Caught in a Bind

by Gayle Roper

  There, gleaming softly under the harsh overhead light, sat a silver convertible.

  “It came three days ago.” Randy ran his hand lovingly over the sleek curve of one fender. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “That it is.” I began to circle the car. I didn’t want to prick Randy’s balloon, but all I could think of was how inappropriate this expensive car was for a novice driver. The potential for a serious accident was incredible!

  If Randy met a sycamore in this marvelous car, he would be in big trouble.

  I bent down to peer inside. I might as well study the upholstery before it was drenched with Randy’s blood.

  Someone had beaten Randy to it.

  Blood stained the passenger seat and floor.

  I knew there had to be very little, if any, left in the very dead man who slumped against the gray leather interior….

  Books by Gayle Roper

  Love Inspired Suspense

  See No Evil #39

  Caught in the Middle #50

  Caught in the Act #54

  Caught in a Bind #58

  GAYLE ROPER

  has always loved stories, and she’s authored more than forty books. Gayle has won a Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award for Best Inspirational Romance and finaled repeatedly for both RITA® and Christy® awards, won three Holt Medallions, a Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Inspirational Readers Choice Contest and a Lifetime Achievement Award as well as the Award of Excellence. Several writers’ conferences have cited her for her contributions to the training of writers. Her articles have appeared in numerous periodicals including Discipleship Journal and Moody Magazine, and she has contributed chapters and short stories to several anthologies. She enjoys speaking at writers’ conferences and women’s events, reading and eating out. She adores her kids and grandkids, and loves her own personal patron of the arts, her husband, Chuck.

  GAYLE ROPER

  CAUGHT IN A BIND

  REVISED BY AUTHOR

  When I am afraid, I will trust in you.

  —Psalms 56:3

  For Christine Tangvald with love.

  You are a woman of God who knows how to live godly in Christ Jesus. And you are fun! I wouldn’t have missed all those writers’ conferences and Disney World visits for anything.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ONE

  This time I got myself into trouble without Jolene’s help. Not that she didn’t contribute, but at least she wasn’t the cause. Edie was. Or rather, Edie’s husband.

  Edie Whatley is my coworker at The News: The Voice of Amhearst and Chester County, where she is editor of the family page and a features writer. I’m a general reporter and features writer.

  “Edie,” I called across the aisle that separated our desks. “Can I do the ironmonger’s mansion at Hibernia Park for the Great Homes of Chester County series?” I thought it would be fun to write about that the big pale orange home set on the knoll above the gently sloping lawn.

  There was no response from Edie.

  “Edie!”

  Still nothing.

  I frowned. It wasn’t like her not to answer, especially since she was doing nothing but staring at her CRT screen.

  Then spoke Jolene, Queen of Tact. “Edie, what in the world’s the matter with you, woman? You’ve been a mess all day.”

  “Jolene!” I was appalled, but I had to admit that she got Edie’s attention. Edie blinked, skewered by Jolene’s accusing gaze.

  “Spill it,” Jolene demanded. “Is it Randy?” Randy was Edie’s fifteen-year-old son whose life journey kept all of us glued for the next painful installment.

  “Randy’s fine,” Edie said.

  Jolene and I looked at each other, then back at Edie.

  “He is?” I blurted with more disbelief than was probably good for our friendship.

  “Well, probably fine is too strong a word, but he’s not bad.”

  “He’s not?” Jolene’s surprise was equally obvious.

  Edie’s face scrunched momentarily as she understood what we had inadvertently revealed about our opinions of her son. Then she got huffy, Edie-style. “I said he’s fine.”

  “Well, if it’s not Randy,” Jolene continued, unabashed at having hurt Edie, “then what? Is it Tom?”

  Edie smiled too brightly. “Tom? What could possibly be wrong with him?”

  A good question. He and Edie doted on each other and didn’t care who knew. Being around them was instant tooth decay due to the sweetness of their relationship. I don’t mean just lovey, which I happen to think is good, or considerate, which I happen to think is necessary. It was the touching, the patting, the unconscious back rubbing and collar adjusting.

  Tom was Edie’s second husband, and therein lay part of Randy’s problems. He didn’t like his stepfather.

  Not that Tom should take that lack of appreciation personally. Randy didn’t appear to like any adults. He also didn’t like many kids, and I strongly suspected he didn’t care much for himself either.

  But Tom took the brunt of all the boy’s angst and anger. More than once, Edie had come to work teary-eyed, only to tell Jolene and me about Randy’s latest verbal abuse and disobedience.

  Randy’s father was a giant of a man, all muscles, charm, and good looks, a certified financial planner who over the years had made a mint in the stock market both for himself and his clients. Randy resembled him in size and coloring, a fact that gave the boy immense pride.

  Tom on the other hand was a slight man, five feet eight inches in his hiking boots, gentle, pleasant and balding.

  “He’s a car salesman!” Randy would mock, as if automotive retail was on a par with prostitution.

  “Is Tom sick?” I asked.

  Edie shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Not yes or no. Not that I know of.

  “Did he lose his job?”

  Edie actually smiled at the thought of Tom losing his job. “Hamblin Motors would fall apart without him.”

  I nodded. Even I, a relative newcomer to Amhearst, knew that Tom was Hamblin’s mainstay. Of course, my major source for this information was Edie, and I recognized that she was a wee bit biased.

  “He just won a trip for two to Hawaii because of his winter doldrums sales. Only ten prizes were awarded in the whole country, and he won one.”

  “Hawaii?” Jolene looked impressed. “When do you go?”

  “In three weeks.” Edie looked uncertain, then nodded. “In three weeks.”

  “Then what are you so upset about?” Jolene wouldn’t let well enough alone. “I mean, Hawaii!”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “And I’m not Eloise and Alvin Meister’s little girl.” Poor Edie. She was about to be slaughtered on the altar of Jolene’s curiosity and need to know.

  “Jo,” I said quickly, “I think your plants need watering.” If anything would distract Jo from Edie, it would be her plants.

  Jolene glanced around the newsroom at the lush greenery that made the place resemble a nursery. A giant grape ivy that had once tried to eat me alive sat on the soda machine. A huge jade plant graced the filing cabinet, and spectacularly healthy African violets sat in perpetually blooming splendor on the sill o
f the big picture window by the editor’s desk

  She shook her head as she checked the soil of the spider plant on her desk. Baby spider plants erupted from the stems like little green and white explosions. “They’re all fine. I watered them yesterday.” She checked my philodendron and Edie’s croton, then returned to her grilling undeterred.

  “Come on, Edie. I know something’s wrong. Of all the people who work here, you’re the most stable.”

  “What?” I turned to Jolene, irritated. I was unstable?

  Jolene grinned at me. “We all know I’m an emotional wreck, though you’ve got to admit I’ve been getting better in recent weeks.”

  She paused a minute, looking expectantly at Edie and me. After a short pause, we realized what she expected.

  “Right,” Edie said hastily. “You’re getting better.”

  I nodded. “It’s church. You’re listening to Pastor Hal.”

  Jolene shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Church was new to her and still made her uncomfortable. She returned to her commentary on office personnel. “We all know our noble editor Mac is so on edge over the buyout of the paper that he can’t think straight.”

  Edie and I nodded. Mac was certainly acting strangely though I thought maybe Dawn Trauber, director of His House, had as much to do with his foul mood as the paper.

  “And you, Merry,” Jolene continued, “are so bemused over Curt that you’re always on some far mental planet.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, miffed. “I am very much in control, aware and on top of things.”

  She gave her patented snort, the unfeminine sound always a surprise coming from someone as lovely as Jolene. “That control and awareness are why Mac has been waving at you for the past five minutes, I guess?”

  “What?” I looked quickly over my shoulder toward the editor’s desk. Sure enough, Mac was scowling at me so intensely that his eyebrows were one long line from temple to temple.

  “You could have told me.” I rose and made my way toward Mac. “And Edie, ignore her. You don’t have to answer any of her questions.”

  Jolene agreed. “We’ll wait for Merry. She wants to hear what’s got you in such a tizzy too.”

  Edie smiled weakly at me as I walked past her desk. “I’m okay,” she said with all the spunk of a groveling puppy.

  Suddenly Mac’s bellow tore through the newsroom. “Edie, for goodness’ sake. Get over here!”

  I stopped and pivoted to return to my seat.

  “Where are you going, Kramer?” Mac snarled.

  “But you said Edie.”

  “I want you both.”

  I turned back and walked to his desk. Mac had been acting editor for the past several months while the News was for sale. Recently the paper had been purchased by a man named Jonathan Delaney Montgomery. As I saw it, the greatest danger in waiting for Mr. Montgomery to decide whether Mac still had a job wasn’t Mac’s career. It was the incipient development of ulcers in everyone in the newsroom.

  I spoke softly across his cluttered desk. “Please be easy with Edie. She’s upset about something, and if you yell at her, it won’t be good.”

  “You mean she’ll cry?” he asked in disgust.

  “Could be.”

  Mac looked at me with barely concealed contempt, whether directed at me for offering unwanted advice, or Edie for being a possible crier, I couldn’t tell. “I am always considerate of my people,” he barked.

  I bit my tongue and said nothing.

  He turned from me to Edie. “Now, Whatley, I’ve got a great assignment for you. I want you to do an article on spousal abuse.”

  Edie shuddered and actually swayed. She put out a hand to steady herself, gripping Mac’s desk hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

  “Edie.” I grabbed her elbow. “Are you all right?”

  “And you, Kramer.” Mac plowed on as if he hadn’t noticed Edie’s distress, and he probably hadn’t. “You are to do a profile of Stephanie Bauer, director of that organization that helps abused wives. You know the one. It’s down a couple of blocks on Main Street.”

  I kept hold of Edie. “You mean Freedom House?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Find out how the place works and see if you can interview some of the abused women. You know, tear-jerker stuff like you did with those pregnant girls at Christmas.”

  I nodded. Not a bad assignment.

  “You two are to work together on this thing.” Mac looked from Edie to me and back. “Got that?”

  I nodded. Edie just turned away, removing herself from my support.

  “Edie!” Mac’s voice was abrupt.

  She turned a white face to him, but he didn’t see. He was looking at something on his desk.

  “Do you understand what I want?”

  “Yes. But I hate it.” The last was under her breath.

  “What?” Mac demanded.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  I blinked as I followed Edie back to our desks. She hated this most interesting assignment?

  “What’s wrong, Edie? And don’t tell me nothing,” I said as she opened her mouth to say just that. She even got the noth out.

  Edie was a genuinely nice lady whose fine, light brown hair was cut shoulder length and hung straight, swaying when she turned her head. Her blue eyes were often sad though never more so than today. She wore all her clothes a size too small, not because she wanted to be sexy or provocative but because she kept hoping she’d lose that ten to fifteen pounds.

  “Let it go, Merry. Please.” She turned abruptly and almost ran to the women’s room, a one-person operation where she could find privacy.

  I watched her go, and as I turned back to my desk, I saw Jolene watching too.

  “No more questions, Jo,” I said. “When she wants to tell us about it, she will.”

  “You’re no fun.” But when Edie finally returned red-eyed to her desk, Jo kept quiet.

  I spent the balance of the day reading about Freedom House in either our paper files or e-files or online. I learned it was established five years ago and that Stephanie Bauer had been its only director. I learned that in addition to providing counseling and comfort to abused wives, Freedom House sponsored training workshops for churches who wanted to know how to help abused women in their congregations.

  I studied the pictures of Ms. Bauer and saw a woman of about forty, very slim and attractive with great dark eyes and dark curly hair.

  “I was an abused wife,” she was quoted as saying in one article. “I know the fear and desperation of these women. I know their feelings of being powerless. I also know God can help them deal with the overwhelming helplessness. I know they can live again.”

  How did she learn to live again? What specifics marked her flight from her husband to her position at Freedom House? Or had he reformed and she was still married to him?

  I called Freedom House and got Stephanie Bauer on the line. “May I come interview you some day soon?”

  “How about tomorrow?” she asked. “I know it’s Saturday, but my schedule is crazy what with the ministry, the Easter holidays and my kids.”

  I had rehearsal with the bell choir tomorrow morning for the upcoming Easter service, and in the evening Curt was taking me to the reception that Mr. Montgomery was throwing for the News staff and his invited guests. But I was free Saturday afternoon.

  “Is two o’clock all right?” I asked Stephanie.

  “Will we be finished by three? I have an appointment with my daughter at three. We’re going shopping. She ‘needs’ some spring clothes.”

  “We’ll be finished by then,” I promised. Then thinking it might fit into the article, I asked, “How old is your daughter?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Just like Randy, I thought. Poor Stephanie.

  “A teenager at the mall,” I said, sarcasm dripping a bit too freely. “It ought to be an interesting afternoon for you.”

  “It will be interesting,” Stephanie said, ignoring my tone. “I enjoy anything I
get to do with Sherrie. We’re both so busy! And Rob is no better.”

  “Rob’s your—?”

  “My son,” Stephanie said. “He’s eighteen. We’ve been filling out financial information for colleges all year, and the hardest part is finding a night when we’re both home!”

  When I hung up from my conversation with Stephanie, I glanced at Edie. Stephanie’s relationship with her children seemed the polar opposite of Edie’s with Randy. Both women had had marital hard times, but one had fun with her kids and the other cried. Interesting.

  It was almost five o’clock when Jolene said, “Hey, Merry, Edie, let’s go get dinner together.”

  “What a good idea.” I hadn’t been looking forward to a lonely Friday night. Curt was away overnight on a men’s retreat, and he’d talked Jo’s husband into going along. Apparently she wasn’t any more anxious to fritter the night away alone than I was.

  “Thanks, but I can’t,” Edie said. “I need to get home.”

  “But Tom works on Friday nights, doesn’t he?” Jolene asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “And Randy’s certainly big enough to feed himself.”

  Jolene had obviously been thinking about this dinner for some time and had figured out all the angles, something for which she was justly famous.

  “He won’t be home for dinner,” Edie said, then realized she had thrown away her best excuse to decline. With a sigh she shrugged. “Let me call and leave a message telling him where I’m going.”

  Jolene was delighted. She’d now have Edie in close quarters for an hour. More than enough time to turn the screws.

  “Now you be good,” I managed to whisper to Jolene while Edie was talking to Astrid, the hostess at Ferretti’s, Amhearst’s one and only decent restaurant. “Edie doesn’t need you badgering her.”

  “Me? Badger?” Jolene looked aghast.

  This time I was the one who snorted.

  Within five minutes we followed Astrid to our booth.

  “Eggplant parmigiana,” Jo told Sally, our waitress. “Raspberry vinaigrette dressing on the salad. And lots of garlic bread.”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs,” I said. “Parmesan peppercorn dressing and lots of garlic bread too.” I looked at Jolene and grinned. “There’s something to be said for not seeing the guys tonight.”