Priced to Move (22 page)

The chief, Barbie dolls, and Danni’s spandex Capris in one sentence is too much for me. I howl. And then my sore throat makes me hack.

Chief Clark does not approve. “No, Miz Weeby, I weren’t playing dress-up and neither were my men. We went over that there building of Mona Latimer’s inch by inch. And, if you really want to know, we found plenty.”

I lean forward. “What kind of plenty did you find?”

“It wasn’t just the tampered gas line we found. We found a rummaged mess everywhere else. Whoever trashed the place knew what he or she was doing, and worked mighty fast, since he only had the time while we got everyone out and settled with the EMTs and ambulances.”

Rummaged. “Come again?”

“It’s not so hard, Miss Andie,” the lawman says. “Someone ransacked the studio. And they didn’t miss a room.”

Great.
He might not know what the intruder wanted, but I do.

It’s all about the rubies. The missing Burmese rubies.

After the chief dropped his bombshell, I didn’t say much more. What could I say? And even now, hours later, I still don’t have much to say; I don’t have a clue how to go about this business of figuring out who, what (well, I know what), when, where (know that too . . . sorta), and why. And that last one, the why of it all, is the real doozy.

Why did anyone do any of this? Well, stealing a fortune in legendary rubies is a no-brainer for the shadier element among humankind. But nothing else is.

At least, nothing else is easy for me or the chief or Aunt Weeby. Not for Miss Mona either, and forget about Max.

I do know who knows what it’s all about, but he’s not talking, not loud enough for any of us to hear, at any rate. As I always do when I’m in a mess, I reach for my faith, and give him a ring on my prayer line. But as usual, God’s keeping his peace.

When too much thinking makes my head hurt, I doze off. Later, beats me how much later, the phone rings. Even in the hospital, and half dopey from sleep, a call-deprived woman like me can’t let a call go by. “Hello?”

“It’s Peggy. How are you? Is everyone okay? The gas leak’s all over the papers and the evening news.”

“I never aspired to fifteen minutes of this kind of fame.” I crank up the bed, and this time only wince at the slight dizziness. “Everyone’s okay. There are three of us still in the hospital, but mostly for observation.”

“I hope they keep a good eye on you, woman. You’re a magnet.”

“Don’t you start with that. I do a good enough job of beating myself up.”

“What do you mean? Why would you beat yourself up?” “Look at all the trouble that follows me.”

Peggy doesn’t answer right away, and I realize I haven’t talked to her since I got back from Myanmar. “You know what? You’re at a disadvantage here. You don’t know what happened on our trip.”

She chuckles. “Well? Are you going to tell me?”

I do. Once I’m done, she says, “Who do you think stole the rubies?”

“So you agree that’s the key to everything.”

“Hello! Two plus two still equals four.”

I sigh. “I don’t know what all’s going on. And I don’t know who stole the rubies. I can’t see Mr. Pak taking them. He always struck me as the most honest man. But . . . who knows? Maybe he did. And if he did, why? Why would he do something so unlike him?”

“Could he have stumbled on them? You say he travels all over the world. It’s not impossible that he . . . I don’t know. Saw them, identified them, and snagged them.”

“I suppose he could’ve found them somewhere where they shouldn’t have been. Maybe he was trying to return them to the rightful owner—I suppose that would be the government of Myanmar. But then, why did he come here? Why didn’t he just take them back to Myanmar?”

“How about this? What if Mr. Pak was killed by mistake? Could someone have fought him for the stones, bashed his head in to get the stones from him but killed him instead, and then taken off to avoid getting caught?”

“Are you saying someone followed him? Or do you think some garden-variety thief found out he carried gemstones with him and pulled off a plain old robbery?”

“Either one could work.”

“Aaarrrgh!” I don’t do frustration well, as I’m sure you know by now. “Okay, okay. How about this? If Mr. Pak did have the rubies, and if he was bringing them to . . . I don’t know, maybe sell them, who was he supposed to meet? You know it wasn’t me. No matter what that dopey cop thinks.” Peggy giggles. “Chief Clark’s okay. He catches his crooks, and he does a great Santa for the kids down at the police station.”

“I can’t see him being all that jolly. And Aunt Weeby says he was my dad’s best friend growing up. The guy even says he gets a letter from Dad every month. I can’t see how he could ever be my father’s friend. Dad’s a serious man, totally sold out to God and the ministry he feels called to. Plus he loves our family, and he’s not the kind to jump on an impulse. Dad wouldn’t have much patience for this good ol’ boy who jumps to conclusions like frogs hop across lily pads.”

Now Peggy hoots. “Can’t see Chief Clark on lily pads. Let’s just say he’s a little . . . um . . . hefty for that.”

I chuckle at the image, silly as it is.

Then, “There’s one thing, Andie. And I don’t want to upset you, but I can’t shake it, no matter how hard I try.”

“What is it? You won’t upset me.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that . . . Max showed up at a very . . . interesting time?”

I suck in a breath. “He did, didn’t he?”

“The same day your vendor turned up dead.”

“But he was on-screen with me. He has the same alibi I do. If I couldn’t have done it because millions were watching me, they were watching him too.”

“Who’s to say he worked alone?”

It had occurred to me the minute she mentioned his name. “You’re right. He could have had a partner.”

“Has he done anything strange?”

My laugh has more than a little hysteria. “You don’t know the guy. There’s not much he does that isn’t strange.”

“But could it be suspicious?”

My brain channel surfs through the events of the past few weeks. “You know? Now that you mention it, it’s more than a little strange that he wants to stay on this show with me so much. Especially since he’s a big-time jock.”

“Maybe he’s keeping an eye on you. Mr. Pak did come to see you.”

“Swell. Another thing to worry about around him.”

Peggy doesn’t say anything right away. Then, “Have you prayed, Andie?”

“Practically nonstop.”

“Have you stopped to listen?”

I pause. “I
think
so.”

“You don’t sound all that sure.”

“Well, there’s been so much going on, and every time I pray lately, I wonder if God’s still out there listening to me. I’ve always thought he was, but I’m kinda getting my prayers bounced back by the ceiling here. At least, that’s how I feel. Can he hear me? In the middle of all the craziness going on? All this has happened, I’ve prayed and prayed, and I have no answers for any of it!”

“Don’t give up. Sometimes God’s answer is just to hang on. That the solution’s just around the next corner.”

“I’m hanging, but my nails are ripping off, if you know what I mean.”

“Duct tape! Do whatever it takes, but don’t let doubts steal your faith. Remember. Faith’s our spiritual duct tape. Tell you what. Let’s pray. Right now.”

We do, and then hang up. Pain creeps up my neck from my tense shoulders. My head hurts from thinking too hard, and the gas episode has left me with some crummy symptoms of its own. But there’s still one question I have to ask.

“Why, Lord?”

The heavenly silence is deafening.

But deep in my heart, I know that question is the one that needs answering. And I don’t know where to go dig up the answer. Or the answer to any of my other million questions.

Again, it comes down to God. And trust. Which leads to patience. Something I missed back when God was giving it out. Trust is the key.

Trust . . . a little word with a huge meaning. And prayer. It’s not as if Peggy’s the only one who’s prayed with me. Before she left, Aunt Weeby prayed with me. After our amens, she took my face between her hands, stared me in the eye, then dropped a kiss on my forehead, just as she has done since I was a little girl.

“Don’t wrassle your brains into a big ol’ tangle, sugarplum. You don’t have to do it all. You don’t even have to do any of it. God’s with you, and all he wants is for you to trust him to work it all out.”

“But—”

“No, Andie. No buts work here. Only trust in God. Faith, the real deal, girl. That’s what we’re talking about. And the next time you start wrassling thoughts again, pray. Toss it all over to God. He’s the man with the answers, and you know it. Oh! And forget all about that snooping thing. I . . . uh . . . was all wrong about that.”

I do know she’s right—in my head. It’s ironic how in this hospital room, after hours of prayer, self-examination, and too many thoughts, I come to such a huge epiphany. For years now I’ve been a Christian, since my teens, when I gave my life to my heavenly Father. But it’s only now, today, just weeks before my thirtieth birthday, that I realize I haven’t really sold myself all out to God.

Aunt Weeby is right. I do try to “wrassle” answers all by myself. And to my shame, I finally know that’s not self-reliance or independence or even talent, ability, or a gift of some sort. That kind of “wrassling” I do is nothing more than a lack of trust in God. Instead of moving out of his way to let him do his thing, I barge in where his angels fear to tread.

What I really need to do is surrender, to say, “Thy will be done,” and mean it with all that is within me, every single time, and about every single thing that affects me.

Heaven help me, what I really need is to be more like my aunt. Nutty, wacky, and all the rest, she has, though, figured out this whole life and living thing. She does life in a constant state of trust in God.

And it’s only my helplessness while laying flat in a hospital bed, while under suspicion of horrible crimes, in a fog about all the awful things that have happened to me and others I care for, that brings me to a deeper knowledge of what it means to know Christ.

“Thy will be done . . .”

17
⁰⁰

A stay at Hotel Hospital is no fun. I cut mine short as soon as I trumped Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s arguments. The two other S.T.U.D. employees who’d been under observation were heading home, so why shouldn’t I do the same?

The daunting duo’s strong suit isn’t logic.

And now, three long days of Aunt Weeby’s not strictly necessary pampering later (picture tall me on the not-so-tall parlor sofa, since she can’t clump up and down the stairs to do her ministering), I’m heading to the studio. My beady little eyes want to see what Chief Clark has assured me. He insists the vault wasn’t breached. How does he know if someone didn’t figure out the combination, open the door, and once inside, help himself to a fortune in gemstones? He doesn’t know what we have in inventory.

Well, Sally and Miss Mona do, but still. Seeing is believing.

After a quick shower, I take my time to put together an outfit that has neither Tweety Bird nor Taz on it, like my pajamas do. Sure, I’m designer most of the time, but I’ve also got a thing for handsome cartoon males, with the likes of whom I’ve spent a great deal of time during my convalescence. I score a bagel for breakfast, then head for the front door. When I get to the parlor, I hit the brakes and come to a screeching halt. Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona are there, on their way out, stacks of shopping bags and cardboard boxes at the ready.

“What are you two doing?”

They swap looks, grin, and Aunt Weeby waves the newspaper in her hand. “Check it out. We’re going on a flea market safari. This one’s only about twenty-eight miles away. Want to come with us? See what kinda trophy you can bag? It’ll be such fun.”

Hmm . . . let’s think about this. Two giddy senior citizens, a place boiling over with more of the same, tables and booths bursting at the seams with people’s dusty junk . . .

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Aw, sugarplum. You’re gonna have to come with us one a’ these times. You don’t know what a thrill it is when you spot a treasure in the middle of a bunch a’ garbage. And then the
real
fun starts. That’s when you haggle the price down to bargain-basement pennies.”

I’d rather volunteer for a root canal. Without Novocain. If ever there was a time for diplomacy, this is it. “I just don’t get the thrill of it all. Dirt and trash aren’t my thing. And as far as arguing goes? You guys know I get more than my fair share working with Max.”

Miss Mona gives me one of her laser-beam looks. “And here I thought you were going to play nice.”

Was he playing nice when he first showed up?
Murder’s not nice.

But I can’t bring that up. “Sure, I agreed to work with him, but that doesn’t mean he suddenly knows enough that he won’t make me crazy the next time he comes up with some dumb comment while we’re on-screen. And besides, you did tell us you wanted the, um . . . er . . .
disagreements
to go on.”

Aunt Weeby chuckles. “See, Mona? I told you there’s not a thing to worry about. They’re not gonna be billing and cooing anytime soon. The viewers are still gonna get lots a’ sparks coming their way. They’re the perfect couple.”

I fight the urge to blab, to warn them, and face Miss Mona. “Any reason why you’d be heading out on a junking junket instead of coming in to the studio on the Friday morning after it was sabotaged?”

“Andie, honey, Max was right on at least one thing he said. You do take yourself much too seriously. That’s the why-for behind your ulcers. You need to be more like Livvy and me. We know how to have us some fun.”

Max, Max, Max.

“I’ll give you that I’ve become too focused on work over the last few years, but I don’t find anything about junk particularly exciting. I’m more the Queen of Clean kinda girl, not the kind who goes around collecting endless piles of more stuff.”

Aunt Weeby purses her lips and looks toward the ceiling. “You Philistine, you. We don’t buy us any junk stuff. We find us real good antiques, sugarplum. You have to give it a chance—”