Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  “But . . . ,” the little nun sputtered.

  “Sister,” John said, relaxing slightly to show his faith in Carly, “I’m a retired FBI agent. I know how these things work. I also know Carly. Somebody put that knife in her backpack. If you want, I can call in the local police right now and get their fingerprint guy over here.”

  “Do that.” The nun’s face remained devoid of emotion. John hadn’t managed to intimidate her in the least. But he’d gotten what he wanted.

  He stayed with Carly throughout the fingerprint process. The local detective dusted the knife first, getting a clear thumb and middle finger. After taking Carly’s thumbprint, he held up the print sheet.

  “Not a match, Sister. You don’t have to be an expert to tell. If you look here, you’ll see that big swirl on the print from the knife. You will note that it does not appear on Miss Snow’s print. She couldn’t have left it. Unless she had rubber gloves, which would have smeared the prints, or used a technology far beyond what any sixteen-year-old kid could obtain, she did not touch that knife.

  “Would you like me to determine who did?”

  Sister Rosemary had to know the consequences of having the entire school fingerprinted for she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Detective. Carly, I am convinced the knife isn’t yours. I guess we’ll have to leave it at that.”

  “Wait a minute, Sister,” John interrupted. “You accused Carly of bringing a knife to school. You hauled me in here all the way from an investigation in Atlantic City. I got a speeding ticket trying to get here as soon as possible. Carly had to undergo the humiliation of fingerprinting to prove her innocence and you want to leave it at that?

  “I don’t think so. I want the culprit located and punished as Carly would have been punished.”

  “No . . . no!” Carly stepped forward, putting her hand on his sleeve for just a second then removing it. “It’s over. Just let me go to class.”

  The detective put away his gear, listening to the conversation with interest. Detective Rosenberg knew little of parochial school nuns.

  John put his hand on Carly’s shoulder. “Look, Carly, somebody framed you. Don’t you want the guilty party to be punished?”

  He looked into her eyes and saw the trouble in them. She knew who had done it, or thought she knew. Her light colored hair wisped across her forehead and once again John thought of the woman who had to be her mother.

  Carly shook her head. “There’s been enough hassle. As long as Sister Rosemary is convinced the knife isn’t mine and I don’t know how it got in my backpack, that’s enough.”

  He recognized the stubborn set of her chin and gave in.

  “Sister, if you would kindly walk Carly back to class, that will be proof enough that you do not doubt her word.”

  He waited for some crack in the old nun’s façade. They were so used to always being right, it must hurt them to admit being mistaken. Seconds passed in absolute silence and the sister gave no indication of relenting.

  John urged her with his guaranteed-to-make-glaciers-melt smile.

  The merest hint of a quiver touched the woman’s lips.

  “All right. You’re correct, Mr. Preshin. It is not your ward’s knife and I will bring her back to her next class personally.”

  Pushing his luck, he looked down on the little woman and suggested, “You’ll bring her to her class and smile at her to let everyone know she’s innocent?”

  Sister Rosemary pursed her lips. “You went to Catholic school, didn’t you, Mr. Preshin?”

  “All the way through college.”

  She let a small smile sneak over her mouth. “It shows.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Sister.”

  Chapter 25

  Liz watched her grandmother sashay back and forth behind the marble-topped counter, serving soup to hungry road workers who used to be regular customers of the luncheonette. She’d heard a few squawks about no hamburgers, but as they sipped their hearty minestrone and dipped pinches of fresh French bread into the bowls, the old favorites were apparently forgotten.

  Big burly road workers might miss their burgers, but the delicious soup warmed them and filled their bellies. The atmosphere of the luncheonette, though changed in décor with a slightly more elegant look, remained friendly and upbeat. She noted that no one left unsmiling after paying their bills.

  And tips proved to be quite generous.

  Outside, standing in the cool March wind, two men, dressed much better than those who returned to their jobs repairing the road, contemplated the new menu displayed on the Soup Bar window.

  When the stools emptied, the new customers made their way in and seated themselves at the counter.

  Liz tensed. These customers could do a great deal for the Soup Bar. Recommendations from them could bring in business from the city and elsewhere. She smoothed her apron and approached them.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  “Oooh, look at this menu, Gary. Marvelous. Simply marvelous.” Turning from his friend, the speaker returned the greeting then asked, “What would you recommend, my dear?”

  Smiling, Liz rattled off the specials, carefully planned by Flo and Carly as the best of the proposed menu for this, the first day of the new business.

  Lance introduced himself and Gary. “I’ll have the grilled Portobello with, let me see, I think the Italian bride soup. There isn’t any barley in it, is there? I’m afraid I can’t take barley.”

  “No, sir. No barley, just pearl pasta and simple vegetables in clear broth.”

  “Gary? What will you have?” He turned to his friend and gazed with affection at the tall, spare man with close-cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses over dark brown eyes.

  Gary clearly did not know what to choose. “Oh, I’ll have the same soup, but do you have a sandwich with beef? I’m simply not in the mood for fungi.”

  “You’ll enjoy the Hunter, then. Finely sliced roasted beef on a hearty whole grain roll, served with a dash of horseradish sauce.”

  Thinking it over, Gary nodded. “Not too much horseradish, please.”

  Liz, feeling especially agreeable, offered to serve it on the side. Both men seemed pleased with their choices. As she made her way into the kitchen, she overheard them exclaiming over the menu.

  Carly knew her stuff. Sprinkling Italian and French in the selection names added something, all right. They could up the prices.

  More customers drifted in, a mixed crowd of old regulars and an entirely new group, all eager to give the Soup Bar a try.

  About two thirty, the place was empty. Liz and Flo cleaned up, Flo started the soup bases for tomorrow’s menu and Liz took stock of the refrigerator.

  “We’ll need to get in some more mushrooms, Gram. And parsley and some tomatoes. I hope Danny can find some more of the vine-ripened ones for us. They were noted by some of our more discriminating customers today.”

  Wiping her hands on her soiled apron, Flo wrote down the list and put in a call to their supplier while Liz took one more look at the counter.

  She saw movement at the door and was about to call out that they were closed when John Preshin wandered in.

  With his broad shoulders slumped and his head bowed, he looked like a man with a problem. Liz sighed as her heart did a little blip inside her chest. She could shoo him away, back upstairs to his lair and let him suffer whatever it was that had brought him to this condition.

  Or, something she did not relish, she could ask him what was wrong. Either way, somehow she knew she would regret his reply. Unless, that is, he refused to answer.

  “Tough day?”

  He lifted his head, the blueness of his eyes startling her. Had she never noticed the intense color before? Or had she? Had she tried to forget the haunting depth of them or the way they scored her soul when he looked at her just that way? And dare she ask about the shiner?

  She felt a little uncomfortable being alone with him right now. Something about those eyes showed he
r a side of the detective she’d never suspected.

  “Yeah. You might say that,” John supplied.

  Rubbing her hand on the apron front, she asked if he was hungry, avoiding any mention of his battered face.

  “Nah. You’re cleaning up. It’s after closing.” He turned up his gaze, a small smile taunting her, forcing her to say it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, what would he like?

  Manipulative bastard, she thought. He sure knows how to play me. “I haven’t erased the menu yet. We have a little left of everything, but not much.”

  John parked himself on one of the newly reupholstered stools at the counter. He spun on the stool and focused on the menu board.

  “Kinda fancy.”

  Liz bridled at his tone. “If you don’t like it, you can go somewhere else. . . .”

  “Now, Lizzie,” he added quickly, “I wasn’t complaining. It was merely an observation. Do you have any of that French onion soup left? I’m not in the mood for brides right now.”

  Letting the comment slide, Liz disappeared out back and called out to her grandmother that John had stopped in. As she fixed the soup, floating the crouton of stale bread atop the steaming onions and tossing a handful of Gruyere on top of that, she wondered what had put their tenant in such a sedate—no, make that thoughtful—mood. What had happened to the other guy? If she asked, though, would he even tell her?

  She didn’t know him, not really. Well, she knew him, but she doubted that allowed her to delve into his thoughts. Eventually, she knew she’d ask him. It would just slip out and she regretted it already. His troubles had nothing to do with her.

  Removing the bowl of soup and cheese from the salamander, Liz carried it out to him. She noticed that the towel she was using had stains on it and as soon as she set the bowl down in front of John, she tossed the towel in with the other soiled towels to be picked up by the laundry tomorrow morning.

  “Everything okay?” she asked before turning to leave for the apartment.

  Her customer sighed. “Soup’s great. Really great.”

  The sigh undid her.

  She came around the counter and stood by the empty stool next to him. “I know I’m going to regret this, but what’s the matter, John?” Without thinking, her hand went up to smooth his hair. Horrified at what she’d done, she put it behind her back, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  He stopped the spoon in mid-air and set it down. “I got called to Mary Immaculate just before eleven.”

  Concern for Carly rose in Liz’s throat. “What happened? Is Carly all right?”

  John resumed eating, speaking in between spoonfuls of soup and onion and gooey cheese. “Somebody put a huge hunting knife in her backpack, setting her up for expulsion from school.”

  Surprised he didn’t act even more distressed, Liz leaned her forearm on the counter, bringing her closer to him, getting into his face. “How could that happen?”

  John put down the spoon and blotted his lips with a paper napkin. “I’m not exactly sure, but the kid handled it like a pro. She refused to touch the thing and demanded to have the knife fingerprinted.”

  “Like father, like daughter,” murmured Liz.

  John started. “What did you say?”

  Liz shook her head. “Forget it. Just tell me the rest of the story.”

  John’s eyes narrowed, then apparently dismissing the thought, he continued. “Carly wouldn’t tell me who did it, if she even knows, but I have a feeling she knows damn well who framed her. The vice principal was ready to kick the kid out of school, I think. At least it seemed that way when I first talked with her. But she wasn’t going to check, wasn’t going to call in the cops. Carly and I insisted . . . I even called them in myself. One of the detectives came in and dusted the knife for prints then took Carly’s prints and it was plain as day they didn’t match.”

  Liz sat back with relief. “And? Come on, John, finish the story.”

  John swallowed. A look of pain crossed his face for a second then vanished. “And Carly and the nun thought that was enough, but I didn’t. I wanted it made clear to everyone that the nun believed that Carly had nothing to do with the knife and that it wasn’t hers.”

  Liz nodded in understanding. “I see what you mean. You wanted the kid exonerated. It wouldn’t do to have her peers suspect her for the rest of her time in high school.”

  “Suspicion can be an ugly thing, with or without proof,” John observed.

  Tears burned Liz’s eyes. Suspicion could be more than an ugly thing. It could destroy a person.

  Carly bounded down the street feeling exultant. She passed Curtis at the newsstand and gave him a smile and a wave. He grinned back at her and called out, “Looks like somebody had a good day!”

  Skidding to a stop, she leaned her two hands on the counter and looked the elderly man in the eye. “Actually, this had the potential to be one of the very worst days of my entire life, but it isn’t. No, it certainly is not.”

  He slipped her a chocolate bar, gave her a wink and waved good-bye as she took off toward home.

  “Watch those cars!” he shouted at her back.

  Carly laughed and slowed down before dashing across the street. The lights were still on inside the Soup Bar. Funny, she thought they’d agreed to close up after three. It was nearly four o’clock.

  Coming to a complete stop, she peered inside the window. Liz sat beside John on the stool near the cash register. They both looked wary. In fact, it looked as if Liz had been crying, but they were talking and they weren’t shouting at each other, which was good. She watched them awhile, until Liz looked out at the street. Carly made faces behind the glass.

  Laughing, Liz waved Carly around to the side door.

  Banging her backpack against the interior walls and hitting her hip into the worktop, Carly entered the luncheonette with her own unique fanfare.

  “Hi, everybody!” she called out.

  “Hi, yourself,” Liz shot back. “Before you get started, let me tell you that everything went well today.”

  Carly leaned against one of the small tables and digested this news.

  “Great! That’s wonderful, Liz. How was the crowd? Did anybody complain about the new menu? How bad was the rush?”

  “Big. Not really. Pretty good after noon, slow around one forty-five and over by two-thirty, as you predicted.”

  Feeling a part of the apparent success, Carly allowed herself a small I-told-you-so grin before sobering. She had to say something to John who was just sitting there. Had to. Maybe it would be easier to say it in front of Liz. Or maybe not. He was watching her, but hadn’t said anything yet.

  “Uh, Mr. Preshin . . .” she began, her voice reflecting none of the joy she’d felt earlier.

  He pushed away his soup bowl and swung around on the stool. Waiting. Waiting for her to say something more, she just knew it. She had to do something, had to cross that invisible, impassable line she’d drawn between them from the beginning. He’d saved her. He’d come to her rescue like a knight on his charger. Move Carly. Go over to him.

  Still he said nothing. But his eyes were alive. He waited for her to....

  Carly flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging as hard as she could.

  John let out a surprised grunt then put his hands around her waist and gave her a tight squeeze.

  That did it. Carly started crying. As tears streamed down her cheeks, she tried to tell him how grateful she was, how he was the best, how he’d saved her life, how he’d faced down Sister Rosemary and actually made her acknowledge that she’d been wrong. He was the best. The absolute best. More than great. Cool beyond belief.

  Liz stepped into the kitchen as the tops of John’s cheeks reddened.

  “Hey! Wow!” John pulled away and looked into Carly’s eyes. “I did what I had to.”

  Wiping away a tear and sniffling, Carly tried to regain control of herself. He dug around in the pocket of his jacket, then plucked some napkins from the dispenser in front
of him.

  Carly hiccoughed and started to wipe her sleeve across her nose, but accepted the proffered paper napkins instead.

  “Honest, Carly. I did what was right.” He looked away, no longer scrutinizing her. Carly dabbed at her tears.

  “You don’t understand. Nobody ever stuck up for me in my entire life. Nobody. Not until you.” Her voice, a mere whisper, sounded shaky.

  John leaned closer to hear her. More tears came and, without saying another word, John put his hand on the back of Carly’s head and drew her into an awkward embrace. She buried her face into the soft leather of his jacket.

  And snarfled.

  John didn’t push her away.

  Viewing this from the kitchen door, Liz heaved a sigh and turned back to the unpleasant task of gathering up the day’s dirty laundry.

  Carly sucked in her breath. An e-mail from Choochie. What could this be about? He’d only written to her six or seven times in the past month, each time only after she’d inquired about him through Frankie. Her heart pounded as she moved the cursor to his name and clicked.

  Her eyes scanned the note, her stomach tightening with each syllable. Oh, no. Oh, wow. Oh, man. What can I do?

  Hey, Carly, how’s it going? Nothing much here, but it’s always dead here. “So much for small talk.”

  I was wondering if your school has a prom and if it does, would you consider going with me?

  “Oh, would I! The girls would throw themselves at his feet if I brought him to Mary Immaculate. He is so hot!”

  Our school has a prom only for juniors. The seniors had a senior ball, but that was in November and I didn’t know you then. “That’s because I was in Philly!” I know this is pretty late and all, but I think you’re really okay.

  So, if you have a prom and you need a date and would like to go with me, let me know so I can clean out my car. —Jason

  Carly sucked in air. Her heart felt all fluttery and her mouth felt as if she’d swallowed dryer lint.

  Too many thoughts rushed around inside her head. Prom bids cost a hundred bucks. He lived about an hour away. He’d need a tux. Oh, God! She’d need a dress! Where was she going to get the money for a dress?