by Terri Reid
His hands stopped, and he lifted his head. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.
She took another deep breath and looked down at him. “She had a backpack with her that contained samples and all the evidence she needed to prove that the chemicals Granum was putting in the seeds were continuing on through the plant and then into the animals fed with the seed.”
“She’s sure she had the backpack?” he asked.
Mary nodded. “That’s why she was in the field that night,” she explained, “getting some final samples. She was ready to not only prove her thesis, but also publish a paper that could…”
“Ruin the company,” Bradley finished and then shook his head. “We didn’t find a backpack.”
“I know,” she said. “But with the snow…”
“And maybe a raccoon could have carried it farther into the field,” Bradley added.
He lifted his hand and tenderly stroked the side of her face. “Mary, I…” he began.
She turned her face and kissed the palm of his hand. “I know,” she said. “I knew before I walked in the room. I just let you distract me for a few moments.”
He grinned. “They were great moments,” he said.
Leaning forward she kissed him fully on the lips. “Really great,” she sighed.
He pulled her tight and returned the kiss, showing her just how much he regretted leaving.
“I’ll try to be quick,” he said, placing another quick kiss on her lips before hurrying across the room to his dresser and pulling out clothing.
She grinned, knowing he’d be out all night. “Sure you will,” she replied. “But I’ll give you a raincheck.”
He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she replied. “So, what can I do to help?”
Pulling a t-shirt over his head, he came across the room and placed his hands on her upper arms. “Get some sleep,” he said. “Enough sleep for both of us.”
Glancing at the clock, she shrugged. “It’s still early,” she said. “What if I pack you a lunch? At least then I’ll feel a little useful.”
“A lunch would be great,” he said. “Thank you.”
She started walking towards the door when he stopped her. “Um, Mary,” he called.
She turned. “Yes?”
“You might want to, um, button things up before you leave the room,” he suggested with a wide grin.
She looked down, surprised to find herself more exposed than she realized. “Good grief,” she said, readjusting her clothes. “You work fast.”
He met her eyes, passion still smoldering in his own. “Unfortunately, tonight I wasn’t fast enough.”
Chapter Sixteen
Mary awoke the next morning to the sound of her bedroom door opening. She sat up and saw her exhausted husband, his clothing stained with mud and his face lined with small scratches, trying to quietly sneak past her.
“What happened?” she asked.
He looked over at her. “I’m so sorry I woke you,” he said. “I was trying to be quiet.”
She slipped out of bed and went over to him. “You were very quiet. I’m just a light sleeper these days.” She ran her hand lightly over his face. “Ouch, this looks painful,” she said. “Did you run into a bramble bush?”
“Yeah, well, those things are hard to see at night,” he confessed.
“Come into the bathroom,” she insisted, pulling his hand. “Let me clean you up.”
His meek obedience told her he was even more exhausted than she initially thought. Gently cleaning the scrapes, she felt her heart fill as she watched him fight to stay awake. Finally satisfied that the cuts were clean, she bent down, kissed his forehead and patted him on the shoulder. “Go to bed, Chief Alden,” she ordered.
He shook his head. “No, I’m good,” he said. “I just need a little sleep.”
She choked back a laugh. “You’re right, that’s a better idea,” she replied. “Why don’t you let me help you get undressed?”
He smiled wearily. “Well, that’s an offer I certainly won’t refuse,” he mumbled.
She led him over to the bed. “Okay, you sit here, and I’ll get your pajamas,” she said and then turned toward the dresser. She had only just pulled open the drawer when she heard the soft sound of a body falling against the mattress and pillow. Shaking her head, she closed the drawer and turned to see Bradley, his feet still planted on the ground, but the upper half of his body cradled in the soft blankets and pillows on their bed. Smiling, she walked over and pulled his boots off his feet and lifted his legs onto the bed. She pulled a blanket from the end of the bed up over him and tucked him in.
“Good night, sweetheart,” she whispered, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.
He murmured something unintelligible and continued to sleep.
A little later, Mary was downstairs, dressed for the day, sipping herb tea and waiting for Clarissa to come down.
“How are you doing?” Mike asked as he appeared next to her.
She was pleased to note that she didn’t even flinch at his sudden appearance. “Good,” she said, surprised at her answer. “I actually think I’m good. I don’t feel in the least bit anxious.”
“Excellent,” he replied. “And to what miraculous event can we attribute your recovery?”
She grinned and shrugged. “I don’t know, perhaps the advice of a good friend,” she said, sending him a meaningful look. “Or the diagnosis of a brilliant psychologist, or the words of a wise mom.”
He chuckled. “Or just getting on with your life and not having the time to fret,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I always seem to find the time to fret,” she replied. “Is that normal?”
Mike chuckled. “For you, yes,” he said. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Well, I think I might take Clarissa out for breakfast this morning so Bradley can get some sleep,” she said.
“You two don’t make that much noise,” Mike replied.
“It’s not the noise. It’s the smells,” Mary said with a smile. “That man can’t sleep through the smell of bacon, no matter how tired he is. He would sleep through a house fire, but not bacon.”
“That could be a real problem if you ever have a house fire,” Mike replied.
“Oh, no, I always keep bacon on hand just for that reason,” she teased. “I’ll just throw the package on the fire, and he’ll be awake in just a few moments.”
Chuckling, Mike nodded. “And after breakfast?”
“I’m feeling good enough to go into the office,” she said. “I’ll probably avoid the cemetery for a few days, just while the police are still out there searching the scene.”
“Good idea,” Mike said. “Anything I can do to help?”
Mary smiled up at him. “Um, do you know how to quilt?” she asked.
Mike laughed aloud. “Yeah, no such luck,” he replied. “But don’t worry. I have a strong feeling that the quilt will be done in time.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Mary replied flippantly.
Mike paused and just stared at her for a moment. “Well, actually, that’s just the way it works.”
Chapter Seventeen
“This is none of your business, Margaret O’Reilly,” Margaret O’Reilly said to herself in the rearview mirror of her car as she turned off the main street in Sycamore, Illinois and headed to the address she’d gotten from Bernie Wojchichowski the Cook County coroner.
She pulled up in front of the tidy home and shook her head. “You are sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” she muttered to herself. Then she shook her head. “It matters to your daughter and your granddaughter, so of course it matters to you.”
She glanced in the mirror again. “So, we’re going to do it?” she asked herself, and then she nodded. “Come hell or high-water.”
She exited the car and walked up to the cranberry painted door. She could see
the garden area around the front porch was in slight disarray, more neglect than anything else. She spied a number of cobwebs between the banisters, noted the dirt and dust on the windowsills and windows and shook her head. Yes, something needed to be done.
With a determined move, she jabbed her finger against the doorbell and listened with a little trepidation as it echoed through the inside of the house. Moments later she could hear footsteps coming her way. A kindly man about her own age answered the door and looked questioningly at her.
“Hello, Bill. Bill Whitley?” Margaret asked.
The man nodded in assent. “Yes, I’m Bill,” he replied.
“You probably don’t remember me,” she said. “We met a few months ago, at your daughter’s funeral.”
She saw sadness pass across his features, and she nearly turned away from her purpose. No! An inner voice commanded her. You need to see this through.
She took a deep breath and continued on. “I’m Margaret O’Reilly,” she explained. “My daughter, Mary, helped solve Jeannine’s murder.”
“She’s the woman who married Bradley,” he stated.
Margaret nodded. “Yes, she did,” she replied. “And she’s also the woman who’s raising your granddaughter.”
Pain replaced sadness, and he nodded. “I understand she’s doing a fine job,” he replied gently.
Margaret smiled. “She loves Clarissa with all her heart.”
He looked at her, silent for a moment. “What can I do for you, Margaret?”
“I need to have a word with you and Joyce,” she replied. “It won’t take much time, and it’s important.”
“I appreciate your effort,” he replied. “But I don’t think it’s going to do you any good. Joyce doesn’t talk to many people these days.”
Margaret nodded. “Bill. May I call you Bill?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Bill, I’ve just driven nearly two hours from the northwest side of Chicago to speak with you and your wife,” she explained. “I prayed half the time and argued with myself the other half. This is not something I easily do. I tend to stay out of other people’s business as a rule, but a voice told me that I needed to do this. So, here I am. If Joyce kicks me out, then at least I did all I could.”
Bill smiled widely. “You know, Margaret, I think a plain-spoken woman like you might just be what Joyce needs,” he said, opening the door wider. “Please come in.”
She walked into the house and immediately missed the brightness of the day. All the blinds were closed and the curtains drawn. It was as if the Whitleys were living in a tomb of their own making. Bill led her down the hall to the living room.
“Bill, who was at the door?”
Margaret turned to see a woman ensconced in a large recliner with an afghan covering her lap and legs.
“We have a visitor, Joyce,” Bill said in a voice that warned his wife someone was with him.
Joyce turned and looked at Margaret. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t believe I know you.”
Her voice was tight and cold.
“This is Mary O’Reilly, I mean Mary Alden’s mother,” Bill said gently.
Pain was more evident on Joyce’s face than it had been on her husband’s. She looked like she’d been struck at the mention of Mary’s name. “I really have nothing to say to you or your daughter,” Joyce said stiffly. “Now, if you’ll—”
“That’s fine,” Margaret said, her Irish temper slightly ruffled. Mary had done nothing but help. There was no reason to regard her as the enemy. “You may have nothing to say, but I’ve got quite a bit. And we can begin with this.”
She pulled a photo album out of her purse and opened it wide. “This is a recent photograph of your granddaughter, Clarissa,” Margaret said, shoving the photo under the woman’s nose. “Mary told me she looks just like Jeannine. What do you think?”
Chapter Eighteen
It took just a moment for the woman’s surprised eyes to move from Margaret’s face reluctantly down to the album. She tried to just quickly glance, but her eyes were drawn back down to the eager, smiling face in the photo. Tears filled her eyes, and her face softened. She lifted her hand and traced a fingertip around the child’s face. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, she does look like Jeannine.”
“Do you have any pictures of Jeannine at her age?” Margaret asked. “I would love to see them.”
Joyce looked even more surprised, and then she smiled. “Yes, we do,” she said, pushing the afghan off her legs. “I’ll be just a minute.”
She left the room, and Bill came over to Margaret. “May I look at the photo?” he asked.
“Oh, of course you can. I’m so sorry,” she replied, handing him the album.
He stared at the photo in amazement. “She looks just like our Jeannine,” he said, his voice catching. “It’s incredible.”
He looked up at Margaret. “Do you know? Does she have a picture of her mother?” he asked. “Or would that be too confusing for a child?”
Just then Joyce came into the room with a stack of albums in her arms. She placed them on the coffee table in the middle of the room and shook her head. “Well, of course that would be confusing,” she said sharply. “She’s just a child. A child who’s been tossed from one home to another. Of course they wouldn’t want to let her know her mother was murdered.”
Margaret pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse and held it in her hand. “Clarissa’s birthday is on Thanksgiving day,” she said. “And my gift to her is a memory book, so Mary let me go through some of the papers and pictures she’s been saving. Before I left my house this morning, a little voice told me I ought to bring this paper along. It’s from a class assignment Clarissa did at the beginning of the school year.”
She opened the paper and held it out to Bill and Joyce.
Class assignment: My Family
My family is not like other families. I have three mommies and two daddies. My first mommy loved me very much. She protected me and watched over me. But she died when I was born. I know that she is watching over me from heaven. My first daddy didn’t know where I was. He searched and searched for me. But he couldn’t find me.
My second mommy and daddy adopted me. They loved me, too. They played with me and taught me all kinds of things. They brought me to Freeport. But, when my second daddy died, we had to move. Then my second mommy died, too. I was very sad.
Finally, my first daddy found me. He brought me home to live with him and my third mommy. They love me, too. And I love them. I am lucky to have had so many mommies and daddies. The End.
Joyce looked up from the paper, confused. “They talk to her about Jeannine?” she asked. “They let her know that Jeannine was her mother?”
Margaret nodded. “Yes, they do,” she replied. “They want her to know as much about her mother as they can. Jeannine is a part of Clarissa, a special part, and they want her to know that.”
Bill handed the paper back to Margaret. “You said that your daughter, Mary, told you that Clarissa looked just like Jeannine,” he said. “How did she know that?”
Margaret thought about her answer for a few moments and then, as if answering herself, nodded firmly. “Well, you are members of the family now,” she said. “So, I suppose it’s only fair that you know.”
“Know what?” Joyce asked.
“The story behind Mary and Jeannine’s relationship,” Margaret said. “Do you mind if I sit down? This might take a little while.”
“Please, let’s all sit around the dining room table,” Bill offered.
Bill and Joyce led her from the living room into the large, formal dining room. Bill pulled out the chair at the head of the table for Margaret. “Could I get you something to drink?” he asked.
“A glass of water would be lovely,” Margaret said. “I have a feeling that by the end of this story, my throat will be dry.”
A few minutes later, with a glass of water in front of her, Margaret began. “Well, I suppose you could
say this all started when Mary died…”
Chapter Nineteen
Mary opened the door to her office and stared at the envelope laying on the floor just beyond the mail slot. Slowly bending over, she picked it up and noticed it was from Alex’s office. Opening it, she pulled out the contract and read it over, twice. The sum for consulting was sizable, but Mary wasn’t sure she could become an official part of the investigation. What if it caused her anxiety to worsen?
“I thought you were going to be hanging around some cemetery this morning, girlie,” came a familiar voice behind her. “Iffen I had known you were coming in, I would have saved you a donut.”
Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at Stanley. “Well, things didn’t turn out quite the way I thought,” she admitted.
“Hey,” he said, staring at her face. “Looks to me like things are even worse than that. You got a worried look on your face. Are you okay?”
She nodded and placed the letter in her inbox. “I found the body of a young woman near the cemetery yesterday morning,” she explained. “It looks like she was murdered.”
“Murdered?” he repeated, astonished. “You found a real body? Not a ghost?”
Suddenly Mary froze. “Stanley, can this conversation wait for just a moment?” she asked urgently. “I really have to go to the bathroom.”
Blushing slightly, Stanley nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. You go, and I’ll take care of things out here.”
After Mary closed the door on the adjoining bathroom, Stanley strolled around the office space, picking up knickknacks and thumbing through a few magazines placed in a basket near Mary’s desk. Finally, bored, he began to sift through Mary’s inbox, glancing at the correspondence in it. The letter from Alex’s office caught his eye, and he picked it up to get a better look.
