“I know that, honey. Why is Jack’s mother teaching your class?”
Peter shrugged. “Mr. Emmons is sick, I guess. It’s okay, though. Jack is better when she’s around.”
“So they’re not giving you any trouble today?”
Peter looked at the carpet.
This was ridiculous. She wasn’t sending him back in there. “You want to go get a coffee?”
He wrinkled up his nose. “Not really.”
She knew he thought she meant a weak coffee from the dirty coffee pot in the church kitchen, and he didn’t even drink coffee. She snickered. “No, I mean a real coffee from Dunkin’, and I meant that I would be the one drinking it.”
He smiled. “Can I get a donut?”
“If you don’t tell your sister. I’ve got to go grab my purse. Meet you in the car.”
He vanished up the stairs, taking three of them at a time.
She didn’t really want to return to Sunday school to retrieve her purse and then disappear again, but she thought the price was worth the gain of spending time with Peter and keeping him away from Jack and Ethan. Besides, she could get a donut too. She’d earned one, after all the calories she’d burned the day before, right?
Chapter 31
“What did Ethan’s parents say?” Sandra asked Nate as soon as they were alone in their living room.
Nate sighed as if he was sick of talking about it, though they hadn’t talked about it yet. He slowly pulled off his church shoes, and Sandra struggled to be patient. “Roger said he’d take care of it.”
Something about his tone made her suspicious. But she knew that Nate never lied to her. Was her new sleuthing hobby making her less trusting? Or maybe more attune to sniffing out liars? She didn’t know how to proceed. He was done talking about it. She wasn’t. And she didn’t believe what he’d just told her.
After a long pause, she said, “And?”
He pulled his eyes away from the football game on the screen. “And what?”
“And what else did he say?”
Nate stared at her as if sizing her up. Then he rubbed at his jaw as he returned his eyes to the television. “I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Sandy. At first, he just laughed it off and said that kids squabble, but I told him that wasn’t good enough, and then he said he’d have a talk with Ethan.” He paused. “And I don’t see what else we can do. That will have to be good enough.”
That was so not good enough. Sandra wasn’t one for drama, especially church drama, but this situation called for some pot stirring. “And did you talk to Jack’s parents?”
“Didn’t see them.”
What a crock. She’d known for a fact that Jack’s mom had been there. She tried to stand up abruptly, using her body language to communicate that she was done doing things Nate’s way, but her body moved too slowly to communicate anything. Just sitting on the couch had stiffened everything up again. When she headed for the door instead of the kitchen, Nate asked, “Where are you going?”
“Going to invite Casey to coffee.” And I’m going to see just how much coffee a woman can consume in a day.
“Honey, don’t do that. What about lunch?”
She held back the groan that was trying to launch. “There are cold cuts in the fridge.” She grabbed her purse and left, taking care not to slam the door behind her. As she walked down the front steps, she looked through her contacts for Casey’s numbers, but of course, she didn’t have it. She didn’t want to go back inside for the church directory. But she couldn’t just show up at the woman’s door, could she? That would be rude.
Yes, she could just show up at the woman’s door. Desperate times, desperate measures.
She had to drive around a couple of blocks to remember where Casey even lived. She’d been there for a ladies’ tea, but that had been years ago, and they’d painted the house since then. She was thankful to recognize Casey’s SUV, and she pulled in behind it. Then she took her time walking to the door, in part to give them time to see her through the window, and in part because every step felt like dying. When she was done with this, she was going to go home and watch Murder, She Wrote for the rest of the day. She couldn’t wait for tomorrow. She would feel so much better tomorrow. Good thing too, as she had her first game. Shoot. Maybe she should be studying the rule book right now instead of out picking fights with church moms. Casey opened her front door. Too late now.
“Hi, Sandra! What can I do for you?” Casey was still in her church clothes. For reasons Sandra couldn’t identify, this annoyed her.
“Hi, Casey. I was wondering if I could buy you a cup of coffee.”
Casey tipped her head to the side and studied her for several seconds. Then she stepped to the side. “I’m not sure I have the energy to go out, but you’re welcome to come in.”
Sandra didn’t want to go in. She wanted to have this conversation on neutral turf. But she wasn’t sure how to make that happen. So, grudgingly, she stepped inside. Immediately, she was annoyed at how immaculate the place was. Did anyone even live here?
Casey swept her arm toward her living room, where her husband Lewis sat, also still in his church clothes. It sure appeared as though he had been there too. “Please, have a seat,” Casey said.
Sandra knew then that she had already been beaten. This wasn’t going to change anything. It might even make things worse. Should she change her mind, apologize? Say she made a mistake? Would that be a better course than the one she was about to endure? Or worse?
Casey decided for her. “So, you’re here to talk about how the boys are getting along?”
Chapter 32
Sandra sat down, trying to hide how much this hurt. Lewis gave her a fake smile, and Casey perched on the armrest beside him. Sandra wished she were anywhere else. She wished she were chasing Birch up and down a soccer field.
“Yes. I don’t mean to be overly protective, but I just want the boys to get along. Church should be a safe place for children—”
“Church is a safe place for children,” Lewis cut her off with a stern voice that confirmed what she already knew. This battle was lost.
She tried to smile. “Maybe we could get the boys together and talk it—”
It was Casey’s turn to interrupt. “We’ve already talked to Jack, and he has promised that he will work harder at getting along with Peter.”
Getting along with? That wasn’t the phrase she would have used. Maybe, “work harder at not bullying Peter” would be better. “That would be great,” she said. “Thanks for your time.” She stood to go.
“Just so you know, the boys say that Peter doesn’t work very hard at fitting in.”
She turned to look at Casey. What? What on earth did that mean? “I’m sorry?”
Casey stood. “Nothing to be sorry for.” Sandra was certain she’d never heard a more patronizing tone. “I just wanted you to know that Jack and Ethan are not entirely to blame here. Peter also needs to make an effort to get along better with his peers.”
Sandra forced a smile that she feared looked too much like a vampire about to lunge. “Of course. I’ll talk to him.” She turned and nearly ran for the door, opened it and let herself out before Casey could do it.
She managed to hold back the tears until she got into the minivan, but then they came. She could not believe how cold those two people had just been to her. Nate had been right. She should drop it. She would tell Peter to ignore them. Everyone had to deal with bullies, right? She still felt people shouldn’t have to deal with them at church, but maybe God was toughening Peter up for something.
Relief washed over her as she pulled back into her own driveway. Ignoring her husband, who was engrossed in the football game, she microwaved herself a bag of popcorn, discreetly dumped in a couple handfuls of chocolate chips, and then checked on Sammy, who was sound asleep in his crib. Grateful for that small gift, she secreted herself in her bedroom. She’d fought against Nate when he’d wanted to put a TV in the bedroom, but now she was grat
eful. She turned on Netflix and climbed onto the blessedly soft bed. She found Murder, She Wrote and pressed play.
A soft knock sounded on her door. She groaned and pressed pause. Her mini-vacation was already over. “Come in,” she called, trying to sound loving.
The door opened slowly to reveal Peter. She tried to hide her surprise. She’d been expecting Joanna. “Hi, honey. What’s up?”
He gingerly sat down on the foot of her bed. “I heard you and Dad talking.”
Shoot. “Okay.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“I told you it wouldn’t do any good.”
She decided to level with him. “And you were right.”
He blinked, surprised. Then he smiled. “So I take it coffee didn’t go well either?”
“She didn’t want coffee, and no, it didn’t go well. I’m sorry that you’re going through this, honey. I don’t think the parents are going to be much help. I can go to church leadership if you want?” She expected him to adamantly object, but he didn’t.
He appeared to be thinking it over. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He studied the wall for several seconds. “I’ll let you know.” He stood to go. Then he looked at her. “Thanks for trying, Mom. I didn’t really want you to, but I know why you did it.” He gave her a smile that looked sort of sad.
“I sure do love you, honey. I’m sorry growing up is so hard.”
“I know you do. And it’s okay, most of the time.” He left her room, gently closing the door behind him. She was glad the boy had soccer, glad he was good at something, glad he had another place to be safe and have friends.
She settled back into the pillows and restarted her TV show, though she’d lost interest in both it and her chocolaty popcorn.
Chapter 33
Considering how many troubles Sandra was currently juggling in her life, she woke up in a slamming good mood on Monday morning. That is, until she sat up.
Against all expectations, her lameness had not dissipated during the night. In fact, it had intensified. She sat there on the edge of her bed wrestling with reality. How was this possible? She’d had lame muscles on several occasions over the years, and they had never lasted more than twenty-four hours. Was something wrong? Had she injured herself? Should she seek medical attention?
Nate stepped into the room, fresh out of the shower. She paused her worry to enjoy the fresh smell of him, but her worry bounced right back to the surface. “Honey, I’m even sorer than I was yesterday. How is that possible?”
Without looking at her, he laughed heartily. “You’re getting old.”
“What?” She was so not getting old. She wasn’t even forty yet, for crying out loud.
“It’s true, trust me. It’s happened to me too. The older we get, the longer it takes our muscles to recover.”
She cried out in anguish and flopped back down on the bed. “No! That’s terrible news! I have another game today.”
“I didn’t tell you to be a soccer ref.”
Nope, he hadn’t. But did that mean she wasn’t allowed to talk about it? She squeezed her eyes shut.
He gently sat down beside her. “Where does it hurt?” he asked softly.
She moaned. “Everywhere.”
He chuckled. “Everywhere? Are you sure?”
She nodded without opening her eyes. “I’m sure. My hair follicles hurt.”
He ran a hand through her hair, which felt lovely. “Once you get running and warm your muscles up, you’ll be fine.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ve got to get ready and head out, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you. I still think this whole thing is a little nuts, but I’m proud of you.”
She smiled up at him. “Thanks, Nate.” She watched him finish getting dressed and leave the room, and then she peeled herself from the bed and headed toward the kitchen and the coffee pot. She was beyond grateful that he’d already brewed a pot, and she poured herself a generous serving, which she carried with her as she hobbled down the hallway to wake her kids up.
Another week was about to begin, whether they wanted it to or not.
With two kids deposited, she returned home determined to study her soccer rule book and take her test. But Bob was waiting on her porch swing.
“I’ve missed you,” she said as she approached.
“You have?” He looked so hopeful that she snickered.
“Sure. Get used to having an angel around, and you miss him when he’s gone.” She unlocked her front door, and he came to stand beside her, taking for granted that she wanted him to follow her inside.
He was right. She was thrilled for the company.
As soon as they were safely inside, he asked, “What’s the plan for today?”
She snickered. “The plan is to try to live through another soccer game, only, I guess, this time Birch will be shadowing me, instead of the other way around.”
“I meant, what are we going to do about our murder investigation?”
She laughed at him. She couldn’t help it. Was he pretending that he was a cop? “I don’t really have a plan. I’m going to ref the game and hope someone tells me something revealing.”
One side of his upper lip curled, making him look a little like a short Elvis. “I don’t think that’s a great plan.”
She eased her sore body down onto the couch. “Well, I’m afraid it’s the only one I’ve got.”
He stared at her for a minute and then sat down beside her. Sammy, still in his bucket seat, stared up at Bob with a foolish grin. “Want me to set him free of that contraption?”
She nodded gratefully. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure I could bend over to do it.”
Bob effortlessly scooped Sammy up into his arms as if he’d done it a million times before. What did she know? Maybe he had.
“How big is your district?” she asked.
“Huh?” He gave her a quick befuddled glance before returning his eyes to Sammy’s.
“How big is your area? How many middle schools do you cover?”
He didn’t answer, and she knew that this too was a secret. Eventually, she’d learn to stop asking him questions.
“Not as many as you’d think,” he said, sounding wistful.
She wondered if angels had rivalries with nearby angels, like schools did. She decided they probably didn’t. “So, you want me to ask Birch some specific questions? This might be my last chance to talk to him for a while.”
He’d been making googly eyes at her son, but at her question, his face fell into the gravest of expressions. “Yes, I think you should.”
“Well, then, I think you should tell me what those questions should be.”
His eyes grew wide. “How should I know?”
She didn’t know why he would know. But she certainly didn’t have any ideas. “Do you want me to ask him if he knows who killed Frank?” She’d been kidding, but it seemed Bob was mistaking the suggestion for a literal one.
After a long pause for consideration, he said, in complete seriousness, “I don’t think we should tip our hand just yet.”
Sandra didn’t think so either. She wasn’t even sure they had a hand to tip.
Chapter 34
Sandra beat Birch to the field. She sat in her car until she saw another person clad in fluorescent yellow climb out of a pickup. Then she swallowed four ibuprofen and climbed out of her car, trying not to wince. She made her way across the parking lot to the other official. He smiled when he saw her. Her uniform had arrived that afternoon, so she stood out in the crowd. She was officially an official.
She stuck her hand out and introduced herself. He gave it a firm shake. “Harold. Good to meet ya.” He slammed the door of his truck shut and started walking.
She fell into step alongside him, wondering where Bob was. He’d said he’d meet her here, but she didn’t think he’d arrived yet.
“You ready for this?” Harold asked.
“I don’t think so.”
He gave her a hearty
laugh. “Extra points for honesty. It’ll be nice to have a woman around. Us men are all about having pride, or pretending at least.” He strode confidently across the field, moving with more grace than she would’ve guessed possible, based on his rotundness.
He called the home coach by his first name and started a long boisterous conversation with him, one which Sandra felt decidedly left out of. She stood awkwardly nearby, her arms folded across her new sports bra, which had her smashed together with a force she found both uncomfortable and comforting.
As her watch ticked toward kickoff, she grew more and more nervous. So, she nearly leapt with joy when she saw Birch crawl out of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. A familiar face. A person who knew the rules of soccer. It was possible she’d never been so excited to see anyone ever.
He jogged toward her, wearing a big smile and pulling his yellow shirt over his head, as Harold called for captains. She returned the smile and then tried to sound confident as she shook hands with the middle school girls forming the captains’ circle. As Harold checked for barrettes and earrings, she tried to calm her nerves. How hard could a junior high girls’ soccer game be? She could do this.
Harold sent the girls out onto the field and then asked her which side of the field she wanted for the first half. She had no idea.
“The far side,” Birch answered for her. “Let you deal with the subs while she gets her feet wet.”
Oh yeah, the subs. She’d forgotten that was even a thing. Grateful for Birch’s wisdom, she headed for the opposite side of the field.
Harold blew the whistle, the green team kicked the ball, and Sandra forced her sore feet to move. She’d only gone about twenty feet when the ball changed direction with a decided lack of oomph. She learned something then, something that made her happier than any Christmas morning ever had: middle school girls were slooooow. Nothing against them. They were precious little athletes, but they were so much slower than their male classmates, and she was over the moon. She was the biggest fan of middle school girls to ever walk the earth. She could do this. She’d found her groove. She would just tell Mike White to only give her middle school girls’ games for the rest of her career. Oh, who was she kidding? She was only going to do this until she cleared Frank’s name. But until that happened, it was middle school girls all the way. The ball took a full thirty seconds to roll out of bounds, giving Sandra ample time to figure out who had touched it last and which way the ball should go as a result. She blew the whistle, pointed with her arm, and was almost having fun when a fullback fully flattened a striker for seemingly no reason at all. She audibly gasped, wondered why the ref hadn’t blown the whistle, and then remembered that she was the ref. She gave a loud tweet and scowled at the bully in the green shirt. Tempted to red card her and kick her out of the sport forever, she decided to just call it a push and gave the white team a direct kick.
The Whistle Blower Page 11
