Читать книгу Caught Redhanded - Gayle Roper - Страница 11

“Are you familiar with Good Hands?” Mac asked me.

“As in the insurance people?” I held my hands together. “You’re in good hands with—”

“No, not them. The guys in town who do stuff for people.”

I felt a very faint flicker of memory, but nothing I could grab hold of. Can you have senior moments in your late twenties? “Stuff like what?”

“Repair houses for needy people. Fix cars for single moms and widows. Do minor plumbing and home decorating.”

“Guys do home decorating?” Now there was an interesting picture—guys hanging pictures and putting up curtains. No, no, Ben. You know orange doesn’t go with purple. Try it with the chartreuse.

“There are women who do that, I think.” Mac thrust a brochure at me. “They’re celebrating ten years of doing stuff and I’d like an article about them. Profile the guy who runs the organization, name of Tug Mercer. Get interviews with some of the people who work with him and quotes from some of the recipients of their help. You know the drill.”

I glanced through the brochure and noted Pastor Hal’s name as a member of what was called the Board of Overseers. Then that faint flicker burst into a full memory of a few months back when the Good Hands director had given a talk one Sunday morning, a combination testimony and pitch for more workers. I’d liked his enthusiasm for what he clearly saw as a mission from the Lord.

Senior moment survived.

“Sounds great, Mac. I’ll get right on it.” I turned to leave.

“Wait.” Mac shuffled through the stacks of papers on his desk. “Another assignment for you.” He pulled out a public relations article, the kind organizations and businesses regularly sent to us, hoping for coverage about some aspect of their activities. Usually the articles didn’t provoke much of a response, but every so often one was worth a follow-up. Obviously Mac felt the sheet he held represented one of those.

“They’ve finally hired Trudy McGilpin’s replacement at Grassley, Jordan and McGilpin.” He thrust the paper at me. “Guy named Tony Compton. Do an article on him.”

Trudy had been a hometown girl who grew up to be Amhearst’s mayor as well as a very good attorney. Her death had rocked the town. Taking her place would be a very hard job. Tony Compton better be tough, savvy and able. He needed to be able to live up to the near sainthood status now conferred on Trudy. I half expected that any day I’d receive word that she was about to be beatified, Amhearst style.

As I took the paper on Tony Compton, I saw that Mac had Dawn Trauber’s picture taped to the outside of the top drawer of his desk, a good place for it since it would be buried if he tried to set it on his littered desk. She was laughing, her eyes slightly squinted against the sun, her hair blowing in the breeze as she tried to hold it off her face. She looked absolutely lovely. And she was, inside and out.

What would be her reaction when she learned MAC was tattooed on the shoulder of a dead ex-girlfriend? I didn’t think she had any illusions about Mac, but emotions and intellect often don’t march in step. The hearts of smart people who should know better are regularly broken. I know that from experience.

Mac saw me looking at the picture and glanced at it himself. With a sad smile, he reached out and traced her cheek with a finger.

“It’ll all work out, Mac,” I said earnestly.

He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he came close. “Thanks, Pollyanna.”

“Pollyanna wasn’t an idiot, you know. She was just optimistic. I’m optimistic, is all. I’m hopeful.”

“She wasn’t a real person, Merry. And she was treacly sweet.”

“Sure she was real. As real as any other fictional character. I read all her books when I was a kid. My grandmother had them.” I smiled at the memory. “I loved them.”

He smirked. “I’ll bet.”

“And what’s wrong with being sweet? Or optimistic?”

He glanced back at Dawn’s picture. “Dawn’s sweet and she’s an optimist.”

I thought about Dawn and the work she did with girls in trouble. “I agree she’s sweet and optimistic, but she’s also a realist and a woman of faith.”

“Faith is just optimism by a different name,” he said.

“Oh, no. Faith is knowing things you can’t see and being certain of things you can’t touch. And it’s believing even when you don’t understand.”

He shook his head. “That’s too vague for me, but if it works for you…” He gave a cynical smile, grabbed a piece of paper and began to write.

I recognized dismissal when I saw it. I returned to my desk and called Tug Mercer, asking for an appointment at his earliest convenience.

“The News is going to do an article on Good Hands?” I could hear the pleasure in his voice. “How cool is that! How’s ten tomorrow morning?”

Wednesday, 10:00 a.m. I noted it on my calendar.

Before I called Tony Compton, I did a quick computer search on him. There was lots of material on everything from his education (Bucknell University, University of Pennsylvania Law School) and his past employment (Harrison, Ritter, McCorkle and Compton in Harrisburg) to the shockingly sad death of his fiancée, the daughter of state representative Martin Gladstone. Valerie Gladstone had been found stabbed to death three years ago, her body found in her apartment, apparently the victim of an unknown intruder. Congressman Gladstone and Tony Compton had offered a substantial monetary reward for any information leading to the apprehension of the killer, but there were no results.

Immediately my heart bled for this man and his loss, and when I called him, I almost apologized for bothering him. I had to remind myself that three years had passed. Though his pain would never go away, my mentioning it would seem strange so long after the horrible event.

“Wonderful,” he said when I told him what I wanted. If his strong, authoritative voice was any indication, he was a man comfortable with himself and life, a man recovered from the depths of his grief. Maybe he could deal with Trudy’s legacy. “How about tomorrow? Say, four-thirty?”

After I hung up, I turned to Jo. Before she could nail me about the phone call from Mr. Henrey, which I knew she had not forgotten because she never forgets anything, I said, “So tell me about Ken Mackey.”

She made a face and blew a raspberry. Since Jolene tended to look at most people with some degree of contempt, her response didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was the obvious depth of her dislike.

“Pretty bad, huh?”

“Worse.” Her lips compressed.

When she said nothing more, I held out my hands toward her. “So give.”

“They say he’s reformed.” Her skepticism was evident. “But I have my doubts. If there was ever a poster child for recidivism, he’s it. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he was living with Martha.”

“Recidivism?” Was that really the word she wanted?

“Yeah, you know. Sent back to jail or wherever. Back to your old bad ways.”

It was the word she wanted, all right. “He’s an excon?”

She nodded. “He’s got a rap sheet as long as my arm. In and out of juvie for years, then a five-year stint for robbery and another for vehicular manslaughter, though to be honest, I don’t think he’d have been convicted in that accident if it weren’t for his previous problems with the law.”

“Good grief!” Why would a woman live with someone like that? No wonder Mrs. Wilson hadn’t taken to him. “Was he known to be violent?”

Jo shrugged. “No more than other guys like him. Too many beers and they’ll go at it with their fists over some imaginary slur. He went at it once with Reilly back in the old days.” She shook her head. “Pitiful.”

“Who won?”

She looked at me as if I were nuts. “Reilly, of course.

Of course. The fists comment made me think, though. “Did you ever hear that Ken hit Martha?”

She shook her head, obviously disappointed that she had to admit something positive about him. “He’s always had a short fuse and I’m sure his time in jail didn’t help that any, but he liked to think of himself as a charmer.” She grinned. “I used to call him Charm Boy. He hated it. But he must have been doing better if someone as nice as Martha was willing to live with him.”

“Would he take advantage of her, do you think? Let her pay the bills, buy the groceries, stuff like that?”

“Probably. Thick on charm, thin on responsibility and reliability.”

Thoughtfully I began a Google search to see what more I could learn about Martha and about Ken Mackey. There was next to nothing about Martha, but I was surprised at the amount of material on Ken. He even had his own blog where he generously shared his views on the problems of the world. Every so often, he said something unexpectedly profound or insightful. Whatever else Ken was, he wasn’t stupid.

When the back door of the newsroom opened and William Poole entered, his craggy face set in determined lines, I smiled at him, assuming he wanted to talk to Jolene and me about finding Martha. I hadn’t yet stopped to give my statement.

He nodded briskly at us and continued past our desks to stop beside Mac’s.

“Uh-oh,” Jo muttered.

The tattoo, I thought. MAC. That was why William was here. Oh, Lord, please don’t let it be my Mac who killed Martha!

Mac offered William a seat, something he never did for me or the others on staff. William sank down, his back to the newsroom, and the two began talking quietly, William writing Mac’s comments in his notebook.

“It’s only because they knew each other,” I said to Jolene. “That’s all.”

“Huh.” Grabbing her watering can, she rose and began moving around the room, watering her thriving jungle. I noted that each plant took her closer to the two men and that the closer she got, the less water the plants demanded. She had just gotten close enough for some really good eavesdropping when William stood abruptly.

“We’ll talk again later,” he said and strode from the room.

We all watched him go, Jolene with speculation, me with anxiety, and Mac with a frown and a touch of what looked to me like distress or maybe worry. Or fear?

He blinked and became all business. “Jolene, you’re drowning that poor philodendron and watering the floor. Since there’s nothing to hear anymore, I’d suggest you get back to work. Or go home and bother Reilly.”

Totally unintimidated at being caught redhanded, Jolene walked slowly, gracefully, to the shelf where she kept her watering can. She put it away and grabbed a handful of paper towels, returning to the scene of the inundation and mopping the puddle that had formed on the floor.

Mac pushed back his chair, rose and made for the rear door. His posture was rigid, his lips pursed. “See you tomorrow,” he muttered.

I watched the door close behind him. “He’s upset.”

“Wouldn’t you be if the police came to interview you?”

“The police have interviewed me lots of times.”

“Yeah,” Jo agreed, “but your name wasn’t tattooed on a murdered woman’s shoulder.”