Читать книгу Caught Redhanded - Gayle Roper - Страница 11

Being chased by an amazingly spry eightysomething-year-old lady was very unnerving, especially by one as intent on bashing me as Mrs. Wilson. When I jumped into my car, I half expected her to use her burglar bar on my windshield.

Instead she stood panting on the front walk and I had visions of her keeling over on the spot from a massive coronary; all the blame would be mine.

“But, honestly, officer, she came after me.”

“Yeah, right. Hands behind your back.” Snick, snick clicked the cuffs. “You have the right…”

As I drove away, I watched her in my rearview mirror in case she did collapse. The last I saw of her before a curve in the road hid her from view, she was giving the bar a final shake in my direction.

Now that I was safe, I became very curious about the man who had lived so many years with a woman as feisty as Mrs. Wilson. Had the sergeant major been Special Forces or some such highly trained group? Had he come home from work each day and taught her all he knew? Was their home life the Wilson version of Clouseau and Cato in the original Pink Panther series as they stalked each other from room to room?

I had just taken my seat at my desk back at the newsroom when my phone rang. William to tell me off about Mrs. Wilson and Martha’s place?

“Is this Merrileigh Kramer, award-winning journalist?” a man asked, his familiar voice booming down the line. Though he was reticent by temperament, he always projected on the phone like an out-of-work actor auditioning for a last-ditch opportunity at a starring role.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in disbelief. Why was Ron Henrey, my former editor back in Pittsburgh, where I had cut my reporting teeth first as an intern, then as a staff reporter, calling me?

“Are you still there, Merry?”

I jammed the phone back against my ear. “I’m here, Mr. Henrey.”

“Surprised you speechless, eh?”

“Something like that,” I admitted. He was certainly high on my list of People I Never Expect To Hear From.

“Congratulations on winning that Keystone Press Award. We taught you well, I’d say.”

“I’d say,” I agreed.

There was a little silence while I tried to imagine why Ron Henrey was contacting me. Certainly he wasn’t calling to interview a hometown girl made good. That would be an assignment given to a features reporter, the Chronicle’s equivalent of someone like me or Edie. Besides I hadn’t made good enough to be worth an article.

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m calling,” he said.

I made a little agreeing noise, which proved to be all the encouragement he needed.

“We’d like you to come back to the Chronicle, Merry. We’d like you to write two or three features a week and have your own column.”

Then he named a salary that made me blink in astonishment. I wouldn’t exactly be rich, but from my present perspective, I’d be close. The cynic in me, rarely used, kept looking for the catch, but I couldn’t see one. Since I’m not a very practiced cynic, it’s often hard for me to find the fly trapped in the ointment. However, the rose-colored glasses I wear with practiced ease illuminated a wonderful vista.

My own column! Real money!

I’d been asking Mac for a column for the past several months. He only looked at me and, cynic extraordinaire that he was, said, “In about ten years, Merry. When you finally grow up.”

I glanced at Mac, sitting at his editor’s desk by the great glass window that looked down from his second-floor perch onto Main Street. He was typing away on his PC, and I felt like a traitor to The News with Mr. Henrey trying to lure me away.

Suddenly Mac looked at me. “Hey, Kramer, when you’re finished, I need to see you.”

As I waved acknowledgement, I tried to imagine Mr. Henrey yelling across the Chronicle newsroom at me. Never happen. First off, the room was too big. Secondly Mr. Henrey, for all his booming phone voice, was a model of propriety. He would either IM me or give me a discreet bring on my desk phone.

“What do you think?” Mr. Henrey was still speaking, booming as ever. “Interested?”

I realized I was smiling. I also realized Jolene was watching me smile and would demand to know why as soon as I hung up. No way was I telling her. I might as well stand on my desk and emote like Mr. Henrey because everyone would know before nightfall.

“May I think about this?” I asked. “You’ve taken me by surprise.”

“You have a week,” Mr. Henrey yelled genially.

Long enough to develop an acid stomach as I debated the pros and cons, but not long enough to get an ulcer. “Sounds fine.”

I hung up, still not believing the offer. Jolene, dressed in a yellow narrow-strapped cami top and a denim miniskirt in spite of the scraped knees, pounced.

“What? Why were you smiling? And don’t try and tell me it was Curt whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He doesn’t yell in the phone.”

Curt! I blinked in disbelief. I’d been so caught up in the unbelievably good offer and so busy being impressed with myself that I hadn’t even thought of my fiancé. Granted I’d moved to Amhearst to learn to be independent, to stand on my own two feet, but a girl should at least wonder what the man she plans to marry in less than two weeks would think about moving.

Probably not much. He was as much Amhearst as Jolene and Mac.

There was nothing for it. I’d have to call Mr. Henrey back and decline his offer.

Maybe not, kid, the perverse part of me said. He’s an artist. Artists can paint anywhere, right?

Hmm, thought the nicer me, jumping much too quickly to agree. That’s true.

“Come on,” Jolene prompted. “Give.”

I tried not to look guilty as I scrambled for something to say that wasn’t a lie but wasn’t exactly the truth, either. I squirmed under her relentless gaze.

She stood and walked across the narrow aisle that separated our desks. I half expected her to stick her index finger under my nose and demand an answer. Instead she spun the little basket of cheery flowers that sat on my desk, checking for dead blooms among the pale yellow double begonia, the miniature pink rose, the crimson geranium and the pale blue dianthus. A regular Gertie the Gardener, Jolene focused the same intensity on her plants as on her insatiable curiosity. As a result the newsroom resembled a nursery with greenery on every available flat surface and a row of the healthiest African violets I’d ever seen lining the sill by Mac’s great window.

Suddenly Jolene turned and stuck that index finger with its lethal nail, today a deep crimson, right under my nose. I noticed that her broken middle nail was already repaired. “Talk, Merry. I’m not your best friend for nothing.”

Paralyzed, I stared at that nail.

“Kramer,” Mac called. “I asked to see you when your call was finished. Remember?”

“Gotta go, Jo. The boss commands.” With great relief I rushed to Mac’s desk.

“You owe me one,” he said as I stood at parade rest before him.

“What?”

“I saw that bit of action.” He jerked his head in Jo’s direction. “I saved you from a fate worse than death.”

“It’s not quite that bad.”

“Ha! I’ve known her longer than you have.”

“Yeah, yeah. The exclusive Amhearst club.”

“You’re just jealous because you didn’t grow up here.”

I thought of Martha Colby who had. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Mac turned grim. “Thanks. Me, too. She was a special girl.”

“Did you know she had your name tattooed on her shoulder? In a heart?”

“My name?”

“MAC. You can see it clearly in one of the pictures.”

He rustled through the printouts of all the pictures I’d taken with Jo’s phone until he found the one I was talking about. He touched the tattoo with his forefinger and shook his head. “I didn’t know.” He looked out his window, his eyes vague.

I waited, feeling somewhat awkward.

Two things happened at once. Mac’s phone rang and the back door opened. Curt strode in.

Mac, all business once again, waved toward Curt as he reached for the phone. “Go assure him you’re all right while I take this call. Then come back here. I’ve got a feature assignment for you.”

As I went toward Curt, I was sure I was wearing a goofy grin. I still had a hard time believing that this tall, wonderful man loved me. Really loved me. At times my past “romance” with Jack came back to haunt me, bringing with it all the doubts it had created. I was learning to take Curt at his word, but sometimes it was hard. Right now it was easy because of the look of concern in his eyes.

When he pulled me into his arms, I melted. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my cheek against his chest. Thank You, Lord, I thought for the many thousandth time. When I recalled my previous relationship and what I had thought was love, I was appalled at my stupidity. The real thing with Curt made Jack appear a foolish narcissist and me an immature idiot in love with love.

“Are you okay?” Curt asked, his voice gruff with emotion. His cheek rested against my hair.

“I’m fine,” I said into the placket of his white knit polo. “Really.”

“That’s what you always say,” he growled. He kissed the top of my head. “As you race into danger.”

An old argument. I saw my experiences as my job. He saw them as my disregarding danger and being impulsive. He was doing better at learning to accept the situations reporting sometimes put me in than I was at learning to curb my fools-rush-in-where-angels-fear-to-tread tendencies, such as going in Martha’s place.

“No danger this time,” I assured him.

“You always say that, too.” His arms tightened.

I pulled back and looked up at him. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like finding someone dead is just an everyday occurrence.”

A picture of Martha flashed as quickly as a hidden subliminal ad might and I felt tears gather. Curt saw them and leaned down, giving me a brief, hard kiss.

“My tough little reporter,” he muttered in my ear.

A very loud throat clearing made me glance at Mac, who was standing pointedly at his desk, looking at us. I also noticed Jolene watching with great interest. At least Edie made believe she was working.

Curt waved at Mac and stepped back. “I can take a hint.”

Mac nodded and took his seat.

Curt grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll see you tonight.” He grinned and for the first time I noticed the suppressed excitement simmering about him. “I’ve got the most incredible news!”

“What?” I asked eagerly. “The big commission for a new painting?” I knew a large corporation was talking with him about an original work that would be reproduced as the cover of their annual report. The huge painting itself would hang in their corporate headquarters.

He shook his head. “I’ll tell you tonight. But think about how you like North Carolina.”

“North Carolina,” I said to his departing back, visions of the Outer Banks rising with memories of a camping trip with Mom and Dad and Sam when I was a kid. Or were they in South Carolina? Or both? I never could keep those two states straight. “I thought we were going to the Pacific Northwest for our honeymoon.”