The Wedding Caper (13 page)

Amen,
brother. I hear
ya
.

“And how
in the world they think I rigged the night deposit box is beyond me. Supposedly
they found some scrape marks on the edges, but they’re really grasping if they
think that incriminates me in any way.” He finished up the story with a smirk
on his face. “I guess these local cops took one look at my record from Philly
and made an assumption I stole the money to buy drugs. But I’ve been clean and
sober for nine months. Nine months.”

“Wow.”
Shawna and I spoke in unison.

I could
see the anger in his eyes now. “The thing that really made me mad was the part
where they said I did this to get even with my mom. They have no idea—”
His chin quivered and Shawna reached to squeeze his hand. “They have no idea I
came back to
Clarksborough
to make peace with my mom.
I was coming home . . . for good.”

The
silence at the table grew a bit eerie and I finally snapped to as I looked at
my watch. Four-thirty? No way. I glanced out of the window just in time to see
Devin drive by on his way home from football practice. Even from here, I could
see the smudges on his face.

Oh, my
son.
My wonderful, innocent son.

I thanked
Jake and Shawn for their vulnerability and told them I wanted to stay in touch.
Then I dismissed myself to return home. I spent the brief drive in a somewhat frantic,
choppy prayer, pleading with God to reach down and touch Jake—to give him
a new perspective of himself and his future.

Lord,
please help him see that you’re for him, not against him. Help him, Father. And
if you want to use me in any way to bring him to you—

I could
see myself, now—reaching out to Jake, giving him motherly advice,
offering counsel and encouragement. Perhaps I’d even go to the police and
explain his situation, try to help them see beyond the circumstantial evidence
to the truth.

When the
Lord interrupted my zealous ponderings to share His thoughts on the matter, I
very nearly missed Him altogether. His words, familiar and poignant, took me
aback.

God grant
me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the
one I can—

—And
the wisdom to know it’s me.

Funny,
the Almighty sounded for
all of the
world like Sheila.

Chapter Thirteen

On the morning
after my encounter with Jake Mullins, I decided to stop by the Clark County
Sheriff’s office for a little chat with his arresting officer. Mind you, I knew
little about law enforcement and even less about criminal
investigations—other than what I’d learned through the terrific courses
at www.investigativeskills.com, of course. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea
that meeting with “the big guys” would serve me well.

Sergeant
Michael
O’Henry
, a former Sunday school student of
mine, met with me, albeit unwillingly. He didn’t seem keen on swapping stories
about Clark County’s key suspect, but I tried not to take that personally. My
gut told me the police didn’t have their man this time around.

O’Henry
, a rather rotund and red-faced fellow,
led me into his cold and uninviting office. He took a seat behind the desk and
I sat in the stark metal chair on the opposite side. Mental note: If anyone in
the family ever decides to go into law enforcement, offer to decorate their
office for them.

The
sergeant took a seat in the squeaky leather swivel chair, leaned back to put
his hands behind his head, and the conversation began.

“Well,
Mrs. Peterson—”

“Call me
Annie.” I had to admit, it felt kind of weird calling him ‘Sergeant.” Weirder
still to see him with a receding hairline instead of those cute blonde curls
he’d always pushed out of his eyes while coloring pictures of Jesus and the
disciples.

“Fine.
Annie, I’m not sure what else I can tell you that you haven’t already read in
the papers or heard through the grapevine.”

Grapevine?
What does he think
Clarksborough
is, anyway?
A rumor mill?
Hmm. Then again . . .

“Is Jake
Mullins still a suspect?” I pulled out my notebook to begin writing.

O’Henry
pursed his lips. “I can’t really talk to
you about that.”

Oh, sure
you can. “Why not?” I scribbled a couple of circles onto the page to make sure
my pen was working. Just in case this fine law enforcement officer decided to
spill his guts. “Obviously you’ve released him. Does that mean you don’t have a
case against him, or are you just working to obtain more evidence?”

The man
didn’t even bother to blink.

“We’re
dealing with an on-going investigation here,” he explained. “And I can’t really
divulge anything more than that.”

I gazed
through the glass into the outer office, distracted as the various officers
came and went. The radios strapped to their sides blared out bits and pieces of
messages, but I couldn’t make out any of them. Couldn’t figure out how they
did, either. The whole thing was pretty dizzying.

I
regained my focus and slipped into Sunday school teacher mode. “Michael, you
must know in your gut that Jake Mullins is innocent. All of the evidence is
circumstantial. I’ve heard his story. I can’t imagine he’s guilty. Talk to his
family. They’ll fill you in on why he was hanging around the bank.”

Michael
picked up an ink pen and twisted it around in his fingers. My keen observation
skills clued me in on the fact that my words had made him nervous. Or possibly
irritated. Still, his response surprised me.

“Every
snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty, Mrs. Peterson.”

Good
grief. Is everyone on the planet going to end up sounding like Sheila?

With my
most motherly voice in place, I went on to ask him how he knew so much about
Jake Mullins. After all, poor Jake was just a kid in need of a mother’s love.
Couldn’t
O’Henry
see that?

His
answer threw me for a loop.

“I’ve
been tracking that kid for nine years. Nine years. You wouldn’t believe all the
stuff he got into as a teen.”

My mind
soared back to the conversation in the diner. Plenty of Jake’s stories had
wowed me. Plenty.

I noticed
O’Henry’s
brow creasing. “This is one messed up young
man we’re talking about here,” he said. “And I owe it to the taxpayers to
finally bring him to justice. He’s gotten away with too much over the years.
Too much.
And he’s made me look like a fool on more than one
occasion.”

Whoa. Do
I smell a vendetta here, or what?

“I know
he says he’s changed.”
O’Henry
reached up with his
palm to swipe it through his thinning hair. “But that’s hard to believe.
And a little too convenient, to my way of thinking.
Once a
troublemaker, always a troublemaker.”

“Interesting
words, coming from the kid who set off a round of fireworks in the baptistery
during the Christmas play. You were fourteen at the time, if memory serves me
correctly.” Now I was the one leaning back in my chair, smug look on my face.

Michael
turned all shades of red. “I, um—”

“A rough
past doesn’t dictate a person’s future,” I prompted.

“Listen,
Mrs. Peterson, it’s like
this.
. .” The fine sergeant
went on to tell me about Jake’s arrest history. He listed countless drug charges
while Jake was in his late teens, and a case of breaking and entering at
seventeen.

“He’s
been in and out of this jail more than I have,”
O’Henry
said with a smirk, “and I’ve worked in this building fifteen years.”

Clearly
an exaggeration, but I did have to wonder about Jake at this point. His
“record” seemed to be heftier than I’d imagined. Of course, he had never minced
any words about his past. He’d simply left out the parts where he had “done
time” in the Clark County jail.

O’Henry
continued on. “Mind you,” he said, “I’m
only free to mention all of this because it’s a matter of public record. If you
go back through the local papers from a few years ago, you’ll find most of this
same information. It’s all there.”

Ouch. So
much for playing at the role of “Super Sleuth Extraordinaire.” I’d never
thought of looking through old newspapers for evidence.

Sergeant
O’Henry
stood, and I followed his lead by standing as well.
All the while, a strange mixture of thoughts tumbled around in my head. Maybe
Jake hadn’t been completely up
front
in our diner
discussion. But people could change, couldn’t that? All of these things really
were just a reflection of his past, not his present. Hadn’t we talked about
that? What difference did a shady past make, after all?

I tried
to shift the conversation a little by explaining my reason for coming—at
least one of my reasons, anyway. “I’m trying to understand the mentality of a
young man who would turn to life on the streets.”

“Why?”

There
must be a course at the police academy on how to give a piercing gaze, because
his left me feeling more than a little cold.

“I,
um.
. .”

“Annie.”
The officer extended his hand and I took it for a goodbye shake. “I think
you’re better off leaving this to the sheriff’s office. That’s why you pay your
tax dollars. And we’re here to serve you.”

“I’m
don’t doubt that. I just want to—”

“I know
what you’re trying to do.” He ushered me to the door as he carried on. “You’re
soft-hearted and all that. Nobody ever wants to believe the worst, especially of
a guy as young and
innocent-looking
as Jake Mullins.
But someone stole that $25,000.”

“Indeed.”
My heart rate doubled immediately. “But this troubles me too. I’ve not heard
you mention any other suspects.” None. Nada. Zip.

“That’s
right, you haven’t.” He gave me yet another cold, hard look. “And if we had
other suspects, you still wouldn’t—at least not until an arrest had been
made. As I said, this is an ongoing investigation.”

I
couldn’t explain the cold shockwave that rode down my spine as he looked into
my eyes. It was almost as if Sergeant
O’Henry
could
read all of my troubling thoughts at once. Mental note: Figure out how to give
that stare.
Very effective.

Perhaps
the Clark County Sheriff’s Office had shifted their sites to another suspect
and I knew nothing of it. Maybe, even now, they were tailing my husband’s every
move, in the hopes that he would slip up, make a mistake.

Maybe
they knew I carried a large amount of cash in my purse at this very moment to
pay the
Clarkborough
Catering Company toward the
balance on Brandi’s wedding reception.

I opted
to change gears. “Has it occurred to you that the Mullins family might not have
actually made the deposit? Perhaps Jake’s sister pocketed the money. Or
maybe—” I was going to bring up
Janetta’s
obsession with being paid in cash, but something stopped me.

“Mrs.
Peterson, we’re more than aware of all the angles.”
O’Henry
looked more than a little perturbed. “That’s why we’re here. We’ll look under
every bush, I can assure you. And we’ll catch our man. Or woman. The right
person will be brought to justice.”

He
shifted the conversation to the weather as we approached the parking lot. I
tried to do the same, tried to think happier thoughts. But they would not come.
Out of habit, perhaps, I reached to give him a hug before leaving. The
bullet-proof
vest served as a reminder of the weight of his
job.

He is an
expert. And I
am.…

Hmm. Not
sure what I am.
Mother of the brides?
Editor?
Housewife?
Responsible pet owner?

I made
the drive home in a mixed-up state of mind. Even after all of my conversations
with Jake and the police, I didn’t feel any smarter. True confession: Sergeant
O’Henry
had made me feel, well, a little dumb. Kind of like
Jake’s conversation yesterday had done.

Nope. I
surely didn’t know much about crime fighting.
Or life on the
streets.
Or drug busts.
Or missing cash.
Or anything, outside the realm of my own safe little world.
And perhaps that’s how it was supposed to be.

If you
call out for insight and cry aloud for understanding, and if you look for it as
for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure, then you will understand
the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.

The
niggling voice of the Holy Spirit whispered in my ear again. Maybe I’d been
going about this “street smarts” thing
all wrong
. I’d
been digging, all right, but didn’t find myself much closer to the truth.
Honestly, it felt like I’d been digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole.

I opened
the door to the house and Sasha met me, tail wagging. I didn’t notice anything
amiss—at first. It wasn’t until I entered the living room that reality
hit. The room was covered in white fuzz. It kind of looked like someone had
peeled back the roof and invited in a snowstorm.

What in
the world?

The throw
pillows had been shredded to smithereens. The white fluffy stuff now spread
about in wisps. Sasha jumped up onto the sofa, her tail wagging a hundred miles
a minute. I stared down at her in disbelief. “Bad girl, Sasha. Bad girl.” After
that, I vaguely remember muttering, “Daddy’s going to kill me.”

I went to
work, cleaning up her mess, all the while trying to figure out why she would
have done something like this. Boredom? Rebellion? Frustration?

Had I
somehow played a role in all that? Perhaps I been so busy “out there” that I’d
forgotten to take care of things “in here?”

Perhaps.

After
racing through the living room with the speed of Mr. Clean, I headed off to the
kitchen to load the dishwasher. Sure, I’d meant to do it last night before bed,
but the time had gotten away from me. Mental note: Remember that speech you
used to give the kids—“Dishes do not wash themselves.”

After
thoroughly cleaning the kitchen, I shifted my attentions to the bedroom. Piles
of laundry greeted me. I even noticed a pair of panties sticking out from under
the bed. What in the world? Note to self: Be careful where you leave your
laundry basket, particularly when there are unmentionables involved. Sasha
enjoys hiding things.

After
loading the washer, I settled down at the computer. I found a note from Devin
taped to the monitor. Don’t forget the food for the homecoming party. Oops. I
had almost forgotten about the party he’d planned for this coming Friday night
after the homecoming game.

Hmm. I’d
have to deal with that later. Right now, a monstrous stack of e-mails from
clients awaited me. I couldn’t help but groan. Had my investigation really
taken me away from my work this long? I read through them all, surprised to
find a couple of my favorite clients weren’t terribly happy with me right now.
Good rule of thumb: Never make a promise to a client then walk away and forget
about it.

After
responding to the e-mails, I decided to listen to my phone messages. Whoa.
Eleven. Had it really been that long since I’d checked them? I zipped through
the messages, startled to hear one from my mother and another from our pastor,
asking for my help with the church’s booth at the annual Get Out to Vote rally
later in the month.