by Carolyn Hart
“Who?” Brewster Layton’s voice was steely with anger.
Sam nodded at Judy Weitz. “Play the recording from Virginia Morse.”
The quality was scratchy, a cell phone connection in Italy. Ginny Morse spoke somberly. “This is Virginia Morse. I’m a long-distance runner. I train in early morning on the roads around Adelaide. I often run through White Deer Park, make a four-mile circle and end up coming back through the park on Archer Street. About three years ago I saw a garage door lift and recognized Doug Graham’s car. I slowed down to be sure. He never noticed me. It happened four or five more times—”
A chair scooted back. Sharon King was on her feet, eyes staring, face parchment-white, hands held up before her as if warding off an attack. “That’s a lie. It’s all a lie—”
Detective Smith was standing by the door. He pulled it open, and a stocky woman with brassy hair edged inside.
Sam looked toward her. “Can you point out the woman who used a Kleenex to pick up a package of socks in the Walmart menswear department yesterday afternoon?”
The stocky woman, breathing rapidly, looked around the room. Her glance slid past matronly Lou Raymond, wide-eyed Anita Davis, red-faced Geraldine Jackson, tense Megan Wynn.
Her light eyes glittered. She lifted a broad hand and a stubby finger pointed.
Sharon King’s delicate features twisted in despair. She took one step back, another.
Sam strode close to Sharon, looked down. “Doug Graham lied to you, didn’t he?”
Tears trickled down Sharon’s thin cheeks. “He told me he loved me.”
Chapter 16
Jimmy and I followed Megan and Blaine to her apartment. Blaine petted the calico cat while Megan changed clothes. She came into the living room in a white top and pale blue linen shorts and matching blue flip-flops.
Blaine came to his feet and beamed. “I promised you a steak. I have a little patch of garden and I just harvested some corn. We’ll have filets and corn on the cob and lift a glass of champagne to celebrate the launch of Smith and Wynn, the best attorneys-at-law in Pontotoc County.”
She looked up with a tremulous smile. “I’d love to.” There was no doubting her delight. Then she said hesitantly, “Do you mind if I stay with Mr. Layton until he finds someone to take Doug’s place?”
“I wish you could be at our office”—he spoke with great proprietary pride—“tomorrow, but I know you want to help them out.” They were hand in hand as the door shut behind them, taking with them eagerness and excitement and optimism.
“Want to bet he has a chef hat and apron?” Jimmy’s tone was sardonic. “Sure he does. He’s a dweeb. But”—reluctantly—“I have to like the guy. What do you want to bet he was an Eagle Scout?”
I stayed mum.
“I never made it past Tenderfoot. I didn’t like chiggers. But you know what”—there was acceptance in his voice—“Megan will be okay.”
“And now . . .” My tone was gentle. I was looking toward the corner of Megan’s living room and the golden stairs curving into brilliance. I knew Jimmy was looking, too.
“Yeah.” Suddenly he was upbeat. “I’ll be up there in a sec. But first I want Megan to know it’s all right. I’m going over to his place.”
Jimmy was gone. So were the golden stairs.
I reached Blaine Smith’s old-fashioned bungalow. There was no car in the drive. I circled the house. A gas grill sat near the back steps. Several wicker chairs looked inviting in the shade of a sycamore. His garden filled a good third of the small backyard. A stockade fence enclosed the yard.
Car doors slammed. Blaine’s voice boomed. Megan’s husky tone was excited, cheerful.
Was Jimmy inside the house?
I was in the living room as the front door opened.
“. . . and I’ll make the salad.”
I had no sense Jimmy was near. I returned to the patio. The back door opened and Blaine hurried down the steps to the grill and lifted the lid, turned on the flame. In no time at all, he stood at the grill, tending to sizzling steaks.
Megan brought a tray with two slightly frosted tall glasses. “I found lemons and made some lemonade. We’ll save our champagne for dessert. The table’s all set.”
Blaine looked over his shoulder, grinned. “We make a good team. The steaks are—”
Golden stairs rose near the sycamore, bright and shining, up and up.
Where was Jimmy?
Absorbed in each other, neither Blaine nor Megan saw the back door open for an instant. A small sack was lifted, taken inside, the door closed.
I hurried inside.
A rustic planked table was set for two in a small alcove near the kitchen.
The sack moved through the air, opened a few inches above a blue pottery plate. A Dove chocolate raspberry bar slowly descended, was placed directly in front of the plate. The sack moved across the table, opened again. A second bar was placed ever so precisely in front of the opposite plate.
“Jimmy”—there was a catch in my voice—“that’s very sweet.”
“Do you think Megan will understand?” His voice was anxious.
“She will understand perfectly.”
The golden stairs rose in the corner of the room.
And then they were gone.
The Rescue Express rocketed through the star-spangled sky, the whistle deep and commanding. I held to the railing of the caboose, welcomed the thrum of wheels on steel rails.
Wiggins’s reddish brown hair sprigged from beneath the rim of his stiff cap. He patted my shoulder and harrumphed, always a means of pretending he wasn’t touched. “Nice young man.”
“Very nice.” My voice was soft.
“Rather a coup on your part, Bailey Ruth. Although there were several instances when you were perhaps too much in the world. . . .”
I listened respectfully, but I was thinking of Jimmy as he took the golden steps two at a time on his way to the next great adventure.
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