All The Stars In Heaven

by Michele Paige Holmes

  It took a moment for the name to register.

  “Eddie Martin?” Excitement lit Christa’s face. “Isn’t that the guy—”

  “Yep.” Kirk nodded. “He’s the big one. If we shut him down, there’ll be a lot less meth finding its way to the streets. Better yet, if he leads us to his supplier . . . that may well impact the other operations in this area.”

  “That’s fantastic.” Christa squeezed Kirk’s hand. “You’ve been after him for months.”

  “Yeah. Ned got him on a DUI inside a school zone—automatic two years. And besides being high, Eddie had a milk carton stuffed with meth in his car. Fifteen bags of it—all neatly packaged and ready to sell. We called Chief Morgan, and he came right down. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited.”

  “And you haven’t even been here a full year.” Christa beamed. “This is the difference you knew you could make.”

  “Well, I wasn’t the one who caught him,” Kirk reminded her.

  “But you’re the one who has testimony from the kid he sold to. You’ve compiled all the evidence.”

  “Me and half the department. But you’re right. This is big. It gives me hope that we’ll be able to keep Summerfield the nice, peaceful community it is.”

  “Of course you will.” Christa squeezed his hand once more, then pushed back her chair and stood. “How about some breakfast to celebrate?”

  “I’m not really hungry, so . . .” Kirk reached out, wrapping his arm around Christa’s waist, pulling her onto his lap. “How about we go back to bed?”

  Christa shook her head. “Sorry. My visiting teachers are coming in twenty minutes, I have to cut Sister Nelson’s hair at ten-thirty, and it’s my turn for preschool carpool.”

  Kirk scowled. “So you’re telling me that visiting teaching, Sister Nelson’s hair, and a bunch of screaming three-year-olds are more important than me?”

  “Hmm.” Christa pretended to consider. “Yep. Pretty much.” She gave Kirk a quick kiss on the forehead and jumped off his lap. “Kind of how interrogating Eddie Martin was more important than coming home on time this morning? Because if you’d asked me to come back to bed oh, say, an hour ago . . .”

  “I was at work,” Kirk protested. “You’re not playing fair.”

  “I’m not playing at all.” Christa giggled and moved out of his reach before he could grab her again. “Sorry.”

  Kirk gave her a pitiful look. “I didn’t even get to talk to Eddie.”

  “How come?” She pulled the dish drainer from beneath the sink and set it on the counter.

  “Chief wanted to make sure Eddie was good and sober and understood all his rights before we started. There have been too many problems—too many mistakes—so this time Chief Morgan is being extra careful. When we do get Eddie in that courtroom, there isn’t going to be any loophole his attorney can find to get him off.”

  Christa put the plug in the sink and started the water. She turned around to face Kirk. “Well then, I’m sorry you didn’t get to grill the suspect.”

  “Sorry? You ought to feel guilty,” Kirk said. “I could’ve stayed, you know. Instead, I came home to spend time with my lovely wife.”

  “And so you could get some sleep and go in early this afternoon when Eddie will be talking.” Christa folded her arms as she gave her husband a knowing look. “Now who’s guilty?”

  “Man.” Kirk raised his hands in the air and rose from the table. “What is it with you hairdressers? You’ve got the scoop on everyone. I ought to bring Eddie over to sit in your chair this afternoon. He’d probably confess everything.”

  Christa laughed. “I doubt it. Now go shower so you can get some rest before the boys come home. Today the tall tale characters—including Paul Bunyan—are visiting kindergarten. Jeffrey was beside himself with excitement. He’ll want to tell you all about it.”

  Kirk left the kitchen, and Christa turned back to the sink and squirted some dish soap under the stream of water. Looking at the oatmeal-crusted bowls, she grimaced, missing the dishwasher they’d had in their condo in California. Though, she reminded herself as she pulled on her gloves, there was plenty to be said for the quaint home they’d found in Cambridge.

  Instead of the fifty-minute commute Kirk had before, it was now a short twelve-minute drive to the police station in Summerfield. And here the boys had a yard to run and play in. Lack of a dishwasher aside, everything else about the home was perfect. Everything about Cambridge was too, as far as Christa was concerned, and she could honestly say she was glad they had moved across the country.

  Here the pace seemed slower, more peaceful—still a bit of small-town America. Part of that, she knew, depended on keeping the drug problem at bay. She hated to think that Cambridge or Summerfield could someday be as bad as Pasadena had become.

  Christa turned off the faucet, plunged her hands into the soapy water, and began scrubbing the bowls. Aside from needing the sink clean so she could wash hair, she simply hated having the kitchen dirty when her clients came. Someday she hoped to have a little salon in the basement. Kirk had been working on it, but between his schedule and a tight budget, things were going slowly. Maybe Kirk will get a raise or promotion when Eddie Martin is behind bars for good. The thought cheered her.

  Christa knew how seriously Kirk took his job and how hard he was working trying to get a handle on the meth problem. She also knew that Chief Morgan was aware of that too—at least in part. The chief’s obsession with getting drugs off the street was the reason Kirk had been hired last spring. His experience on the narcotics team in a big precinct in LA had made him an immediate favorite with the chief, who, rumor had it, had never gotten over his own wife’s overdose years earlier.

  The phone rang, jarring Christa from her thoughts. Tugging off her gloves, she grabbed it from the counter.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Detective Anderson in?”

  He just got home, she wanted to say. Instead she replied politely, “He’s in the shower. May I take a message?”

  “This is Chief Morgan. It’s important.”

  “Just a minute. I’ll get him.” Scowling at the phone and the chief’s typical gruffness, Christa went to the bedroom and banged on the bathroom door.

  She heard the water shut off, and she called to Kirk. He opened the door, a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “It’s Chief Morgan,” Christa whispered, holding out the phone.

  Kirk took it. “Maybe Eddie’s talking.” He held the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Chief.”

  A few seconds later, Kirk’s head bent slightly and an incredulous look crossed his face. “He’s what?” He continued to listen. Christa stepped back and sat on the bed while she waited.

  “Thanks for calling,” Kirk said finally. “I’ll be down later. Bye.”

  “What?” Christa asked, trying to read the expression on Kirk’s face as he ended the call.

  “It’s Eddie—he had a heart attack. He’s dead.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah clasped her books to her chest and pressed her lips together to keep from smiling as she read the single word written on the index card.

  Maybe?

  Quickly she slipped onto the bench and put her music on the stand, covering the card. Her cheeks warmed as she peeked over the top of the piano, stealing a surreptitious glance around the auditorium.

  It was vacant except for Carl, slouched in his usual seat in back, and the dancers taking their places on stage. Jay wasn’t here. She felt both relief and disappointment. She didn’t need to worry about Carl punching him again, but she wouldn’t see him today either—would she? I’ll look forward to seeing you again and hope for a maybe . . . Had he really meant it? She’d nearly convinced herself he hadn’t, certain she’d done everything wrong during those few minutes at the library. Rambling on and on about her paper, never asking Jay a single question about himself . . .

  With a sigh, Sarah opened her music to the beginning of the ballet. A guy like that couldn’t
possibly be interested in her, so it was best to forget the whole thing. It was best for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was her need to focus on her education so she could get away from the men in her life.

  Sliding her music aside, she glanced at the index card once more. It was probably something else entirely—or if it was from Jay, it was likely a joke. She knew what the reflection in the bathroom mirror showed her each day. And no guy could really be interested in her.

  Picking up the note card, she ripped it in pieces, then dropped them in her backpack, watching as they filtered down around her folders.

  “Attention,” the ballet director called, her French accent echoing through the auditorium. Sarah’s head went up, and she watched for her cue to begin playing. For the next thirty minutes she focused her thoughts on the music and rehearsal. It required all her concentration, her eyes constantly moving from the notes to Madame Trenchard and her signals. Stop. Start. The last measure again. Slower. Faster. Stop. Once more from the beginning.

  At last Madame Trenchard called a break, and the dancers hurried offstage to their water bottles.

  Sarah stretched her fingers and reached for her own water. A single piece of note card rested on the lid, the corner piece of the letter M. She flicked it away, unscrewed the lid, and took a long drink, feeling upset all over again.

  Trying very hard to forget about it—to forget about Jay—she opened her folder and selected her favorite piece of her own composition. It was lighter than the one she’d played the afternoon Jay had listened. Placing the sheet on the piano, she began to play, quietly at first, then louder, filling the auditorium with a lyrical melody that helped her imagine happiness, freedom, magical summer days, nights under starry skies. It was the only song she’d ever written in G major—the only piece she’d ever written in any major key—and she felt uplifted every time she played it. Today she felt her soul stir with hope as she read the notes and her fingers moved across the keyboard. No one was going to keep her from her goals. Someday she was going to be free.

  Bent over the piano, absorbed in her music, Sarah didn’t realize the break had passed and the dancers were reassembling until she heard clapping. She looked up as she completed the finale—a trill of staccato notes dancing up the highest keys—and found Madame Trenchard staring down at her.

  “You wish to write for the ballet?” she asked in her heavy French accent.

  Sarah shook her head. “Oh, no. I only—”

  “I want it for the second half. Melissa and Chelsea will come up with the choreography. You’ll need to get the music to the conductor right away, so he can separate it into parts for the orchestra.” Madame Trenchard turned back to the stage. “Places.”

  Sarah tried to explain. “I was practicing. I never meant—”

  “You never meant your talent to be shared?” Madame Trenchard looked over her shoulder disapprovingly. “It is a shame to hide such a gift.”

  But I have to, Sarah thought. “Yes, Madame,” she murmured instead, shocked at the compliment and turn of events.

  “Places for Act Three,” the director called, resuming her usual no-nonsense demeanor.

  The remainder of practice passed in a blur, and Sarah had trouble keeping up, as her thoughts were elsewhere—worried about her father’s reaction if he found out one of her pieces was to be played in public. She’d have to make sure her name was left off the program. For safety reasons, her father never wanted anyone to know she was the police chief’s daughter.

  As the dancers dispersed, she gathered her books quickly, knowing Carl was impatient to leave. He had no use for music or dance—or anything remotely cultural. She bent over, stuffing everything into her backpack.

  “Sarah?”

  Looking up, she saw one of the dancers standing next to the piano. The woman held a note card in her outstretched hand.

  “Jay asked me to give this to you.”

  “Thanks.” Sarah took the card and read the three words written there.

  Impressive. Thank you.

  “He was here?”

  “Backstage the whole time.”

  Sarah bit her lip to keep from smiling.

  The dancer was giving her a peculiar look. “He said to tell you he’ll be at the library again this Friday—in the afternoon around one o’clock.”

  From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Carl pacing by the exit.

  “Thanks,” she managed to get out before the woman walked away. Sarah stuffed the index card deep inside her pack and started up the aisle toward Carl. She hoped he wouldn’t notice she was flustered. She wished she could figure out why she was, why her heart was suddenly racing, why she suddenly couldn’t wait to be home and in her room, alone with her thoughts.

  And why, even more than that, she couldn’t wait for Friday afternoon.

  * * *

  1:06.

  Sarah forced her eyes away from her watch and back to the book in front of her. She made herself read a page and a half before her eyes strayed again. 1:09. Her gaze kept wandering to the watch. 1:11. 1:12. He’s not coming. She felt the sting of tears and, appalled, wiped her eyes.

  What did you expect? That a man would actually be interested in you? That he’s some knight in shining armor who would save you from a life you despise?

  Sarah shut her book and reached for her backpack. She unzipped it and put the text inside, then grabbed a tissue from a pocket. Telling herself that she was acting ridiculous, she scrunched the tissue in her fist and dabbed at one eye and then the other. She took a deep, steadying breath, pushed her chair out, and stood. Turning, she came face-to-face with Jay.

  Like last time he was casual, smiling. “Leaving so soon?”

  “I—I thought you weren’t coming.”

  He looked repentant. “Sorry. My class just ended. I hurried over as fast as I could.”

  “Class?” she asked stupidly.

  “Over at Langdell, and my professor wanted to talk to me for a minute afterward.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Langdell? Isn’t that . . . Are you in law school?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “Kind of surprising they let a guy like me in, huh?”

  “No—not at all. I just . . . My father always says . . . Um, let’s just say I haven’t met a lot of lawyers I like.”

  Jay laughed out loud, then, catching the angry look of a passing librarian, coughed into his fist. He took a step closer to Sarah, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Know what I like about you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Most women I’ve met on campus get all starry-eyed when they learn I’m a law student. I can almost always see the social aspirations on their faces and the dollar signs in their eyes. But you looked absolutely horrified.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Sarah pushed her glasses farther up on her nose.

  “Don’t apologize. It was a refreshing change,” Jay said. “In fact, why don’t you share your reasons for your less-than-favorable opinion of the legal profession with me over a sandwich. I’ll treat you to a late lunch.”

  “Oh, no.” Sarah took her backpack from the table. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Jay asked. He looked in the direction of the copier. “Is your bodyguard lurking nearby?”

  “No. Carl won’t be on campus until three. That’s usually when I meet him. Normally I’ve got private sessions from one until three, but we can miss two a semester, so I—cancelled today.”

  “You’re free, and you forgot to tell the cousin.” Jay snapped his fingers and smiled. “Too bad.” He reached for her backpack and took it from her. “Come on. We’re definitely going somewhere. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to, but we’re not going to let two hours go to waste. Let’s at least get out of the no-talking zone.”

  Vacillating between sheer joy and complete panic, Sarah followed Jay toward the elevator. In her wildest dreams, she hadn’t imagined he would ask her out to lunch. R
ather, she’d fervently hoped for another five minutes in the library and the ability—this time around—to make coherent conversation.

  She bit her lip. “We’re not going anywhere far, are we?”

  “We’ll stay on campus. I know a great place,” Jay assured her. “Somewhere I’m pretty certain your cousin would never venture.”

  “Okay,” Sarah agreed, deciding to take the risk. She stepped onto the elevator with him.

  Jay pressed the button for the main floor. “So you have a private two-hour piano lesson every Friday?”

  She shook her head. “It’s actually every Wednesday and Friday, and very little of the two hours is spent at the piano.”

  “You play another instrument too,” Jay guessed. “Guitar?” he asked sounding hopeful.

  “No. Though I’ve always wanted to. I—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Jay said. “I’ll figure it out.” He looked her over as if sizing her up. “I know. Flute.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Harpsichord.”

  Sarah held up three fingers. “Three strikes. I think that means you’re out.”

  “Little League. I get at least five balls,” Jay insisted. “French horn, oboe, cello, violin.”

  “Sorry.” She smiled. “Give up?”

  “Not yet.” He caught her eye. “Maybe never.”

  She looked away.

  “Piccolo, recorder, trombone . . . drums.”

  She heard herself laugh and was as surprised at the sound as he seemed to be. “I sing,” she finally admitted.

  He reached out, lightly touching her hand just as the elevator stopped. “You mean to tell me you’ve got a voice to match your piano skills?”

  She shrugged. “A few people have told me it’s nice.”

  The doors slid open, and they stepped out onto the main floor.

  Jay turned to Sarah, hand over his heart and a huge grin on his face. “I think,” he said solemnly, “that this could be serious.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sarah followed Jay up the steps of the Fogg Art Museum. “You’re right,” she said, walking past as he held the door open. “Carl would never set foot in here.”