In Plain Sight

by Lorena McCourtney

  In sudden panic I turned and ran, clambered through the fence so fast I clunked my funny bone. I was frantically trying to jam my key in the car door and massage my elbow at the same time I heard more thudding and crashing in the brush. Was he coming after me? I blessed the old T-bird when it started like a race car raring to go.

  I thought I’d feel foolish for my panic in broad daylight. If I’d hung around, perhaps I’d have seen the intruder crash out of the brush and thus could have identified him.

  But no feeling of foolishness materialized even when I was several miles away from Vintage Road. My heart was still in overdrive. The steering wheel felt slippery under my perspiring hands. I couldn’t swallow past what felt like the Diedrich kids’ toy truck caught in my throat.

  All I could think was, Thank you, Lord, thank you for getting me out of there.

  14

  I drove on home slowly. So who was it, hiding there in the brush? A burglar checking to see if anyone was home? Or something more personal, perhaps the ex-husband or the man with binoculars whom Leslie seemed to think was someone named Michael? I hadn’t seen a car, so maybe it was the “weird creep” neighbor. Or someone else Leslie had had a run-in with, since hostile clashes seemed a frequent occurrence in her life.

  At home I again tried to call Leslie, now thinking I should warn her that someone was skulking around her place. Again, no answer.

  Should I call Sgt. Yates to tell him what I’d seen? I had to admit a reluctance to do that, because the first thing he’d surely ask would be, “What are you doing skulking around Leslie’s place?” And my answer, I wanted my whistle, sounded both petty and ridiculous.

  Reluctantly, however, I decided it was my duty as a good citizen to report skulking. But when I called the county sher– iff’s office I learned Sgt. Yates was off duty for the weekend. I dug out the card he’d given me, which had his home and cell phone numbers, and debated with myself. Should I interrupt his time off? After a few minutes of indecision I concluded that wasn’t necessary. All that crashing in the brush suggested the intruder was as anxious to get away as I was. He was no doubt long gone now. So calling Sgt. Yates could wait until Monday when he was back on duty.

  A decision I’d later regret. Although it was probably too late even then.

  Sandy and Skye arrived in Sandy’s usual mini-tornado of excitement. “Is it okay if Skye stays overnight?”

  “Of course. We’re always glad to have you,” I said to Skye. But, concerned, I added, “Are you sure your folks don’t mind your staying over here so often?”

  “Dad got home from Little Rock. He’s definitely going to run for a seat in the House of Representatives. Tammi is fixing a candlelight and champagne dinner to celebrate.”

  Skye spoke with a hint of scorn, an implication that this was more of the Dumpling’s silliness, but I suspected she was really feeling she’d be an outsider at the intimate celebration. Did bubbly Tammi realize Skye felt shut out? I doubted it. She might even be wondering why Skye didn’t want to celebrate with them. Should I say something to Tammi? Or would either or both of them resent the interference?

  “We’re going to do our hair,” Sandy interrupted. She held up a carton showing a woman with sunshiny streaks in what would surely qualify as chestnut tresses in some romance novel. “Skye’s mom sent her this cool highlighting kit, and Tammi said it was okay—”

  “Not without calling your mother, it isn’t okay for you.”

  Sandy gave me one of those exasperated looks only a teen can produce, but she dashed off to make the call. Skye handed me a wrapped package.

  “Tammi sent this over to you.”

  “Me? Why would Tammi send me something?”

  “She wanted to thank you for staying with Baby. She said to tell you she’s sorry it took so long, but she wanted to find something exactly right.”

  I wanted to rip into the surprise package instantly. I guess that’s something we never outgrow. Although I had to admit to a certain apprehension. What would Tammi consider “exactly right”? Useless doo-dad? Something elderly … talcum powder, lavender cologne, uselessly dainty handkerchief?

  “She didn’t have to do this. I really enjoyed Baby. And I like Tammi too. She seems very friendly and sweet. And she shouldn’t worry about a few extra pounds. She’s very attractive.”

  “She’s okay.”

  So, Skye’s cool tone said, are cockroaches, if you like cockroaches. Especially overweight ones.

  The gift was nicely wrapped in silvery paper, which I automatically started to fold and save before remembering I didn’t do that anymore. Although it’s a hard habit for a thrifty person to break, and I couldn’t bring myself to toss the red bow. I set it aside and pulled out the gift. I was astonished. A book of inspirational Christian poems! I flipped through the pages—everything from John Donne and Gerard Manley Hopkins to Ruth Bell Graham and Laurence Dunbar. And some of Mary Sidney’s wonderful work with the Psalms too. Yes, a gift that was indeed “exactly right.” Bless you, Tammi.

  Sandy returned to report that DeeAnn had okayed hair highlighting, and exclaimed, “Hey, awesome!” over the book. The girls trooped off to commence hair makeovers, and I went to the phone to call Tammi immediately.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you like it!” Tammi gushed when I’d expressed my thanks. “I know you’re a believer, so I thought it would be right for you! I’m a believer myself, of course.”

  “You are?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t inferred that from anything Skye or Sandy had said about Tammi.

  “Oh, my yes! I’ve meditated since last year, and I’ve found this marvelous mantra that clears my mind instantly! I can’t tell you what it is, of course, because then it loses its power. But I can help you find your own!”

  I sighed inwardly at Tammi’s interpretation of a “believer.” “No. Thanks anyway.”

  “I had a hard time deciding between that book and another one about all the paths that lead to God,” Tammi went on. “It’s about how God is like a rainbow because there are so many facets and colors to him. Sometimes when I’m meditating, I feel as if I’m climbing a rainbow right up to him!”

  “Actually, there’s only one true path to God. It’s through Jesus,” I said gently.

  “You think so?” I heard a hint of challenge in her skepticism.

  “Perhaps we could get together and talk about this—”

  “Oh, yes, let’s do! I’ve been thinking it would be nice to start a local spiritual group. Something that’s inclusive, you know, not exclusive? So we can share all viewpoints! I know a woman who’s really into crystals, and she has a friend who channels … oh, who is it? I forget, but it’s one of those old biblical names!”

  Oh, dear. My first thought was, Count me out of that. But on second thought I said, “Be sure to let me know when you’re meeting.” Anything I could do to turn this misguided group around, yes!

  “I heard from Skye about the … unpleasant incident with Leslie Marcone. I’m so sorry.” Tammi’s tone, on what she obviously viewed as a Sensitive Subject, turned subdued now. No exclamation points. “I hope she isn’t going to make trouble for you?”

  “She talked to the police. Sgt. Yates came to see me.”

  “Oh, well, everything will be okay, then! He’s such a sweetie, isn’t he?”

  “Sweetie?” It was not a word I’d associate with Sgt.

  Yates.

  “He’s trying to get a skateboard park built, you know. Where the kids can skateboard without getting in trouble like they do out on the sidewalks. And my Brad lent his name to the committee trying to raise money! He’ll probably help dedicate it, when the time comes.”

  “Maybe it’s the scar in Sgt. Yates’s eyebrow that kind of puts me off.”

  “Oh, that!” Tammi scoffed. “Don’t you know how he got that?”

  “In a struggle with a desperate criminal, I assumed.”

  “No, he was playing backyard basketball with some kids, and the hoop crashed down on him. Like I s
aid, he’s just a big sweetie!”

  Okay, if you say so. But I wasn’t totally convinced.

  Back to her subdued tone, Tammi added, “Sgt. Yates was the one who brought Skye home when she ran away right after her mother first sent her here. She was out on the highway, trying to hitchhike—”

  “Hitchhike?” I repeated, appalled at the vision that brought to mind. Lovely, sultry, vulnerable Skye, out there with her belly button showing and her thumb lifted …

  “He was so nice about it, really helpful, and just kept it all very quiet. We really appreciated that. Given Brad’s position and all.”

  “I understand your husband may be going into politics.”

  “Oh yes! We’re all so excited about it. He’ll make an official announcement soon, and then we’ll get a real campaign going.”

  “I’m sure he’ll do well. He seems very personable on TV.”

  “Oh, he is! Thank you.”

  The girls highlighted their hair. The highlights didn’t make much difference on Sandy’s blonde, but after two heavy doses, Skye’s dark hair definitely looked different. Not the sunshiny splashes of gold on the girl on the carton. Skye’s highlights were more a muddy-river reddish. I’d have been inclined to hide under a paper bag, but the girls seemed delighted. “Really punk,” Sandy said approvingly. “Maybe we should get some of those stick-on tattoos too!”

  “Stick-ons?” Skye pooh-poohed. “How about we go for the real thing!”

  Sandy looked at me. “I know. Not without asking Mom.”

  We all went to church together the following morning. I volunteered for the nursery, an offer that a harried-looking woman instantly snapped up. In two minutes I found myself surrounded by babies, toddlers, bottles, and diapers. It was wonderful!

  Back at home after church, I fixed tacos. The girls decided to go pick up Baby and take him for a ride in Skye’s car. I took a walk on the trail and on the way back spotted a gleam of metal near the bottom of the boat landing by the boathouse over at Tara of the Ozarks. On closer inspection, I realized the gleam was a car.

  I stopped short. Leslie’s Mercedes? But she never left it out of the garage. Why would it be down there? She could, I supposed, have had something to unload at the boathouse and parked down there for closer access. Although I couldn’t think what.

  At the house I got Mike’s binoculars out of a drawer by the window, but from there the angle was wrong and I couldn’t see the car at all because the boathouse was in the way. I took the binoculars down to the little dock for a better view.

  From that vantage point I saw no sign of movement, so if Leslie had something to unload she’d apparently already done so. But if she was finished, why hadn’t she put the car away?

  Another study through the binoculars raised a different question. Was it Leslie’s car? Someone else’s car parked on the property seemed unlikely, given Leslie’s hostile “keep out” attitude. But I’m not good at car identification even up close, and, with the glint of sunshine and the distance across the lake, I couldn’t even tell if the car was pale-colored, like Leslie’s light blue Mercedes, or something different.

  The car must have been put there just this morning, because I hadn’t seen it before—

  Not necessarily. From the house, with the boathouse blocking the view of the boat landing, I couldn’t have seen a car if one had been there. Could the car have been there even when I made my ill-fated excursion to the house to claim my whistle? It was possible. The driveway dipped steeply downward just above where boats could be put into the water, and I hadn’t ventured far onto the property that day. My attention had also been considerably distracted by the intruder in the brush. The car could have been there and I just hadn’t seen it.

  In any case, the presence of the car, assuming it was hers, indicated she was home, probably had been home all along and just wasn’t answering the phone.

  I marched into the house and dialed her number once more. I really did want my whistle. I let the phone ring eighteen times. Eighteen! Wouldn’t that be enough to drive even Leslie crazy? But no answer.

  I was just hanging up the phone when a motor home pulled into the driveway. My first thought was that it was Magnolia and Geoff returning. But they wouldn’t be on their way home this soon. Oh, I hope nothing’s wrong … Then I realized the motor home wasn’t as big as their behemoth. Also, when it turned around in the driveway, I saw that a rack on back held a bicycle, and there was no magnolia mural—

  Mac! Mac MacPherson.

  15

  I felt unexpected fireworks of excitement as he stepped out of the motor home. (Yes, in spite of what Generation Xers may believe, even LOLs can have unexpected explosions of fireworks.) Mac looked trim in tan pants and blue polo shirt, silver-white hair still crisp and thick, stride still vigorous.

  Just as quickly, the fireworks froze up like a computer program, and everything stopped dead.

  Yes, this was Mac MacPherson. The man with “commitment issues.” The man who thought I was a man-hungry spinster out to snare him like a dogcatcher after a stray dachshund.

  A more disturbing thought suddenly overrode that indignation. How had he found me? Because if he’d been able to do it—

  So that was the first question out of my mouth when I went out to meet him. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?”

  “I’m glad to see you too,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry. I mean, I am glad to see you. It’s just that I’ve been trying to keep my whereabouts secret—”

  “I know. I ran into Magnolia and Geoff at a powwow over in Oklahoma that I was covering for a travel magazine … you can’t miss that motor home with the magnolia on back, you know? Anyway, they told me you were temporarily hiding out away from home. But we talked it over, and none of us could see any problem with my knowing where you were. So I thought I’d stop in and say hello on my way up to Lake of the Ozarks. I have a travel magazine assignment to do a piece on fishing and camping there.”

  The long explanation sounded as if he felt he had to defend his presence here, and guilt hit me like a soggy dishrag. He was right, of course. Nothing to get in a tizzy about. Mac knowing my whereabouts surely couldn’t hurt anything. He wasn’t operating a hotline to the Braxtons. This was a nice gesture, stopping to see me, and I was being rude.

  I considered giving him a hug to show him I really was glad he’d come. But I didn’t want to encourage his skewed view of my matrimonial intentions. My next thought was, Offer food, which I figure takes care of most situations. Then the thought occurred to me that he might interpret that as the old the-way-to-a-man’s-heart-is-through-his-stomach ploy, so I just stood there feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Up close, I could see a faint stubble of silvery beard on his tanned face. Stubble makes some men look old and unkempt; on Mac it was rakish and masculine.

  “Seen any good meteors lately?” he inquired, cautiously referring to the Meteor Daze celebration we’d shared last year.

  Then I thought, Phooey on this! I was glad to see him, and not showing it was petty and dishonest. I threw out my arms and gave him a big hug, which brought a surprised smile, as well as a return hug. “I haven’t seen a good meteor in months,” I declared, and then I invited him in for oatmeal cookies and coffee.

  I thanked him for earlier sending me a copy of the article he’d written about the Meteor Daze, and he told me about his travels since last summer. We talked about the murder trial I’d been involved in and the ensuing threats on my life. About DeeAnn and Mike moving to Hawaii, and my short-lived job with the abrupt ending.

  It was much like the way old-friend Thea and I used to talk, unrelated subjects segueing comfortably into each other. I was just starting a chicken and rice casserole for dinner when Skye dropped off Sandy. I introduced Sandy and Mac, and about five minutes later she edged me off to the side and whispered, “Aunt Ivy, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!”

  I hastened to bury that line of thinking. “No, just an acquain
tance,” I whispered back. “He’s a friend of Magnolia and Geoff’s.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.” It was the kind of cheerful agreement that isn’t agreement at all. She even winked at me. “Great tattoo!” she added.

  Mac has a tattoo of a blue motorcycle on his right forearm. We’ve never gotten around to discussing it. I have mixed feelings about it. Why does any man decorate an arm with a drawing, let alone one of a blue motorcycle? Yet it isn’t truly unattractive …

  Sandy and Mac got along fine. It never occurred to me they’d have anything in common, but they’re both the kind of people who can find something to talk about with almost anyone. Turned out Mac has a granddaughter who is just getting into gymnastics, and he and Sandy had this whole lively conversation about balance beams and floor exercises and vaults.

  It was well past dark by the time we finished dinner, but the night was clear and a half moon sailed grandly across the sky. I put on a jacket, and Mac got one from his motor home, and we strolled along the trail. On the way back I led him down to the little dock. Most of the houses across the lake were lit up, lights reflected in the water below, the reflections so clear that it looked as if another world existed down below the familiar houses. A silvery moon shone in that world too. We even saw a shooting star, which was a nice reminder of last summer.

  Lights showed in the windows at Tara of the Ozarks, confirming that Leslie was home. Although, on second thought, I realized that wasn’t necessarily true. Leslie had the lights set on a timer system so they came on automatically whether she was home or away. For what reason she’d never shared with me, although I sometimes suspected she was somewhat intimidated by her oversized house. In the dark I couldn’t tell if the car was still down there by the boathouse.

  Mac had taken my hand when we scrambled from the trail to the dock, but it was a purely practical gesture to keep me from slipping on the damp ground, of course. Definitely nothing personal or romantic. “How’s the fishing here?” he asked. “I hear there’s bass and catfish and crappie in these Arkansas lakes.”