Caught in the Middle (13 page)

“You need a doctor,” Curt said.

“N-no,” I said. “A cup of hot coffee.”

He looked down at me, and I suddenly felt incredibly awkward snuggled against him with his one arm around my back and his other under my knees. I pulled away and said rather stiffly, “You can put me down now. I’m okay.”

He made no move to release me. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” I whispered.

I was shaky on my pins, but by sheer willpower I was able to lead the way to my desk. I kept my chin high with the hope that the tears of reaction might not flow if I acted like I was in control of myself. I arrived at my desk not a moment too soon. My collapse into my chair was not very ladylike, but I hadn’t cried and I hadn’t fallen.

“Merry!” It was Don, hurrying over from his desk. I could see his face as he came toward me and his back in the reflection in the huge window, now a black mirror, by his desk. It was a disorienting double image.

“Andy Gershowitz tried to strangle me.” I blinked like mad as tears threatened again.

“What? When? Where?”

All he needed were
who?
and
why?
and he’d have a story, I thought, but of course he knew who. It was
why
we needed to figure out. “In the parking lot. Just now.”

“Don,” Curt said, “how could you have let her go out alone knowing what she’s been through and the danger she’s in?” There was a sharpness in his voice that made Sergeant Poole and me stare at him in surprise.

Don looked coolly at Curt. “I wasn’t here when she left.”

The two men eyed each other for a minute, something I didn’t understand vibrating between them.

“Coffee,” I said to break the tension. “I need a cup of coffee.” The hiccuppy catch in my voice wasn’t due to my dramatic acting prowess.

Don blinked first. “I’ll get it for you.”

As he walked to the now full coffeemaker, I turned to Curt. “You’re missing your show.”

He made a dismissive gesture.

“No, no,” I said. “It’s very important. I want you to go back there.”

He shook his head. “Not until I know you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was. The familiarity of the office, the warmth of the room and the comfort of three men standing around me was combining to make me feel safe. I didn’t even want to cry anymore.

“Curt, I’m serious,” I said. “Go back to your show. This is a once-a-year evening, and you must be there.”

Don placed my coffee on my desk. I sniffed appreciatively and watched the steam curl. My hand hardly shook as I grasped the handle and lifted the mug. I took a little swallow. It hurt. I took another. It hurt, too, but the hot liquid was just what I needed.

“Sergeant Poole,” Curt said, “if I go back to City Hall, will you bring Merry over when you’re done talking with her?”

“Sure,” he said. “No problem. I have to go that way anyway to get back to the police station.”

Curt leaned over me and took my hand. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to go to the doctor’s or the hospital?”

I shook my head. “Please, no.”

He leaned down, kissed my cheek and was gone.

I couldn’t decide whether I felt relieved or diminished with his leaving. All I knew for sure was that he made me confused and afraid. He was too real, too big, too everything. But he cared. He truly cared, and that was probably the most scary part.

I took a deep breath and turned to Sergeant Poole, who was watching me with a slightly sarcastic grin. I smiled sweetly and proceeded to make him very unhappy.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see anything.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear anything.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to the keys.”

We were finished with our conversation, mostly because I had so little to tell him, when his beeper went off. He looked at it, then borrowed my phone. He stood quickly, unconsciously shifting his gun.

He barely had the phone down before he was in his coat. “I’ve got to go. Trouble at the Friendship Project.”

I nodded, thinking of the darkness out there and Andy Gershowitz.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said quickly, reading my face. “You really don’t. We’re looking for him, and he can’t hide forever. Because of tonight, we know he’s still in town.”

I must have looked unconvinced. After all, they had been looking for him when he grabbed me in the parking lot.

“Eldredge,” Sergeant Poole called over his shoulder as he rushed to the back door. “Escort her to City Hall. If she goes out alone or if anything happens to her, I’ll hold you personally accountable.” He pointed a finger at Don and was gone.

“When you’re ready,” Don said to me.

“Thanks, Don.” I smiled and stood. I needed the ladies’ room badly. My jelly legs barely got me there and back. When I returned, Don was pulling on his coat.

“Not yet,” I said, sinking into my chair. “My legs won’t hold me that far yet. Let me write a piece about the attack for tomorrow’s paper. It’ll get me mad, and it’ll give my tibia and fibula a chance to recalcify.”

Don nodded, hung up his coat and returned to his desk.

Last night he tried to strangle me. Two nights ago he tried to shoot me. And three nights ago he put a dead man in my car trunk.

Why me?

Previously, whenever catastrophe struck and I asked, “Why me?” I always followed that question with, “Well, why not me?” The world is full of pain and sorrow, and I expect to suffer my share.

But now I honestly ask, “Why me?”

Why does someone want to kill me? Why has he shot at me and tried to strangle me? Is it because I found the body of Patrick Marten? But all I did was find Patrick. I didn’t see who put him there. I didn’t see the crime committed. All I did was open my trunk and find what remained of a man who by all reports was a wonderful person.

So, why me?

TWELVE

D
on accompanied me to City Hall as requested, but it was a stilted and somehow uncomfortable walk. Not that Don said anything wrong or critical. He was just distant and formal, almost like we’d never met and he wanted to keep it that way.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I said when we reached the front door.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. Snow dusted his hair and the shoulders of his navy coat and sat in the folds of his meticulously arranged scarf. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

I got the strong impression that getting away from me was at the top of his to-do list.

I watched him walk away in the falling snow, puzzled. I hate it when I don’t know what’s going on, not just because I’m a nosy newspaper person, but because I hate to step into sensitive areas when a little information would prevent it. And there was definitely something sensitive between Curt and Don and something odd in Don’s recent attitude toward me.

With a shrug, I turned and entered City Hall, a wonderful old mansion dearly loved by everyone who didn’t have to work in it with its poor heat and poorer lighting. But its wooden paneling and balustrades, its carved wainscoting and dramatic staircase made a lovely setting for an art show.

The Brennan Room itself was really a large foyer rather than an actual room, and the great chandelier (turned off most of the time for economic reasons) shed a warm and sufficient glow over the gathering.

People milled around, talking with each other and looking at the pictures hung all around the walls and on fabric partitions scattered throughout the room. I recognized several people from church and some from local city government, but the majority were strangers to me. Frankly, I was surprised to see so many here with the weather so terrible.

In the far corner, a duo played classical music on a piano and a flute, their sweet sound a soothing background to the murmur of scores of conversations. A table with a snow-white cloth and a Christmas centerpiece held frothy red punch, cookies, crackers and cheeses.

Spotting Maddie and Doug Reeder coming in the door, I waved and grinned. I always grinned when I saw them because they looked so incongruous together. Doug was at least six and a half feet tall and as thin as he was tall. Maddie was a little above five feet, not really overweight, but not starving, either.

She raised her hand, her wave to me an empty-handed ringing of her E bell. She said something to Doug, who bent down, way down, and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then she worked her way to me through the maze of people while he veered off toward Curt.

I indicated the room, the people and the pictures. “I had no idea it’d be this big a deal. I’m impressed.”

Maddie nodded. “Local boy makes good and all that. What’s the matter with your voice? Getting a cold?”

“I sound that bad?”

“I’m sure people will still talk to you,” she said kindly, “but you do sound sort of froggy. Like you’re about to cough in everyone’s face.”

“I promise not to do that,” I said. “And I’m fine. No cold. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“What?” she said, grabbing my hand. “Tell me now. When it comes to information, I’m into instant gratification.”

I hesitated and she said, “What? What? Did Curt rescue you again?”

“Again?” I raised my eyebrow. “Did he rescue me before? I don’t think so. We were equally involved. We both hid under the car.”

Maddie shrugged, her long hair rising and falling with her shoulders. “If you say so.”

“I do.” I smiled. “We tried to call you about one o’clock last night so I could stay at your place. Curt didn’t want me to be alone. He didn’t think it was safe.” I paused but honesty compelled me to add, “I didn’t like the idea much, either.”

“I should say not. And we weren’t home.” Maddie’s face showed her chagrin.

“Hey, you didn’t know I’d need you. It’s okay.”

“But I feel so bad. Doug had to see a client early this morning in the town where his mother lives. It’s about an hour from here. We drove up last night after bell practice, and I spent the day with Mom while he attended to business. We just got back a few minutes ago. I barely had time to comb my hair and check
The News
for the latest about your body. I couldn’t believe it when I read about the shooting.”

“It’s
not
my body,” I said.

Maddie shrugged. “It was in your car.”

I didn’t think she could hear the gnashing of my teeth. I hoped not, anyway. It would probably be considered impolite.

“So where did you stay last night?” Maddie asked.

“In my apartment.”

“Alone?”

“Of course alone.”

“I’m surprised Curt let you.”

“He didn’t want to. He tried everything he could think of to prevent it.”

“Sounds like him.”

“Is he always so—” I hesitated, looking for the right word.

“Pushy? Intense? Forceful?” Maddie grinned. “Yes, he is. Why do you suppose I spent all that time kicking him in the shins when we were growing up? But he’s also a good guy, which is why I’m surprised he let you stay alone last night.”

“He really didn’t.”

“He spent the night at your place? I think I’m even more surprised at that!”

“He spent the night in the parking lot in his car!”

“What?” Maddie’s squeal was so loud several heads turned our way. “So he
did
rescue you!” She was obviously enthralled with the idea. She probably read romance novels on the sly.

“Protected me, maybe,” I said in the cause of accuracy. “But not rescued.”

Maddie looked disappointed, so disappointed that I said, “But he did rescue me today.” I told her my trunk story.

She listened with growing horror and reached out to pull my scarf gently aside. The bruises were coming along nicely, if her face was any guide.

“I’m fine,” I assured her as I rewrapped the scarf around my throat. “Really.”

I don’t think she believed me.

“You’ll stay at our house tonight, won’t you? I’ll be insulted if you won’t. I’m serious, Merry. You can’t be alone another night, and Curt can’t keep sleeping in his car.”

I nodded. “He’s too tall. He’ll get permanent curvature of the spine. And thanks. I’d be happy to spend the night at your place.”

We started working our way slowly around the exhibit, and I was happy for the distraction from my problems. I was also amazed and very impressed at Curt’s work.

“I always thought of watercolors as misty and impressionistic,” I said.

“Me, too,” agreed Maddie.

There was nothing “soft” about Curt’s painting. I looked at the old Chester County stone farmhouse with each of its brown fieldstones cleanly delineated. Beside the house stood snow-laden evergreens dipping beneath their burden. It was precise, a work of drafting as much as a work of art. But it was primarily a play of light and shadows, the white of the paper opposite the greens, grays, blues and violets of subtle shadings.

And it was Chester County. I hadn’t lived in this part of Pennsylvania for very long, but driving down Route 82 or through Marshallton or out toward Glenmoore, I had seen just this type of house many times.

“I’ve seen one or two of Curt’s pictures before,” I said, looking at an uncharacteristically whimsical study of two geese squawking angrily at each other beside a stream. I could feel the tension Curt wanted me to feel between the serenity of the stream and rolling pastureland and the pique of the birds’ stretched necks and angry stances. “But seeing so many at once makes me realize his talent.”

We stopped in front of a large painting of a stone barn with a weathered red door. There was a $3000 price listed on the placard beside the painting.

“What’s that little red dot on the placard mean?” I asked Maddie.

“Sold.”

I glanced around to reconfirm what I already knew. “Then almost all of these are already sold.”

Maddie nodded.

“But the doors only opened a little over an hour ago.”

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” she said.

I looked casually around the room until I found Curt in the center of a group. Everyone was listening attentively to every word he said. He gestured to a picture of a springhouse and said something that made everybody laugh. He nodded at them and turned away, only to be surrounded by another admiring throng.