls out “conference room” when I hesitate at the counter. I walk through the room like I’m used to it. I’ve never been invited to the conference room before, so I’m thinking this might be a mistake. But when I walk in, no one kicks me out.

“Have a seat.” Luther pushes an office chair with a hefty dose of duct tape on its seat toward me.

I catch the chair, sit down, and roll toward the table where all kinds of documents are scattered. Sitting in the midst of them is a box of doughnuts. I think it’s quite amusing when both Carson and the chief reach to push it toward me. I obviously do a lousy job of hiding my addictions.

Hating to disappoint them, I grab a jelly-filled one and take a bite. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of my weakness after having such a heavy breakfast, but temptation is too hard to resist. Especially when it’s stuffed with strawberry goop.

Dwaine leans back in his chair and gives me a briefing on what they’re working on. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s holding something, back but I’m not about to complain. I know how lucky I am to be in the loop at all. Most cops run from news reporters; they don’t invite them to sit down for pastry.

Seems like a new charge has cropped up on Miz Waddy’s card.

“Michigan,” Luther says in disgust, tapping the document at hand. “If they’re heading for Canada, they’re taking the long-ass route.”

Hearing foul language come from Luther in that tone is an indicator of how troubling the last few days have been for him. Luther’s mama taught him to be polite, open doors, and not use profane language in the presence of ladies. Then again, considering how well he knows me, there’s a distinct possibility he doesn’t think of me as a lady. More like one of the guys in blusher and pastel sneakers.

“You sure she doesn’t have family somewhere up there?” the chief asks.

I wonder again why he thinks I have a direct link to Miz Waddy’s family tree. Investigative journalist is not part of my job description. Granted, I am nosy, but that only goes so far.

“We’ll talk to the lawyer again,” Carson announces. I’m assuming the “we” means him and me since the other men stay sitting when he rises. I feel like we’re covering old ground, but the thought remains unspoken. Carson’s the pro here.

* * * *

“Mr. Grimstead will see you in a few moments.”

Carson and I settle back in our seats under the watchful eye of the secretary. As if by mutual consent, we stare at the painting of a schooner crossing the ocean under a full moon instead of talking. The atmosphere is kinda like homeroom in high school, where you’re pretty sure whispering will result in some sort of unpleasant punishment.

Those few minutes stretch until I’ve studied the painting so long I can duplicate it and gain entry into one of those schools offering art lessons at home. Carson has given up and sits beside me with his head hanging down, hands clasped, examining the tips of his shoes. Finally, the desk phone rings, and we’re escorted into the inner sanctum.

Alfred Grimstead, Esq. doesn’t look particularly pleased to see us. The little piece of my brain that shouts, “Danger, Will Robinson!” tingles like crazy. I do believe Miz Waddy’s attorney is hiding something.

“So nice to see you again,” he says as if he means it.

“The pleasure is mine,” Carson replies.

I just nod.

“I hope you’re here to give me good news,” Grimstead says.

The conversation becomes give and take as Carson explains there’s nothing new yet. He follows that up with a question about Miz Waddy’s bank accounts, to which Grimstead gives an ambivalent answer. It shortly becomes obvious that we’re rolling fast toward a dead end.

And then Carson does a Cop Thing. “Alfred,” he says if they’re great friends, “why don’t you just tell me everything?”

Naturally, given Carson’s trust-me looks, Grimstead can’t resist. After a little fast dancing, he opens his desk drawer and hands a ring with a key on it to Carson. I study the key as my darling holds it up, my heart beginning to race with anticipation.

“And this fits where?” Carson asks.

I’m so interested in the answer I almost forget he’s butchered the English language again.

“A storage unit.” Grimstead opens the drawer again and pulls out a typed sheet. “Here is the inventory list.”

“This would have been quite useful much earlier.”

“I promised Wadelline I would only release the key after her death.”

“With this information, we may prevent her death.” Carson is on his feet, iron in his voice. “I’m sure you’re quite competent in your field, sir, and you know how devastating missing evidence can be to a case. The same holds true in my occupation.” He shakes the paper at the attorney. “This had better be the only thing you’ve held out on.”

Without a goodbye or thank you, he turns on his heel and marches out. I manage a small wave as I follow. It seems so impolite not to.

Carson’s heels are sharp as he pounds downstairs. I hurry to make sure I’m not left behind. Not that my boopsey would deliberately forget me, but he is preoccupied.

I hold onto the grab bar as he throws the SUV in gear and roars toward the police station. The cruiser is gone when we get there, but the chief’s car hasn’t moved. I follow as Carson yanks open the door and heads for the conference room, calling Dwaine’s name as he goes. Like a little mouse, I occupy a corner while the two men study the document, every so often shuffling through the other papers to compare notes.

“Tessa!” I hurry to the table when Dwaine calls my name. I am exhilarated when he asks if I will go with Carson to check out the storage unit. Can I fill in because Luther’s getting his car serviced and the chief has a dental appointment? Am I willing to be front and center if this breaks the case wide open?

“If you need me,” I murmur as if it’s no big deal. Open enthusiasm is not becoming in a reporter, or so I learned in j-school.

When Dwaine tells me which storage lot it is, I realize why Carson needs a companion. I know where it is; take the back road out of Fortuna, turn left at the old cement plant, and take the one-lane road by the taxidermy shop. It’s the most rural of the storage complexes that have popped up lately, which I suspect is why Miz Waddy picked it. For someone who’s never met a stranger and seems to be an open book, she’s turning out to have a lot of secrets.

I’m grateful we’re in Carson’s SUV on the last stretch of our ride. Money’s tough in the township, and the temporary patches placed over the potholes last spring have given up the ghost. My poor truck would be in shock if I tried to roll this pavement.

“What’s the number?” Carson asks as we drive through the opened gates.

“B-13,” I answer.

“Bingo!” Carson’s grinning.

I am so glad to see his dark mood lifted even if his little joke is silly. I point toward the appropriate unit as we slowly cruise the row. It’s one of the larger units and a sign says it’s climate-controlled. I’d say Miz Waddy pays a pretty penny to keep this one.

Seeing all those units reminds me of that TV show where people bid on abandoned ones. Not that southeastern Ohio hides the same treasures as California, but I still wonder what people have tucked away in there. Maybe that would be a great hobby for Carson and me, buying units and reselling the contents at flea markets. I mean I already have a truck and what else is there to do on a Saturday afternoon?

Carson parks the truck by Miz Waddy’s unit and hands me the list. He opens the lock and rolls up the door. I stifle a groan when I realize how much stuff is in there.

Still, I am nothing if not dedicated. And luckily, there aren’t that many boxes. Many of the items are larger ones, easy to check off the list. Like an antique quilt frame, which looks like nothing more than boards and wing nuts to me. As Carson calls out, “Sewing machine,” I put an x next to Singer Serger, Model X27. Miz Waddy is an impeccable record keeper, which is probably why her fellow shopkeepers were thrilled when she volunteered to do their bookkeeping.

We flip the top off big plastic boxes, which seemed to be filled with nothing but folded fabric. Still we look all the way to the bottom just to make sure nothing odd is hidden there. We do the same with the boxes packed full of quilting patterns.

We take a break when we reach the halfway point. Carson rolls down the door, snaps the lock on, and takes my hand. You wouldn’t think the middle of nowhere could be romantic, but it turns out the walk along the creek behind the concrete pad is kinda pretty. Yes, the water is brownish, and there’s an odd smell coming from the direction of the taxidermy shop, but still.

“I want to ask you something.” Carson stops, leans against a tree trunk, and pulls me against him.

My heart starts to bang like the marching band’s bass drum, and I hope he can’t feel it. This is so sudden. Yeah, I’ve considered the possibility of our marrying—okay, I’ve already picked out colors and found a sudden affection for Brides magazine—but we’ve only been dating a few months. Yet, we’re not kids and when you know it’s the real thing, you just know.

“Yes?” I sigh, my eyes locking on his.

“Would you…”

I’m finding it difficult to breathe, and oh, so aware of his hands locked at the back of my waist, the blueness of those eyes as I wait for him to finish.