Читать книгу Caught In The Act - Gayle Roper - Страница 11

I stared at the frail woman lying on the floor. “Should we do CPR? Call 911? Stick that medicine under her tongue or something?”

Jolene and her father looked at each other, then shook their heads in unison.

“Don’t worry,” Jolene said wearily. “She’ll be okay.”

“Jolene!” I fell to my knees beside the unconscious woman. “What if she dies right here on the floor?”

Jo and her father continued to ignore Mrs. Luray in favor of a conversation about Arnie.

“Is he really dead?” Mr. Luray asked.

Jolene nodded.

“Shot?”

She nodded again.

He hugged himself, and a tear slid down his wrinkled cheek. “Oh, Jolene! Why? Who?”

“I have no idea, Daddy.” Jolene went to her father. She held him and rocked him like a mother might comfort a hurting child. His shoulders shook and his breath came raggedly. The man was heartbroken.

I was moved by his grief, but I kept looking at Mrs. Luray, lying there on the floor. I pulled a fuchsia and kelly green afghan off the back of the red sofa, and tucked it around the woman. I searched for her pulse, expecting to find a thready, thin, and erratic rhythm. I blinked. Her pulse was so strong you’d have thought a tympanist was in there whopping out the “wonderful, counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” section of last week’s performance of The Messiah at the Community Center.

“She’s fine,” I blurted.

Jolene released her father, and they both looked down at me.

“Always,” Mr. Luray said. He sniffed and swallowed. “Come on, Jo. We’d better get her on the sofa. She’ll be upset if she finds herself on the floor.”

Jolene nodded. She and her father bent in unison and lifted Mrs. Luray, afghan and all, and laid her gently on the sofa. Jolene stuck a fluffy kelly green pillow under her mother’s head. They’d obviously done this many times before.

“I’m sorry if you were scared.” Mr. Luray held out a hand and helped me to my feet. “It’s just Eloise’s way of dealing with things she doesn’t want to think about.” He looked at her affectionately. “She’s very delicate, very sensitive, you know.”

I looked at Mrs. Luray. I wasn’t certain delicate and sensitive were the words I’d have used.

She began to stir. “What happened? Where am I? Alvin?”

Mr. Luray sat on the edge of the sofa and opened the pill bottle. He slid a flat, white disk into his hand. “Shh, Eloise. I’m right here. Put this pill under your tongue, and you’ll be fine in no time.”

Jolene leaned toward me. “It’s a Tums,” she whispered.

I stared at Mrs. Luray. “Does this happen often?”

She shrugged. “Depends on how you define often. She was passing out several times a day when Arnie and I first separated. Now she can talk about it without any trouble. You saw that.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Luray said suddenly and in great distress.

I spun around, expecting her to black out again as she recalled the terrible news about Arnie.

“Smell that!” she said. “Jolene, your dinner’s burning!” She struggled to her feet and moved quickly to the kitchen. “I’ll save it!”

Jolene watched her mother leave the room, then went to her father. “Are you all right, Dad?”

“Not really.” He put his arm around her waist and they leaned into each other, sorrow etched on both faces.

I collected Jolene’s coat and let myself out as Eloise Luray called, “Everything’s all right, Jolene Marie. I saved your dinner for you.”

Bone-weary, I wanted to go home and climb into a hot tub and soak away the traumas of the day. Instead, dutiful employee that I was, I drove to the Community Center.

I was over an hour late, and I hadn’t had time or opportunity to do anything about cleaning myself up. I raced into the AAC-FOP meeting room, hoping the blood on my coat didn’t show and that no one noticed my fingernails and knees. At least the blood on my shoes was long dried or worn off.

I found the committee huddled around a table, faces focused in concentration, papers strewn in organized chaos. A barrel-chested man with a mane of white hair and a slight limp was prowling the floor, talking and gesticulating, but I hardly noticed him.

All I could see was Curt whom I hadn’t realized would be here. He looked so strong and sane and normal. All I wanted was his embrace to wash away the past few hours.

When he saw me, he lost his polite, I-wish-I-were-somewhere-else expression and smiled broadly.

“We can do it, folks!” the white-haired man was saying, and I pulled my attention reluctantly from Curt. “I know we can do it. We can feed not only the needy of Amhearst but of the surrounding communities, too. Why, we’re almost past last year’s total, and we have another week to go. And the local grocers have yet to make their contributions. With the coverage The News is going to give us, the Amhearst Annual Christmas Food Project will make history!”

He was so good at pep talks that even I, weary as I was, felt a slight urge to cheer with the other wildly clapping people around the table. Instead I concentrated on dragging my camera out of my purse.

“And here, I presume, is our photographer now!” The white-haired man said and everyone turned.

I smiled weakly in apology for being so late.

“Come on, everyone,” the man said. “It’s free PR time. Let’s get ourselves set for our picture.” And he began telling everyone where to stand. He finished with, “Curt, stand right there in the middle. You’re our celebrity and honorary chairman, and we want to take advantage of that.”

I felt Curt’s eyes on me and became unexpectedly shy. I studied my camera intently, adjusting this and manipulating that. My problem was that I could never quite figure out how to react to him in public.

Back when I’d gone with Jack, he ignored me most of the time, sort of expecting I’d follow along, which like an idiot I did, so public response wasn’t an issue. Now I worried about Curt. I couldn’t rush to his side because we weren’t really going together or anything—though I suspected that was more my fault than his. I also couldn’t ignore him. Basic manners aside, I didn’t want to. I mean, maybe someday he and I would be going together. I hope, I hope. I think. Maybe.

So I stood there flat-footed and thought about how gorgeous he looked and how worn I must look and how shallow I was not to be thinking of the tragedy of Arnie.

Curt ignored his orders to stand in the middle and walked over to me. “Hi.”

Sudden tears sprang to my eyes. “Hi.” It came out as a whisper. I realized for the first time how close I was to losing control.

Curt took my arm, concern leaping to his face. “Are you all right?”

“Barely.”

He began to lead me to a chair. “Sit down.”

I pulled my arm free and shook my head. “If I sit, I’ll start to cry and ruin my professional image. If I have one left after my lateness.”

He started to protest, but I cut in. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” I saw over Curt’s shoulder that the white-haired man was bearing down on us. “And you’d better go stand in the middle before you’re dragged there.”

He went to stand where he’d been told as the white-haired man came up to me.

“Hello, there, darlin’,” he said, smiling with great charm. “I’m Harry Allen Bushay.”

I looked at him with interest. Was this the Bushay of Bushay Environmental where Jack was working on his audit?

“How do you do, Mr. Bushay.” I extended my hand, blood encrusted nails and all. He took it and held it a moment or two too long. He leaned close.

“Just call me Harry Allen, darlin’.”

“Thank you,” I said noncommittally.

With a cozy, just-between-you-and-me grin, Harry Allen turned and took his place next to Curt. I snapped several pictures, hoping that everyone looked decent in at least one of them. I had pulled out my spiral tablet to get everyone’s name when Harry Allen handed me a sheet of paper.

“Here are our names,” he said helpfully. “They are in order and all spelled correctly.”

“Thank you,” I said as I flipped my tablet closed. “How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m a thoughtful kind of guy, darlin’.”

I smiled weakly. The last thing I felt like dealing with tonight was a flirt with white hair, no matter how premature the white or how charming the manner.

I needn’t have worried. Harry Allen turned and with a clap of his hands called the AAC-FOP meeting back to order. “Only fifteen more minutes, people. Only fifteen more minutes.”

Everyone took their places at the table except Curt.

“I don’t have to stay,” he said as he helped me into my coat. “I’m only the honorary chairman.”

“It must be tough being a celebrity,” I teased. “Why, I even saw an original Carlyle hanging in a mansion tonight.”

He grinned. “I hope you were properly impressed.”

We walked out of the meeting room and into the front hall, shoulders rubbing companionably. I still had trouble comprehending that this man said he was falling in love with me. Me!

I was slim enough and not too tall, but I had this spiky hair that insisted on drooping, a striped nose, and a prickly side to my nature that had been asserting itself with a vengeance since I’d moved to Amhearst. I kept waiting for him to realize his mistake and fall for someone like, say, Airy. Someone beautiful and lovely and all those other wondrous, feminine things. Why, I bite my nails, for goodness sake!

Curt stopped in the hall and checked over his shoulder. When he was certain we were alone, he turned me to face him. “What’s wrong, Merry?”

“Oh, Curt,” I sobbed, burying my face in his chest. “We found him shot, and then she tried to move him and the police questioned us and her mom fainted and they ignored her and—”

“Whoa.” He patted me gently on the back. “Just cry and then tell me. Both at once don’t work too well.”

Of course, as soon as he told me I could cry, the tears dried up, sort of like a toothache disappearing as soon as you entered the dentist’s office. I huddled against him a few minutes longer, then stepped reluctantly back.

“Poor Arnie,” I said.

“Arnie?”

“Meister, Jolene’s ex or almost ex. Though now I guess he’ll never get to full ex status, will he?” Somehow that seemed very sad. Not that ex status was a good thing, but never to achieve it or anything else ever again, that was sad.

Curt took hold of my shoulders. “If I follow you correctly, you’re saying that Jolene’s husband has been shot?”

I lifted shaking hands and brushed my hair out of my eyes. “Killed. Murdered. We found him.”

He looked at me with such concern that the tears sprang to my eyes again. This man could do extraordinary things to me.

Suddenly the phone on the receptionist’s desk in the darkened office to our right began to ring. I jumped at the noise.

“Should we answer it? Maybe it’s for someone here.” I took a step toward the office.

He put a hand on my arm. “The answering machine will get it. That’s what it’s for.”

Sure enough, the machine kicked in after the second ring.

“If anyone can hear this,” a voice boomed loudly, “and Harry Allen Bushay is still there, please get him to the phone. This is the police.”

Curt and I looked at each other. Then I lunged for the phone, and he took off for the meeting room.

“We’re getting Mr. Bushay,” I told the person on the other end. “He’ll be right here.”

“Thank you,” said a familiar voice.

“William, is that you?”

“Who’s this?” he countered suspiciously.

“Merrileigh Kramer.”

There was a short pause. Then William asked, “What are you doing at the Community Center with Mr. Bushay?”

“Taking his picture.”

“What?”

“For the paper. He chairs the Amhearst Annual Christmas Food Project, and my assignment is to take a committee picture. I’m just fortunate they were still here because I was very late.” I minded my manners; I didn’t say it was his fault.

“Interesting that you have been with two people closely associated with Mr. Meister this evening, isn’t it, Merry?”

Harry Allen was associated with Arnie? “Coincidence, Sergeant.”

“So you say,” he answered, but I could hear a smile in his voice.

Before I had time to respond, Harry Allen came hurrying down the hall, worry and apprehension written all over his face. He grabbed the phone from me.

“Yes?” he barked. “What is it?”

Whatever William Poole said, it seemed to alleviate Harry Allen’s fear. His shoulders eased and his brow cleared. Then, abruptly, he jerked upright.

“What? You can’t be serious!”

As Harry Allen listened some more, I looked at Curt. Should we leave or should we wait and see if he needed assistance of any kind—though the idea of Harry Allen Bushay needing assistance seemed ludicrous to me.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I’ll come right away. No, I do not wish to wait until tomorrow. I want to get it over with. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

He hung up the phone and stood still a minute, lost in thought, appearing almost disoriented.

“Can we do anything for you, Harry Allen?” Curt asked. “Help in any way?”

He looked up. “Yes,” he said. “You can tell the committee that the meeting’s over for tonight.”

Curt nodded.

“Oh, never mind,” Harry Allen said in disgust. “I’ll do it. I have to go back in anyway to get my coat. I have to go to the police station.”

I looked at him with great interest. “Arnie Meister?”

He focused all his intensity on me. “How did you know that call was about Arnie Meister?”

“I talked to Sergeant Poole tonight at Arnie’s house. I was with Arnie’s wife when she found his body.”

One bushy eyebrow rose. “Bad?” he asked.

I nodded, tearing up yet again. Curt put his arm around me and pulled me close.

Harry Allen snorted, half in distress, half in disbelief. “Arnie Meister’s dead. Murdered. Absolutely unbelievable. Wait till they find out that he and I had a big fight yesterday. I mean a big fight. And wait until they try to get me to tell them what it was about.” He looked at us, his lips clamped together. “I’m not talking to anyone.”