by Nancy Radke
Ryan wrote MXOIL? on his notepad and circled the name. Was Ted involved with them?
“Next time I see Patti, I’ll ask her about Ted,” Scott said. “She’ll open up to me."
“Good.” Scott had a way with women. He could be very charming when he wanted to be.
Hanging up, Ryan accessed his company's records and opened the personnel files. Patti had used Ted Fairweather for an emergency number. Ryan printed off her page, folded it up and put it in his pocket. Next he wrote Ted’s number on a scrap of paper, then picked up his office phone and carried it and the paper scrap over to Angie.
“Call this number. If a man answers, ask if he’d like to win $50 answering a quiz question."
"And if he agrees?"
"Ask him... uh, the name of the speech Lincoln gave at Gettysburg."
"You want him to answer?"
"Yes. Tell him he's won, then get his name and address. The main thing is to keep him talking until you know if he was at the office or not."
Dialing the number, Angie ran through her spiel for the man who answered.
"I can’t tell," she said, hanging up and handing the headset back to him. "I don’t think it was either one of them. Certainly not the raspy voice.” She shook her head, clearly disappointed. “The guy knew the answer but refused to give his name. Should we notify the police?"
"The police are busy. They’re glad to leave one to me. We’ll start an evidence file.”
“I hope the roads get cleared soon. Shelly’s husband said I had to get my things... today!” She glanced anxiously at the clock. “Oh no!”
“Today it is.”
“How? That hill we came down last night...”
“Four-wheel drive. And a shovel. If we can’t get the car out, we’ll use my boat to go to the Kirkland marina and take a cab from there.”
He sprung to his feet, pointed to her ankle. “Finish icing that while I dig out.” He left Angie in his office, grabbed a coat and small shovel and went out to his car.
A thick blanket of dazzling white covered everything, a picture-postcard of what Seattle didn't usually look like. Ryan spent several minutes brushing off the snow. Next he dug around the tires and chained them up. On the way back he stopped to borrow a cane.
He hadn’t planned to walk up silently behind Angie, but she stood with her back to him, reading his notes.
She’d had to walk clear across the room. He could think of only one reason why she’d have done that. He felt as if someone had slammed him with a rifle butt.
6
Angie yanked her hand off Ryan’s notebook, picked up his coffee cup, and hopped over to where he stood in the office doorway. Any excuse she gave would sound weak. She had been reading his notes, although unintentionally.
“I’m sorry. I just—”
He took the cups and the ice pack from her and walked down the hall, stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back.
Angie felt compelled to try again. “I went to get your empty cup,” she explained. “And I tend to read anything I see. I’m sorry if I— ”
“’s okay.” He turned and clomped down the stairs.
It wasn’t okay. Otherwise he would’ve let her hold those items and carried her down. The cozy atmosphere had crashed— sort of like finishing a good routine, hoping for high nines and seeing fives and threes. She went into her room and retrieved her purse, then hopped to the stairway, vowing to never again go near his desk— unless he called her over there. Sitting on the rail, she balanced easily and slid down to where he stood.
He helped her into one of his heavy coats. Handed her an old cane. Shook his head at her shoes, woefully inadequate for the snow.
Opening the door into brilliant sunlight, he motioned her ahead while he locked the door. The snow had stopped during the morning, leaving about fourteen inches of dry powder— handsome snow, not at all the wet slushy stuff that usually fell on Seattle.
Ryan kicked at it and watched it blow away in the steady breeze. He grunted, then picked her up and carried her across the narrow catwalk, along the dock and up the stairwell to the parking area. He stomped a place next to the vehicle for her to stand while he opened the door. He never said a word the entire time and Angie was about to burst, when he turned to her and said, “Can you drive? In snow?”
“Yes. I’m from Cleveland.”
“Get behind the wheel.”
She did, happy to have him talking to her again, if only about mundane things. She backed out of the parking space and followed him down the drive. The SUV plowed through most of the way, forcing him to clear snow in only a few pockets.
At the base of the hill she stopped and rolled down the window. “Why don’t you take it up?” she said. “You’re used to this car. I don’t want to stall it or slide into the bank.” She also didn’t want to be the first one to ding it.
He nodded and handed her the small, fold-up shovel to put on the floor. She moved over and he slid behind the wheel.
His first attempt got them halfway up. Second one almost to the top and the third time they made it, the chains biting into the compacted snow and ice.
“I’m glad you drove,” she said. “How come you handle snow so well, living in Seattle?”
“I grew up North Bend. Lots of snow. Where are we going? Kirkland?”
“Yes. Houghton, actually, just south of Kirkland, at the end of the bridge. They live on a main street, so it might be plowed by now.” She wanted to keep him talking and searched her mind for something.
“Yesterday I made a large snowball to take into your building— so I could ice my ankle. After I heard Patti on the phone, I never thought about it until I hid under the desk. Then I realized I didn’t have it or my shopping bag. I thought the thieves would find them— and me.”
She paused, but he didn’t say anything. “I found the shopping bag next to Patti’s file cabinet. They probably thought it was Patti’s. But I never found the snowball— not even a puddle.”
“I did.”
“Where?”
“In the bag.”
“Oh.” She paused to consider. “I don’t remember putting it there.”
He drove carefully through the back streets, weaving through the cars— many left parked in the middle of the road— and finally reached a street where one lane had been plowed.
“Cleveland,” he said, and the word made her hope he had been thinking of her all that time. “So, how long in Seattle?”
“One year.”
“What brought you here?” he asked, maneuvering around another group of abandoned cars, piled high with snow and huddled together as if for mutual protection.
“I came out for a wedding. Liked the area and as soon as I finished college, I got a job working as an editor on a local magazine. That’s where I met Shelly. The company was struggling when I joined it, and eventually went under.”
“What did you do next?”
“Anything I could. Sold shoes. Worked as a dispatcher.”
“Humm. Where did you go to college?”
“Virginia Tech. I took a two-year course.” It had taken her three, as she had worked at a shoe store to supplement her scholarship.
“You enjoy it?”
“Yes. I was in the dorm with a super group of girls. We called ourselves the Sisters of Spirit. They were all from the West, except for me.” She smiled, remembering how they had corrected her the first time she had said something about Cleveland being “west.” They had grabbed a map and pointed to Cleveland— and then to the rest of the country. “They were the first real friends I had outside gymnastics. Stormy always got into trouble promoting one cause or another. Then she’d drag the rest of us into it. I wonder what they’re doing now?”
“You could email them.”
“I don’t have their addresses anymore. I lost my phone. The one that had them all in it.”
“Locating people is part of my job.”
“That’s right.” Maybe she could re-establish contac
t. After all, Perri and Stormy were cousins. And they had all exchanged email addresses.
“Just give me their names. And the last location you had for them.”
“Okay. Stormy came from Idaho, Jo from eastern Oregon, and Perri, Arizona. Ellen’s from Seattle. It was her wedding I came here for.” She caught the cane as it tipped sideways and moved it to a better spot. “Where did you get this?”
“My neighbor.”
He switched on the radio as she pulled the pad from her purse and wrote down the names and cities. The radio program consisted of one long traffic and weather report, with a reminder to stay at home if at all possible. Soon Ryan pulled onto the freeway, which had two lanes cleared in their direction. A few cars, mainly SUVs, traveled slowly along it. Some people probably had urgent business, but she suspected most were out enjoying the beauty of the heavy snow.
She had brought only a few things from Cleveland, but they were her treasures— the photos of her and her Olympic team, her high school album, her silver medal. It’d be good to have them back.
She mentioned this to Ryan as she handed him the paper.
“You must’ve really enjoyed gymnastics, to do so well,” he said, tucking the names into his shirt pocket.
“I did, but it’s a dedicated way of living. You miss out on many things, yet get experience that others don’t. I guess it evens out.”
“Your parents must’ve been proud.”
Her good mood soured abruptly, like vinegar poured into milk. “They were. But it precipitated their divorce.”
“How?”
“When my coach announced that I was a level nine and could go to the Olympics, he recommended private coaching in addition to my club workouts. With all the travel involved, it added up to over a thousand dollars a month. Their arguments increased proportionately.”
“Increased. Meaning they already argued.”
“Yes. But their fights centered on money. I learned a tremendous amount from my private coach, but I’d have been happier without, if only to reduce the conflict between them. Then I started winning everything, and they expected me to get the gold.”
“But you said you got silver.”
“Yes.” Silver hadn’t been good enough for them.
“Do you miss gymnastics?”
“Yes.” It had been her haven, her life. As she matured and her center of balance shifted, that life ended. Her parents divorced. Neither really wanted her, she was of age, so she left. She worked for one year, then got a two-year college scholarship.
Ryan drove onto the floating bridge, which had been scraped clear and sanded. The wind formed whitecaps on Lake Washington, but none rose high enough to splash onto the roadway. As they drove across the lake, Angie admired Mount Rainer, the fresh snow framing its glaciated slopes.
“I keep thinking there’s something we’ve overlooked,” Ryan said, his words turning her thoughts back to the present. “You know, that day you ended up in Scott’s office. Run through the events again."
“All right. I heard Patti— "
"No. Before that. Scott insists he locked the door."
"He might’ve, but it was unlocked when I got there. And I arrived just after Scott left."
"How soon after? One minute? Five?"
"Well, I watched him run away after he knocked me down."
"One minute."
"And gathered my things."
"Two minutes."
"Maybe not that long. But I did stand there feeling sorry for myself when I missed my bus."
"Two minutes. Time passes faster than people think."
"Okay. It probably took me another three minutes to enter the building. I made my snowball first. Some people were coming out and I waited for them to clear the elevator."
"Five minutes."
"Then I went up."
"Giving Scott a few minutes to come down, if anyone entered and left he had to do it in less than ten minutes."
"How could he?" she asked, puzzled.
"Maybe he had a key."
"Patti?"
"Perhaps. She could've even let him in. Or handed him the CD right after Scott walked out."
"But he'd have to have perfect timing. He'd have to know exactly when Scott left."
"True." He pondered that for a minute, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Maybe he was already in the building. When Scott left, he came to the door, got the CD and left."
"So why didn't he take all of them?"
"I don't know."
"I still think I made a mistake when I copied the titles over. I hurried as fast as I could and I may have shuffled the piles. I don't see how anyone could’ve slipped in in that short of time. Or it could’ve been missing for several days."
"No. I asked Scott about that this morning and he said he took it out of the safe with the others. Did you see anyone as you went in?" Ryan pulled off at the Bellevue/Kirkland exit.
"Several office workers. I had to wait for them. And a messenger."
"A messenger? What company?"
“I wasn’t paying attention. He was wearing a uniform of some kind, with a monogram on it— the wings of a bird.”
“Did he carry a package?”
“Um... yes, I think he did. An envelope... a ten by twelve... whatever you send flat documents in.”
“He could’ve been carrying the CD. Then again, he could’ve slipped it in his pocket.”
“Maybe someone sent the CD using the messenger. He wouldn’t know what he carried.”
“What did he look like?”
"About your height. Reddish hair— sort of long because it curled out from under his hat. And he had lots of freckles."
"Young— old?"
"Young. Early twenties, I think. He came out of the stairwell with some of the workers. They might know who he works for."
"We can ask," Ryan said. "Patti could’ve taken the CD herself or given it to the messenger, then called someone to steal the rest of the CDs as a cover-up."
"So while we’re chasing them, the other thief gets away?"
“Right.”
"Only I stopped the second one so nothing got taken."
"Yes. If you hadn't, we'd have had no inkling more than one party was involved. So we check out Patti. And the messenger. We’ll start as soon as we get your things. Where is this place?”
Angie directed Ryan to Shelly’s home. Jack’s truck sat in the driveway, its hulking presence as intimidating as the man himself.
Angie got out, glad that Ryan came with her. She led the way up to the front door and knocked.
Shelly opened the door, saw Angie, and stepped furtively outside, pulling the door shut behind her.
Her face looked drawn and pale. “I was so worried about you. Are you okay?”
“Yes. And I’ve got a job. I’ve come for my things. This is Ryan Duvall, my— ”
“A job! That’s... that’s wonderful. You know, I have to— Jack’s home— You see the truck— .”
“I called last night. He answered, so I knew.”
“He never said you called. He just raged at me.” Shelly burst into tears.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“You’re okay, aren’t you?” Ryan asked.
Shelly wrung her hands, tears flowing down her cheeks, shivering in the cold air. “I am, but... this morning... he... he found all Angie’s boxes in the garage.”
Angie gasped, remembering Jack’s threat. “And?”
“And he threw them in his truck and took them to the dump. I’m so sorry, Angie.”
Angie reeled, sucker-punched. Her furniture— what few items she had— and bedding, all gone. “Everything?”
“Almost. I saw him, and before he came inside for your clothes, I hid as much as I could in the clothes hamper and dryer.”
“My medal?”
“In the hamper. I grabbed it first. Along with your jewelry. And your box of papers.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you.” Her birth certificate an
d two-year degree were in that box, along with family photos. Irreplaceable.
“I didn’t have much time. I had to leave some stuff, so he wouldn’t keep looking. He got your new winter boots.”
Reeling from the loss, Angie could only shake her head. The boots had cut into her budget, but were a necessary expense when riding the busses. They weren’t broken in yet, so she had left them at Shelly’s.
Behind them, the door burst open and Jack staggered out, a bottle in his hand. A big burly man, larger than Sunderstrom, he swung the bottle upwards as he advanced on Angie. “You!” he yelled. “Get outta my house!”
Angie threw up her hands, waving the cane. She backed into Ryan, who grabbed her and set her behind him, placing himself between her and Jack.
Jack charged like a wounded rhino, swinging the bottle.
7
Angie threw her cane at Jack as he charged them. They had nowhere to run— Shelly’s porch was so small— and then Ryan turned just so and Jack went flying over the railing into the snow. He lay there a second, then jumped to his feet, looking angrier than ever.
“Get your stuff, Angie," Ryan commanded as he stepped off the porch into the yard.
She looked at him, open-mouthed, not comprehending what had just happened. No keepsakes were worth Ryan getting hurt trying to fight the huge drunk.
“Hurry,” he insisted.
Angie picked up her cane. Jack went flying into the snow again as Shelly grabbed her hand and yanked her inside. “Come on! Don’t worry about your friend. It looks like he can handle Jack.”
“Jack must be awfully drunk.”
"Hasn't stopped since he got back.”
“Sorry, let me help you up,” Ryan said.
Angie blinked. She had never seen Jack that unsteady. Shelly raced ahead of her into the laundry room, so Angie limped along behind. Kicking an empty clothes basket into position, Shelly pulled the clothes out of the dryer— some still on hangers— that she had rescued. Angie helped her stack them in.
Opening the clothes hamper, Shelly pulled out underwear and other items, such as Angie’s jewelry case and photo album.
“Oh, thank you, Shelly,” Angie said, scooping the excess under one arm along with the cane.
