The Wedding Caper (7 page)

We
chatted at length about things at the church. She didn’t mention anything about
Richard’s resignation from the Sunday school class, so I didn’t bring it up. In
fact, the tone of our conversation made me wonder if she knew at all. Before
long, she shifted gears, and I realized she knew more than she’d previously
expressed.

“I’ve
been following the news—about the $25,000.” Her knuckles turned white as
she gripped the bed railing.

“Oh?” My
heart rate increased a bit.

She
nodded and sighed. “Richard told me that Sergeant
O’Henry
had been around to question him. What about Warren?”

I nodded.
“Yes. They talked with him, too. A couple of times.”

“It’s all
so strange.” Her brow wrinkled as she continued on. “But I’ve got to believe
there’s been some kind of mistake. How do we even know the deposit was made?”

“I don’t
know.” Truthfully, that thought had entered my mind, too. Maybe
Janetta’s
daughter had pocketed the money and
. .
.

Aw,
who
was I kidding? That scenario didn’t make any sense.

On the
other hand, none of the scenarios in my head made a lot of sense.

Judy and
I shifted gears, diving into a chat about Sheila, and reminiscing about old
times together when we’d worked on the “Get Out to Vote” rally. All of our
stories were positive and upbeat. As we finished our time together, I reflected
on three things.

First,
Judy Blevins, weak as she was, was in “tip-top” shape spiritually. She might
not be up to crime fighting, but she certainly understood what it meant to
fight for the things that mattered. And, I dare say, she could chase the enemy
of her soul down a back alley and snag him in a heartbeat.

Second, I
wanted—and needed—a fresh reminder of the things that were
important, truly important. And I wanted a heart that yearned to dance with my
heavenly Father.

Third, my
desire to mark Richard Blevins as the perpetrator of this particular crime flew
right out the window the minute I looked headlong into his situation. No wonder
he’d been so evasive. With so much going on, his desire to “slip away” was
certainly understandable. Surely he just needed more time with his wife, while
he had the opportunity. Yes, all the dear man needed from me was my prayers and
a kind word in passing.

And
perhaps all Judy
needed.
. . I glanced at the bed once
again and observed—with my www.investigativeskills.com eyes—the
peaceful expression on her face.

Maybe all
she needed was a loving embrace.

I reached
down to kiss her on both cheeks before leaving and whispered a quiet, “Thank
you” in her ear.

She never
asked what I thanked her for. Somehow I think she just knew.

I drove
home with the radio off and tears spilling every which way. Though I couldn’t
quite explain it—even to myself—I felt like a woman transformed.
Yes, my body still ached. And yes, my upper arms still jiggled. But suddenly
none of that mattered anymore. Right now, the important things—my
relationship with my Daddy God, my marriage and my children—flew like red
flags before me. I made a conscious decision to address them all.

That
night I cooked a delightful dinner for Warren. I cut back a little on the
portions and opted to grill the meat instead of fry it. After the meal we settled
onto the couch with our slightly-smaller-than-usual bowls of Moo-
lenium
Crunch Ice Cream. Once finished, I eased into
Warren’s arms and nuzzled against him as we watched a television show together.

Afterwards,
though still a bit stiff and sore, I slipped off into the bedroom and donned my
favorite baby blue satin nightgown. Warren entered the room, took one look at
me, and approached with the corners of his lips curled up.

“Annie,
you
look.
. . amazing.”

Apparently
he didn’t notice the cellulite on my thighs, the protruding tummy or the
patriotic waving of my upper arms. His eyes locked into mine and I knew he only
saw me as his beautiful bride once more. Warren swept me into his arms and
kissed me as if we were newlyweds all over again. I couldn’t help but lean my
head against his and sigh.

For
whatever reason, my thoughts gravitated to Judy and her desire to dance. The
same sensation washed over me, even now.

“I’ve
missed you these past few days,” Warren whispered.

I knew
what he meant. I hadn’t been myself. Not even close. But I would remedy that
right away. “I’m here now,” I whispered.

He
responded by wrapping me in his embrace. I rejoiced, not just in his presence,
but
in the overwhelming realization that the Lord had joined
us in the room.

Immediately,
my heart began to dance. And in that moment I understood what it meant to be in
tip-top shape.

Chapter Seven

My next days
were filled with back and forth trips to the gym and a gradual lessening of
pain from my now less-strenuous workouts. A tremendous excitement on the home
front escalated as the girls came and went with wedding paraphernalia in their
hands. Brandi arrived with swatches of deep red fabric and patterns to ask my
opinion about bridesmaids’ attire. Candy came with a magazine photo of a lovely
three-tiered wedding cake adorned with springtime flowers. Nadine, still in
town on an extended visit, joined us for lunch one day. Together, we listened
to love songs and practiced making centerpieces. In short, we had the time of
our lives.

In
between their visits, I managed to squeeze in a few hours of work. My editing
clients had been more than patient with me over the past week or so, and I owed
it to them to get caught up on their various projects. With the zeal of a young
warrior, I raced through their manuscripts, polishing and perfecting.

By Friday
morning, I found myself back on track. A bathtub full of bubbles proved to be
the perfect prayer closet. Mental note: From this point on, purchase bath
products with prayer time in mind. Some scents are far more heavenly than
others.

While
soaking, I sought the Lord for His will concerning my day—and a swift
resolution to the situation at the bank. After relinquishing my need to “fix”
the situation, I rested much easier. In fact, His peace enveloped me as I
leaned back and closed my eyes.

I almost
dozed off, but Sasha’s cold nose bumping up against my cheek roused me in
record time. She peered over the edge of the tub with that woeful look I’d
grown to love. I blew a little puff of the airy bubbles her way and she darted
from the room. A giggle worked its way up from my belly and I thanked God for
life’s simple favors.

After
dressing and blow-drying my hair, I headed to the Internet to read my daily
devotional. Still relaxed and happy from my bath, I whispered a prayer: Lord,
give me ears to hear your voice today—and courage to obey. As I signed
online, I prepared myself for whatever He had for me.

You know,
a funny thing happens when you ask the Lord to speak to you.

He does.

I opened
to a scripture verse, Proverbs 17:27-28. It was straight from God’s mouth to my
ears: “A truly wise person uses few words; a person with understanding is
even-tempered. Even fools are thought to be wise when they keep silent; when
they keep their mouths shut, they seem intelligent.”

Ouch.

Okay, I
must admit, I had struggled a little in this area. Keeping silent wasn’t a
strong suit. My ability to listen was often preempted by my need to get a word in
edgewise. But I would work on that, with the Lord’s help. After this gentle
reminder, I would focus on keeping my ears open and my lips closed.

Before
leaving the computer, I faced the ever-growing stack of e-mails head-on. Many
were forwards from Sheila, those quirky things she liked to send to put a smile
on my face. Still others were thank-you notes from clients, grateful for my
help with their projects. And the rest,
well.
. .

For a
couple of days, I had refused to open any of the lessons from www.investigativeskills.com.
I’d learned my own “lesson,” to be sure. But by now, the irritable things were
stacking up and curiosity got the better of me, so I opened the next one in
line, Lesson Four, just for a quick glance. Interestingly enough, the title grabbed
me right away: A GOOD INVESTIGATOR HAS EXCELLENT LISTENING SKILLS.

Yep. The
Lord appeared to be driving home His point this morning. I took a closer look
at the piece, chuckling as I read, “In order to better hone in on clues, an investigator
has to focus on his or her listening skills.”

A
Sheila-ism popped into my head immediately. Just last week, in an attempt to
conclude a story about an embarrassing moment she’d had at the grocery store,
Sheila made me laugh with these words: “A closed mouth gathers no foot.”

How
beautifully that little phrase matched the message du jour.

I scoured
the rest of the article, amazed at the biblical principles found within. Caught
up in the excitement, I almost missed the gong of the hall clock. The final
peal caught my attention. Noon? Already?

Warren’s
unexpected invitation to meet him for an impromptu lunch had provided a
pleasant distraction and I certainly didn’t want to keep him waiting. Flying
into gear, I grabbed my sweater and my purse,
then
headed for the door. I arrived at the bank in record time, but found him busy
with a customer.

Nikki
approached me with a broad smile and an apparent need for conversation. “I just
wanted to thank you for praying,” she whispered. “Amber is feeling much better
now.”

“Is she?
That’s wonderful.”

With a
glowing face, Nikki continued on. “So many good things have happened to me
lately. It’s obvious someone’s been praying.” She reached over to give my hand
a squeeze.

I offered
up a smile of support. “Fill me in. What’s happening?”

“Well, to
start with, I’m putting Amber in private school.” She hesitated a minute as her
eyes misted over. “She was really struggling at the other school. It’s hard
being the new kid in a small town. And besides—” Here Nikki’s expression
changed. “Lots of the children were making fun of her because she didn’t have a
daddy, that sort of thing.”

“That’s
awful.”

“Yeah.”
She sighed. “But I’ve been there. I had a dead-beat dad, myself, and I know how
mean kids can be.” Nikki’s eyes lit as she continued on. “But I heard about the
Clarksborough
Christian School and went to check it
out.”

I knew
the school well—also knew it cost a pretty penny to send a child there.
How in the world could Nikki manage such a thing on a security guard’s salary?

Slow
down, Annie, and listen to what she’s saying. Don’t assume. After all, Nikki
did pull in extra hours at the diner in the evenings. She must really love her
daughter, to work so hard on her behalf.

I reached
to give her a hug. “I’m so happy for you.
And for Amber.
I pray she does well.”

“Thank
you. I just want her to have a better life than I had.”

“Oh?” My
newly acquired listening skills kicked in as she forged ahead.

Nikki
sighed. “I was so messed up as a teen. Hung out with the wrong crowd. Got into
so much trouble. And I want so much more than that for Amber.”

Trouble?
What kind of trouble?

She
continued on, her brow knotting a bit as she spoke. “For a while there, I
really didn’t think I’d make anything out of my life. I was, well—let’s
just say I was ‘away’ for a while. My mom could tell you all about it.”

Away? As
in, reform school? Jail?

I glanced
across the room, but found Warren still engaged in conversation with a client.
Nikki didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. She kept on talking, and I kept on
listening.

And
listening.

Turned
out, today’s Bible verse had arrived just in time, as evidenced by my recurring
temptation to react to Nikki’s woeful tale. Plenty of times along the way I
longed to open my mouth, to interject a motherly thought or two. But I bit my
tongue and just let her talk.

She went
on quite awhile, covering details about her life as a single mom. The story
ended on an upbeat note as she talked about being hired on at the security
company Guards on Call.

“My uncle
got me the job.” She chuckled. “Not that I’m really security guard material,
but he pulled a few strings.”

I looked
at the gun strapped to her side and swallowed hard. Yep. Something about all of
this just sounded suspicious. Gun-toting security guards didn’t just “get” jobs.
They trained, prepared, and underwent certification. I gave her another
once-over as she kept talking. Sure, I heard what she said with her mouth, but
now wondered if I should be reading between the lines. Mental note: Check out
Guards on Call on the Internet.

Just
then, Warren joined us. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Annie,” he whispered
into my ear.

As he
slipped his arm around my waist I cradled against him. “It’s fine. Nikki and I
were having a nice chat.” Actually, she chatted; I listened.

Warren
and I left the building moments later and I noticed a silver sports car in the
parking lot. I’d seen a commercial advertising the expensive dream car some
time ago, and had drooled as I watched it. “Wow. That’s beautiful.”

“Sure
is.” Warren gave it a closer look. “Looks like it’s a couple of years old, but
it’s top of the line, for sure. Look at that stereo system.” He pointed in the
window and I peered a bit closer to absorb the luxury of it all.

“Man.” I
let out a little whistle of appreciation, and then my gaze shifted to the door
of the bank. “Who do you think it belongs to?” I didn’t recall seeing any
unfamiliar customers inside.

Warren
shrugged. “I don’t have a clue. I know Richard was talking about getting a new
car a few months ago, but I can’t imagine it, with all he’s going
through—”

I shook
my head in disbelief. “No way.”

“Still,
he has been worried about that old clunker of his making it back and forth to
Philly every day.” Warren rubbed at his chin, deep in thought. “But knowing how
frugal he is, I can’t imagine it.”

“Me
either.”

We gave
the car another admiring once-over, then, practicality setting
in,
Warren broke the silence with a question. “Where would
you like to eat?”

I didn’t
have to think very long before responding. I’d seen the sign in the front of
the
Clarksborough
Diner on Main. Their special of the
day happened to be my favorite: Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad. Yummy.

“The
diner? Are you sure?” He chuckled. “I thought for sure you’d want something a
little nicer than that.”

“Nah. I’m
a diner kind of girl.”

With
clear skies overhead, we made our way on foot to the familiar eatery. Once
inside, we settled into the booth and the waitress, an unfamiliar young woman
with a pierced lip and eyebrow handed us our menus.

“I don’t
need this, honey,” I slid it back across the table. “I already know what I
want.”

Her
eyebrows elevated a little at the word honey and I resisted the urge to explain
my Southern upbringing. Most of the folks in
Clarksborough
had long since grown accustomed to my love terms. I snuck a peek at her
nametag: Shawna. Mental note: From this point forward, call her by her name
only.

As she
took our order, I tried to guess her age.
Mid-twenties, most
likely.
Perhaps she knew Nikki. Maybe they were friends. I broached the
subject with a smile.

“Shawna,
do you know Nikki? She works here in the evenings, right?”

“Nikki
Rogers?” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know her. But we’re not exactly on
speaking terms right now.”

“Oh?”

A look of
aggravation took over as she explained. “She was supposed to cover my shift one
night last week and she never showed up. In fact, she hasn’t been back since.”

I felt
that little “catch” in my chest that usually signifies one of
those
Am-I-having-a-panic-attack?
episodes
.
“What?”

“She
quit. Just took off on us. Really put Noah in a jam.” Shawna pointed to the
cash register where the owner, Noah Linder, took care of a customer.

“Wow.”
Then how in the world could Nikki afford the private school? What was going on
here?

Warren
gave me one of those Annie-think-before-you-speak looks and I turned my
attentions back to the menu. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken soup to go with that
salad.”

After
Shawna left to wait on another customer, Warren dove into a conversation about
a new security policy at the bank. I should’ve been listening. I really should
have—especially in light of my desire to see this bank riddle solved. But
for some reason, my ability to focus skipped right out the window. The only
things I heard were the scattered thoughts bouncing around in my head. And they
were tough to keep up with.

We
finished up our lunch and Warren returned to his work at the bank. I went back
to my work, too. I felt driven to look up Guards on Call on the Internet.
Something about this whole thing just
felt.
. . off.

Sure enough,
after a bit of tedious scrolling, I came upon a site that caused a tightening
grip on my chest.

Hmm.
Looked like Guards on Call was under a little investigation for lax hiring
practices. I read the article with my jaw hanging in suspended disbelief.
Apparently several of the guards hadn’t passed the mandatory background check,
and more than a few had failed the state-mandated drug test.

My
thoughts sailed back to Nikki’s expose. What was it she had said about not being
security guard material? Perhaps, if I’d really been listening, I would have
discerned the true meaning of her words: “He pulled a few strings.”