The Wedding Caper

by Janice Thompson

  Warren groaned. “They’d kick her out of class. Wouldn’t be worth the money.”

  Still . . .

  I looked down at my little crime-fighting cohort as she settled to all fours. Her tail wagged a mile a minute and she leapt up, hoping I’d catch her for a little “cuddle time.”

  Aw. How could I resist?

  Once safely in my arms, she settled down, as always. I scratched her behind the ears as I explained my addiction: “I know she’s awful, and I don’t know why I love her so much. Maybe—” Tears rose to my eyes right away and, I had to confess, I did know. “Maybe it’s because the kids are growing up and leaving—” The tears tipped over the edge of my lashes and Warren stared at me as if I’d gone mad.

  “So, you’re saying that keeping the dog around is therapeutic?”

  Sasha nuzzled her face against my cheek and I whispered, “Uh huh.”

  Warren made a face and headed into the bedroom, muttering all the way. Seemed like he’d been doing a lot of that lately. With a sigh, I scooped up the heaps of toilet paper. All the while, Sasha stood at my side, tail beating against the toilet seat. She might be a little on the disobedient side, but I loved her.

  Within minutes, Warren reappeared at the bathroom doorway dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt. “I’m worn out. Are you nearly ready for bed?”

  I nodded and he came into the bathroom to help me finish up. In typical Warren style, he reached down to rub Sasha behind the ears. I’m pretty sure I even heard him whisper, “Are you helping Mommy?”

  The man was smitten, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

  That night, I slept like a stone. My weekend in the country, amazing as it was, still couldn’t compare to the beauty of sleeping in my own bed with my husband at my side and my puppy at my feet. I dreamed the strangest dream—something about Janetta Mullins dressed in Amish garb, serving food in a small-town restaurant. Dollar bills tumbled from her pockets in every conceivable direction.

  Crazy, the things we dream when we’re troubled.

  I awoke to a brilliant fall morning. I threw back the covers and sprang from the bed, ready to start the day. But, first things first. I nudged Warren, who groaned, then eventually crawled from under the sheets in slow motion. I couldn’t blame him. He had tossed and turned all night. Mental note: Why is he suddenly having trouble sleeping? Is he hiding something?

  He showered, dressed for work, gave me a gentle kiss on the lips and reached down to pet Sasha before leaving. Yep. He’s puppy-whipped.

  With my son at school and my husband on his way to work, the heavenly sound of morning silence fell over the house. I loved this time of day. After a quick shower I headed off to the computer to check my daily Internet devotional. Sasha hopped into my lap as I sat down. You know, I’ve discovered that typing with a dachshund in your arms is possible, though somewhat debilitating.

  This morning’s scripture from the second chapter of Proverbs answered some of my weekend ponderings. The very things I’d asked for all along now seemed possible after reading these verses: “If you call out for insight and cry aloud for understanding, and if you look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure, then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.”

  True, true.

  I needed—and wanted—His knowledge, not my own. And according to this verse, I could have what I asked for.

  So I asked. With Sasha now dozing, I took advantage of the stillness to ask God to give me something I’d neglected to request in weeks prior: Understanding. Knowledge. If the Lord truly desired my participation in this investigation, then I had to be willing to accept wisdom from on high. This wasn’t the kind of knowledge acquired in school; I needed something that far superseded that.

  I could almost hear Sheila’s voice now: “It’s what you learn after you know it all that counts.”

  Perhaps I’d come at this thing from a know-it-all approach, but that ought to change. Today, in fact.

  In this new, dedicated frame of mind, I opened Lesson Five, which had been waiting in my e-mail box for days. I read the title with great anticipation. A GOOD INVESTIGATOR IS “STREET SMART.”

  Wow. Looked like this was the day to smarten up. I couldn’t help but grin at God’s apparent sense of humor in coordinating all of this. Perhaps I’d better take a closer look . . .

  Street smart, eh?

  In our little town of Clarksborough, we occasionally saw a little street action. There was the Fourth of July parade hosted by the political league and the Children’s Festival, held on the corner lot of Main and Wabash each May Day. And, of course, we had the annual Get Out to Vote barbecue and the ever-famous lighting of the Christmas tree on the day after Thanksgiving.

  Then again, that probably wasn’t the kind of “street-smart” they had in mind, now that I thought about it. To be street smart meant . . .

  To be honest, I didn’t have a clue what it meant. Perhaps I’d have to do a little investigating to figure this one out, particularly if I wanted to understand the mentality of a young man like Jake Mullins, who had apparently lived much of his life out on the streets.

  Street smart, street smart . . .

  I did a search on the Internet to find out about life on the streets. Several Web pages later, I realized I had plenty to learn. And I recognized right away that folks on the street were apparently quite savvy, in their own right. Most had probably already learned far more than I ever would about things like. . .basic survival skills, for example. How else could they cope with drastic weather conditions, constant hunger pangs and the ever-present threat of violence from so-called friends?

  I shuddered as I thought about that. How awful, to live alongside people who had no hope. And how much more awful still, to lose hope, yourself.

  Over the next hour or so, I scoured Web sites, looking at specific stories of those on the fringes of society: the homeless man, the downtrodden veteran, the prostitute, the drifter. . . .

  My mind stopped right there as I contemplated Jake Mullins. He’d spent a lot of time on the streets, no doubt. Probably in nearby Philadelphia. Any one of these stories could have been written about him. And surely, during his time “out there,” he had acquired plenty of “street smarts.” Perhaps he knew what it was like to beg for a bite to eat or to fight over a bridge to sleep under. Perhaps he knew what it meant to celebrate over a hot shower at a local shelter or cry over a holiday spent alone next to an open fire in the parking lot of an abandoned tenement building.

  Jake Mullins.

  I pushed the emotions back. As a mother, I simply couldn’t imagine my child on such a frightening learning curve.

  Sasha wriggled a bit, coming awake.

  “Need to go out, sweet girl?”

  As she stood in my lap and gave a little shake, the tags on her collar jingled. She leaped to the floor, her tail wagging in anticipation. I simultaneously reached for her leash and grabbed my jacket, sensing this walk would take a bit longer than the norm. For whatever reason, I needed to get out of the house for a while.

  Out onto the streets.

  I tagged along behind the little darling, past the morning paper at the end of the driveway and beyond the piles of leaves spread across my neighbor’s yard.

  All along the way, I looked over my street with new eyes. Lovely middle-class homes lined each side and cars, bright and shiny, sat in each driveway. Landscaped yards spoke of people who cared about their environment, and fall decorations displayed a feeling of warmth for the season. Someone must be burning leaves nearby. Smoke lifted in a spiral, of sorts, and the heavenly scent of blazing embers filled my senses.

  I loved that smell.

  In fact, I loved everything about small-town life.

  How much had I taken for granted, dwelling in such safe, comfortable surroundings? A little shiver needled its way down my spine as I contemplated the truth. I lived a good life. A safe life. A life with ice cream socials and Sunday school parties, Fourth of J
uly picnics and weekends at the lake. I didn’t have to deal with the kinds of things I’d read about on those Web pages, and I was grateful for it. So, how in the world could I go about acquiring street smarts? Where would this knowledge come from?

  This morning’s verse raced back through my head again. “Look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure.…” I had the strangest sense the Lord wanted to teach me a few things today. Specific things. But I’d have to dig deep to find them.

  Sasha and I walked a good, long ways—into town and beyond. I let her lead the way, up to a point. When we got to Clark County School Road, I turned off to the left. The sound of children’s voices drew me, and I made the journey, as much from memory as anything.

  I came upon the familiar schoolyard at the elementary. As the boys and girls played kickball, their squeals rang out against the quiet of the late morning. One of the little girls from the church gave a jubilant wave.

  “Hi, Mrs. Peterson!”

  This started a round of shouts and waves from children who knew me. Before long, their teacher, a young woman named Jodie who had graduated with my girls, ushered them back into order again. “Come on, boys and girls! Back to the game.”

  I offered a shrug in the way of an apology and called out, “Sorry.”

  She gave me a thumbs-up then shifted her attentions back to her young charges.

  I watched for a moment as they returned to their game. How many times had I stood at this fence, watching my own children play ball? And how many times had my heart swelled, as it did now?

  Reminiscence eventually took over and emotions kicked in. Instinctively, I reached down to grab Sasha, and cradled her into my arms. I pondered the passing of time. I ran my fingers across the puppy’s floppy ear, and she responded to my attentions by nuzzling up against my cheek.

  Yes, Warren. She is therapeutic.

  I needed her more than I’d acknowledged. And perhaps I needed to grieve a little, too. I hadn’t really done that yet, to be quite honest. Sure, I’d helped my girls settle into their own place, and yes, I’d felt an unusual heart-twisting on the night they announced their respective engagements. But . . . grieving? Was this to be part of the learning process for me?

  I stood, deep in thought, until the ache passed. At some point along the way, Sasha got antsy, and I put her down. So much for therapy.

  At that point, I made a conscious choice to step away from my sadness. With so much to be grateful for, I should probably be looking toward the future, not the past. And standing here, in front of these jubilant children, provided me an opportunity to do just that.

  I looked out into their smiling faces once again and reflected on my gratitude—and my hopes for the future and safety of our little town. My own daughters had grown into wonderful, knowledgeable adults, and my son soon would, as well. These children would grow into intelligent young men and women, too. Most would probably attend college. Some would even acquire degrees—and spend the rest of their lives passing on the things they knew to future Clarksborough generations, just as Jodie did now.

  My mind drifted back to Jake Mullins and troubling thoughts set in. How did he slip through the cracks? What went wrong? Hadn’t he attended this same school? What had happened to send him off on a journey of destruction? Why had he opted to leave home at seventeen, to pursue life on the streets?

  I thought about Nadine and her work with the homeless in Savannah. My admiration for her soared through the roof. What was it she had said about the Lord calling us to reach out to the poor and needy? Something from Isaiah, I think. Oh yes, “The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.” And there was more, too. Something about ministering to the downtrodden.

  Was Jake Mullins downtrodden? If so, was the Lord asking me, in some way, to minister to him?

  Only one way to know for sure. I would arrange to spend a little time with him, get to know him better. Figure out who he liked to hang out with, and why. Perhaps doing so would solve two problems for me: First, it would help me discern his role, if any, in the disappearance of the money. Second, it would give me a glimpse into the life of a young man who’d struggled like so many others I’d just read about on the Internet.

  Sasha tugged on the leash and I turned toward home. As I walked along, I felt led to pray for Jake. I’m not sure why. Perhaps this thing about being a prodigal hit me so hard because of my own son. I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to have a family member living in such hopelessness.

  In my mind’s eye, I could see Devin in his football uniform, chasing a ball past the fifty yard line. I could not—prayed I would not—see him on the run from his family, his friends, his relationship with God. I would do everything in my power to prevent such a thing.

  Then again, perhaps Janetta Mullins had done everything within her power, too. Maybe she’d spent the last few years praying for her wayward son, as she’d said. If so, we had every reason to hope—to believe—he had returned for the right reasons. To enter back into relationship with his family.

  I pondered that awhile. If, after all he’d learned on the streets, Jake Mullins had turned his heart toward home, then I wanted to help free him from the cloud of guilt that now hovered over him. Perhaps, if the two of us linked arms, we could convince the police.…

  I stopped right there. Sheila’s comment at the bed and breakfast roused me from my ponderings. If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

  Funny thing was, Jake Mullins didn’t look much like a nail right now. In fact, he looked every bit like a young man in need of a hand up.

  And I just happened to have a hand. Two, in fact.

  Chapter Twelve

  I guess you could say I caught a break. On Wednesday afternoon, at approximately 2:15 p.m., I happened to notice Jake Mullins through the window of the diner, seated in a booth. Alone.

  Could I help it if the sudden urge for a piece of homemade apple pie pushed me through the front door of my favorite eatery and into the booth next to his? And could I help it that my former don’t-call-me-honey waitress happened to be serving both of us simultaneously?

  I slipped off my jacket and looked up into Shawna’s eyes from atop the plastic-coated menu. For the first time, I observed their color. Green. Quite pretty. In fact, she was a pretty girl, all the way around.

  Take note, Annie. If you look beyond the tattoos and piercings, you might just find a beautiful person underneath.

  “Can I help you, honey?” I took note of the sarcasm as she pulled the pencil from behind her ear to take my order. My gaze shifted to the assortment of earrings lining her right ear. All the way up—and in some of the oddest places I’d ever imagined anyone poking a hole. Wow. That looks painful.

  “Mmm, yes.” I glanced at the menu—for effect. “I’ll have the apple pie, a la mode. And a cup of coffee.”

  She reached to take the menu and I commented on her fingernails—black with a various musical notes painted in white on each one. “Very cool. Where did you get them done?”

  Now, me—I always had mine done at Clarksborough’s salon, The Liberty Belle. But I knew for a fact my nail tech, Maureen, didn’t customize quite like that.

  Shawna held her hands out for my approval. “My sister in Philly does nails. So every time I go back home for a visit she experiments on me. Do you like them?”

  “Very much. I take it you’re a music lover.”

  Her face lit in a smile, the first I’d seen. “I’m in a band,” she explained. “I play the keyboard and sing.”

  “Very appropriate, then. What kind of music do you play?”

  “I write most of our songs,” she added, a flush now covering her cheeks. “We do mostly alternative stuff.”

  “Ah.” Mental note: Look up alternative music.

  She went to fetch my pie and I focused on the young man I’d come to connect with. Jake never seemed to notice me. Instead, his gaze appeared to be focused on one
thing: Shawna.

  As she returned to plop a dish-sized wedge of apple pie in front of me, he piped up from the next booth. “Did I hear you say you’re from Philly?”

  “I lived in Northeast Philly till I was seventeen.” Shawna took a step his direction, and I couldn’t help but notice the color in her cheeks deepened as she drew closer to Jake. And why not? Despite his rough life, he was a good-looking young man.

  “How in the world did you end up in Clarksborough?” He reached to put his coffee cup down. “I mean, I can see moving from here to there, but to do it the other way around—”

  My keen observation skills kicked in. I took note of Shawna’s tightening grip on the menu as he asked the question. Is she nervous? What’s up with that?

  “My cousin lives here,” she explained. “My parents. . . well, let’s just say they thought it was time I got out of the city for a while. They wanted to get me away from my, um, friends.”

  Jake gave her an inquisitive look. “Ah. I lived in Philly too. Till just a few weeks ago.”

  Shawna set the menu aside as she carried on. “I miss my old neighborhood.” She dove into a lengthy explanation about the street she’d grown up on and I tried to turn my attentions to the cars driving by on the other side of the window, but couldn’t seem to. Something about this pair intrigued me.

  Before long, the three of us found ourselves in an enlightening conversation that would’ve made my Internet teachers proud. I learned more in those few moments than I had in years.

  With no other customers to wait on, Shawna took a seat at Jake’s table and eventually encouraged me to join them. I slipped in with the comfort of a cat easing onto a sunlit window sill. Of course, this cat had to take her pie with her. Waste not, want not, and all that.

  For whatever reason, Jake felt comfortable enough around the two of us to open up and share about his life in the big city. Over the next hour, I heard all about his yearlong residence in the underground world of Philadelphia’s subway station, where commuters would occasionally toss a bit of change his way, or shift their eyes, pretending to look the other way. He talked about bitter cold nights spent in shelters, where he listened to street preachers “do their thing” in exchange for a hot shower and a much-needed rest in a real bed.