by Ginny Aiken
The Duo stands, gathers their toxic-colored totes and, bickering good-naturedly, head down the hall toward the bank of elevators.
I collapse against the back of my chair. “Phew! I was afraid they’d never leave.”
Next to me, Max squirms.
Then he shifts.
Finally, he wriggles, taps a foot, drums his fingers on the armrest. When he starts to hum a monotone drone, I reach the end of my rope. “Come on, come on. Spill it, already.”
He leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees, clasp his hands, and prop his chin on the laced fingers. “Something’s wrong. Miss Mona didn’t say more than two words the whole time since I got here.”
Now that he mentions it, she had been uncharacteristically quiet. But I’m not ready to go borrowing trouble. I’ll worry about her silence some other time, later. “She’s not really as much of a chatterbox as Aunt Weeby. Let’s go see Laura, then head to the studio. We’re due on-screen in a couple of hours, and we haven’t even chosen the merchandise for the show.”
He stands, worry in the tight lines of his face. “You go ahead. I’ll be waiting for you in my dressing room. Tell Laura I’m glad she’s doing better.”
“You’re not coming to say goodbye?”
He shrugs. “It’s best if you handle it in true girly-girl fashion.”
Huh? “Okey-dokey.”
I’m not buying it. He’s up to something. And he wants me out of it, whatever it is.
Fine. Let him be that way. But I’ll find out what he’s up to. And like our show, it’s gonna happen sooner rather than later. I’ll make sure of it.
1500
I spend the day trying to catch up with Mr. Magnificent.
He spends the day dodging me.
Except there’s the minor matter of a show we have to do—together. It’s what cohosts do. By the time the cameras zoom in on us, I’m wound up tighter’n one of the girdles our channel sells by the truckload. The two-hour show feels comfy-cozy, like a session with my favorite—not—dentist.
Finally, as the last notes of the theme song fade into the now-dark studio, I whirl on my partner, jab a finger at the middle of his broad chest. “And you have the gall to bug me about partnership? Huh? How about it, pardner? Spill the beans, already.”
He shrugs. “Let that poor bee out of that bonnet, Andie. I just know something’s bugging Miss Mona, and they’re not back yet. I won’t relax until they’re home again.”
My nerves set up a rhythmic rattle. I don’t want to consider the awful possibilities, even though unease is playing my song. “How do you know they’re not back yet? You’ve spent the last two hours on-screen with me. You don’t know who’s come in or out of the building.”
“Hannah’s got the perfect view of the hallway. I asked her to give me a heads-up during the show once she saw them.”
I look at our favorite camerawoman, who’s covering her equipment. She shakes her head. My stomach lurches. We’ve just done the last live show of the day. It’s nine thirty now. Unless they’re home, then Max is right. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
I scoot my chair back and march off toward my dressing room and cell phone. “I’m calling them. They probably went right home. Maybe there’s a message on my voice mail telling us where to meet them for that late dinner we talked about before they left.”
The echo of Max’s footsteps follows me. I race to my purse, pull out my phone—no message.
Then I speed-dial my aunt. It goes straight through to her voice mail. Unless she’s making a call, the phone’s been turned off. Not at all something Aunt Weeby has a habit of doing.
“Well?” Max says.
I shake my head. A queasy wooziness starts in my gut. A chill runs through me. “Maybe they . . . maybe—”
Someone raps on my door. “Come in.”
Chief Clark walks in. The queasy wooziness goes right down the sour road to nausea. His frown doesn’t give me the warm fuzzies, know what I mean?
“Are they hurt?” I ask.
“Hurt?” He looks back out in the hall, around the room.
“Who?”
“Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona. They’re the reason you’re here, right?”
He sighs. “Sure are, Miss Andie, but not on account of them being hurt or anything like that. Leastways, I’m hoping not.”
“Then why are you here?”
He drags off his official hat, scratches his head, then claps the worn-to-a-shiny-edge-on-the-brim thing back on. He rubs his chin, shifts his weight from foot to foot.
What is it with these men and their fidgeting when they’re trying to avoid giving a straight answer? I’m fresh out of patience this time. “Please tell me. You don’t usually come around just to hang and chill.”
The chief clears his throat. “Do you know any reason Miss Mona would be getting dozens of phone calls from Colombia? Real short ones, hang-ups, and not from that Rodolfo guy in the hospital, either. Dozens, Miss Andie. Dozens in the last coupla weeks.”
No wonder she was so quiet in the waiting room this morning. She probably hadn’t said a thing to the chief about those calls. Then he came out with his warning about not telling him everything. I suspect that’s when she began to put the pieces together.
There’s way more here than meets the eye, all right.
Houston? We have a problem.
By midnight, Max and I are in my living room, staring at each other, he on my sofa and me in my chaise, our fear, worry, and love for the Duo mingled and heavy in the air.
“It’s all my fault!” I finally grind out. “If only I hadn’t sent them off on a stupid junking trip—”
“Stop it,” he says, his voice quiet and far calmer than anything I could come up with under the circumstances. “There’s no way you could’ve known something was going to happen. And we don’t even know if anything has happened to them. For all you know, they’re holed up in some motel, getting ready to hit the flea market again tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “Don’t even try, okay? You don’t believe a word you said, so you can’t begin to convince me. You know something’s happened just as well as I do. You know they would’ve called.”
He sighs. “Yeah, but you can’t blame a guy for trying to ease your mind.”
“Thanks. I just can’t stand the thought of them winding up hurt.”
“Neither can I. But we have to trust. They love the Lord, and he’s in control. We aren’t.”
I burst up and start to pace—again. “But that’s the whole point. God didn’t send them off into trouble, I did. And there’s got to be something I can do to help them out of the mess they might be in. Because I sent them.”
“God might not have sent them off into trouble, but you didn’t either. Out of love for Laura, and for the two of them, you figured they’d be better off having a good time rather than making trouble at the hospital. Where’s the blame in that?”
What, did he suddenly take a turn down Dumb Alley? “Don’t you get it? I sent them. They’d be here, and fine, if I’d let them stay in the waiting room.”
He points at his über-purple swollen eye. “Did you forget the guy I fought? He was there, in the hospital, and neither Laura nor her dad wound up okay.” Max reaches out, then wraps his hand around mine. I stop pacing to meet his gaze.
“Do you trust God?” he asks. “Do you believe he can and will work this out to his will and purpose?”
His words suck all the energy out of my nerves, my anxiety, my strength. I pull out of his grasp, stumble a couple of steps past him to drop into the chaise again, too aware of my weakness. “Oh, Max, what a mess I am. I’m scared to pieces to let things happen just because. And scared’s not a very faith-filled way to feel. I have to find the strength to trust, to believe God’s mercy will win out in the end.”
Max stands, crosses the distance between us, and drops to his knees at my side. He curves a finger under my chin to make me meet his gaze. “And you think you’re the only Christian who has t
o deal with that? That’s where we all live at one point or another. Ease up on yourself.”
I bite my bottom lip.
He tugs it free with his thumb. “Remember in the book of Mark, when the father brings the son with the evil spirit to the Lord? The father has a great need, and he asks Jesus to heal the boy, if he can. Jesus answers, understanding where we all live. He says everything’s possible for the one who believes.”
With a nod, I murmur, “ ‘Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!’ ”
“And what did Jesus do?”
“He cast out the evil spirit . . . and that strengthened the believers’ faith.” I sigh. “Growing up is hard, sometimes too hard.”
“You ready for the alternative, Andi-ana Jones?”
I chuckle without humor. “Not really. I have a lot of growing to do yet. And I’ve been doing more like a dog chasing its tail.”
The doorbell rings. I leap to answer.
And then my stomach plummets again. Why does it have to be the chief?
He strolls in but doesn’t remove his hat. “I have me a smidgeon more info you might like.”
My eyebrows fly up. No “Hello,” no “How are you?” No nothing. And no phone call to tell me whatever he wants to tell me? Doesn’t look good. I brace myself. “Don’t know why you’re waiting to tell us.”
He finally doffs his hat. “Well, it’s like this.” The hat makes a complete revolution in his hands. “I had me a time trying to track down them phone calls, but I got some help from a Mr. Sloan at our embassy in Bo . . . Bo-go . . . whatever. The capital of Colombia.”
“We know Mr. Sloan.”
The hat keeps on turning. “He went to the telephone company and had them track that phone number.”
“And?”
“And I also reckoned Miss Laura might know something about it. She does live down there.” He slaps the hat against his thigh, then pulls the notepad out of his pocket, flips to a particular page. He stares at the writing there, as if it were about to reveal everything he wants to know. “The girl’s sharp, all right. She recognized the area code—or whatever they call it down there—right away. She says it comes from the ranching regions in the east—”
“Doña Rosario!”
He nods. “Uh-huh. That’s what I said, and I said it before we knew anything ’bout ranch-house phone numbers or any old thing like that. Which we just got confirmed by Mr. Sloan right now, Mr. Sloan, who’d just heard from his man at the phone company. But I’d be willing to wager just about anything, Miss Andie, that you don’t know nothing about what I’m gonna tell you next.”
All this circling around is making me more than dizzy. And the fact I could barely choke down a bite or two of fast food a couple of hours ago instead of a decent dinner doesn’t help. “Please, Chief. I can’t take the suspense. I’m going crazy with worry about my aunt and Miss Mona.” I give him a crooked grin. “Besides, I’m lousy at Twenty Questions.”
“I toldja that there Rosie woman had to have more invested in this than just them stones. Looks like she has a chunk of her past and more’n likely a piece of her heart—or maybe it’s more like her pride—in the deal.”
I grind my teeth to keep from yelling, lace my hands together to keep from reaching out and shaking him. “What’s the connection? Please. You’re killing me here.”
“Well, Miss Andie, it’s like this. Seems that Rosie woman was once married to little Miss Laura’s daddy. The divorce didn’t go too well, and she’s not real happy at his success. She’s not happy ’bout not cashing in on any of it these days. You know.”
That clunking sound you just heard? That was my stomach diving down to my toes. “Oh. My. Goodness.”
Max grinds his teeth behind me.
“Something like that,” the chief says. “But I got more for you. That Rosie woman comes from some old, rich family who got tangled up with that coca smuggling business. Looks to me like her big brother wound up in trouble not so long ago. His smuggling plane got shot down by the tough president’s anti-drug folks. No plane, no smuggling—”
“No smuggling, no big bucks.” I’m not likely to forget the opulence of that unlikely ranch in the middle of the back of beyond. “She needs to replace the income to keep herself in the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed. And run-of-the-mill emeralds won’t bring her the kind of money she likes.”
Chief Clark’s brows draw together. “I think you’re saying what I’m thinking, but you sure do have a tangled-up way of putting things.”
I whirl, plunk my fists on my hips, and beam a glare at Max—a preventive glare. “Don’t you dare laugh! Or make some snarky comment, either. This isn’t the time.” When he makes the universal zip-the-lip move across his mouth, I turn back to the chief, ignoring the twitching at the corners of Max’s mouth. “She lost her direct hookup to the profits from the emeralds when she signed on the dotted line and went her way, so she figures she’s entitled to a little sum’n-sum’n here.”
“It’s worse’n that, Miss Andie. She wants the money from them extra-special emeralds you got to buy a new plane for the family business. Seems even the regular expensive green trinkets don’t bring in the kind of gravy she’s wanting.”
Talk about dizzy. “This is big. Big-time big. Like those big-boy, king-of-the-universe emeralds I bought for Miss Mona. Any one of them would make a nice dent in the invoice for the average corporate jet. No wonder . . .”
Max eases me into my chaise. “And, as usual, you’re stuck smack in the middle of things.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a gift.”
Memories of the trip to Colombia whirl through my head. Creepella d’Eville . . . close encounters of the trash kind . . . dunkin’ dungeons . . . flying pigs—well, they weren’t really flying, but you get the picture.
Nothing makes much sense, other than the clear evidence of greed in a woman’s life. It’s hard for me to understand how one can sell out like that for the sake of a crystal chandelier or a pair of Stuart Weitzman pumps. Or Christian Louboutin high heels, which is what Doña Rosario was actually wearing at dinner that night. Yes, there is a difference. And yes, yes, I know the difference.
Look at Miss Mona. She’s got a bundle of money too, but it’s not as if she lavishes the big bucks on herself. Sure, she bought a McMansion with it, but at the same time she gives well more than her tithe to further the cause of Christ through missions and schools and all kinds of other seriously good ministries. Not to mention all the jobs she’s created with the studio.
The difference between the two women couldn’t be greater.
So . . .
“Why would Doña Rosario call Miss Mona? What would link the two of them? I mean, I know Miss Mona wouldn’t have anything to do with someone so unlike her.”
The chief barks out a humorless laugh. “Seems to me, Miss Andie, that’s the job I have to be getting back to. I have the poisoned girl, the daddy in a coma, Mr. Max all beat up, and two missing ladies. It all adds up to a bushel of trouble, and no answers in hand.”
When neither one of us has anything further to offer, he claps the hat back on. “I’ll be going now. If you happen to think up anything important, am I gonna be able to trust you to call and tell me? Not run off like some dog with a juicy bone and keep it all to yourself?”
I tip my nose up into the air. “I always call you when I find out anything. You just don’t listen to me all the time.”
“I’ll have you know, miss, I’ve always listened.” He tugs down the brim of his hat over his eyes. “I might not always do things the way you’re wanting me to, but I do take my calling to serve real serious.”
There might just be more than a teensy-weensy bit of truth in that. “Ah . . . well, I guess I did know that.”
“And don’t you be forgetting it. I’ll be seeing you in the morning sometime. But if you think of anything—any little ol’ thing, you hear?—you just go right ahead and call me. I’ll let the missus know you might could do that. She won’t mind
. She’s mighty partial to your Aunt Weeby. They been friends for years, like your daddy and I.”
The burning behind my eyes threatens to turn to out-and-out waterworks. “Thank you. I appreciate your concern. And your wife’s.”
A hint of red splashes across his cheekbones. He shrugs, then turns. “I’ll be letting myself out, Miss Andie. You don’t need to bother showing me the door.”
Once he’s gone and the soft sound of the closing door melts into the night’s hush, I realize the tears that had earlier threatened now pour down my cheeks. I swipe the back of my right hand across both eyes in a useless attempt to stem the flow. As I blink and blink, I realize Max has again come to my side. He kneels and looks at me, worry in his gaze.
“Are you okay?”
“Not right now, but I will be.” I take a deep breath and force a smile. “I have enough faith to believe that.”
“Then come on. Let’s get you something to drink and at least a paper towel to dry your face.”
I follow him to the kitchen, where he leads me to one of the bistro chairs, then searches through my cupboards until he finds a glass. He shoots me a grin over his shoulder. “Nothing like making myself at home.”
“No big deal. You’ve been great today.” Not to mention the other times in our acquaintance when I’ve needed him and he’s been there for me.
Earth to Andie! He’s one of the good guys, the really good guys.
Yeah. Okay, okay. I did figure that out. True, it took me longer than it should have, but I do know it now.
A paper towel and the glass of water appear before me. I dry my cheeks, and only then realize how thirsty I am. I haven’t had anything to drink since we drove through the Golden Arches around ten o’clock and I tried—but failed—to force down a pre-fab burger and an iced tea.
I drain the glass, plunk it down on the table. “You know what I have to do, don’t you?”
His eyebrows fly up and he holds out a hand, palm flat out at me. “You’re not going to make me guess what’s going on inside that redhead’s head of yours. I’m just a guy, a regular guy. Mind-reading you is way beyond me.”
