“I didn’t know you got arrested, too.”
“That’s just it. I didn’t. Michael said I’d lose my spot on the wrestling team and my college scholarship if they caught me.” He paused, tapping the countertop. “So I hid behind this very counter and let him take the fall.”
“How could you?” Sara cried.
“I’m not proud of it,” he said. “My dad’s the only other person who knows what I did. By the time I told him, though, Michael was already in juvenile detention. Nothing I said would change that, so I kept quiet.”
Sara thought about the strength of character it had taken a teenage boy to sacrifice himself for his friend. “Now I understand why you and your dad feel the way you do about Michael.”
“That’s not the only reason.” Johnny had been staring straight ahead while he told his story, but now he looked at her. “You’ve gotten to know Michael. You know what kind of person he is.”
She swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat because she didn’t know anything after last night. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because Michael’s got a protective streak as wide as the Lehigh. I’m assuming he found out about the women’s club last night. If he was the one who broke things off with you, it might not be because he doesn’t care about you.” Johnny paused, giving his next words more weight. “It could be because he cares too much.”
THE LAST PLACE Sara expected to find herself later that afternoon was in front of Felicia Feldman’s house.
She had no intention of seeking out Michael despite what Johnny had told her. As a lawyer, Sara dealt in facts. Johnny’s claim that Michael cared about her was purely conjecture.
If Sara hadn’t known Mrs. Feldman planned to spend the day gardening, she wouldn’t be here. But the woman was so anxious for news on Sara’s efforts to get her loan refinanced that she’d left word where she’d be at all times.
Sara didn’t only have news. She had big news. The kind of information that should be delivered in person, even if she ran the risk of running into Michael.
Mrs. Feldman was bent over a colorful flower bed beside the house she was so desperate not to lose, a floppy hat shielding her face from the sun. She dug in the soil with a trowel, a small pile of weeds next to her.
“Hi, Mrs. Feldman,” Sara said, announcing her presence. Mrs. Feldman looked up, the hope on her face visible.
“I’ve got some great news,” she told the woman without preamble. “I found a lender who’s agreed to refinance your loan.”
Mrs. Feldman grew perfectly still, with only her mouth moving as she asked in a cautious voice, “Does that mean I can keep my house?”
“That’s exactly what it means.”
Mrs. Feldman let out a joyful cry, dropped the small trowel, scrambled to her feet and wrapped Sara in a hug. She smelled of the sun, the earth and happiness.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Her hug was surprisingly robust considering her small stature. “You’re a miracle worker!”
Sara laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You are.” Mrs. Feldman finally let her go, her bemusement temporarily surpassing her joy. “I thought nobody would give me a loan because of my credit history.”
“That’s what I thought, too, but this particular lender offers a special program for people like you.” Sara didn’t tell her about the long odds the loan officer had quoted when she first contacted him. “The interest rate is higher than I would have liked, but the payments are manageable if you stick to a budget.”
“Oh, I will. I’d never risk losing my home again.” She smiled. “I wish Michael was here so I could tell him!”
Relief that she wouldn’t have to face Michael mixed with concern over his whereabouts. “Where is he?” she asked, hoping she sounded casual, hoping Michael wasn’t out searching for Quincy Coleman again.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Feldman said. “He said something about picking up a new part for my downstairs toilet. He’s always doing something for me. This morning he replaced two of my ceiling fans.”
“I’m glad you two are getting along.”
“Did he tell you that?” Mrs. Feldman asked anxiously.
“Well, no,” Sara admitted. “From what you said, I just assumed things are better between you.”
“They’re not. He’s hardly here, and we don’t talk to each other when he is. He’ll never forgive me for what I did.”
Sara chastised herself for getting pulled into yet another discussion about Michael, but Mrs. Feldman appeared so distressed she could hardly backtrack now. “Have you told him you’re sorry?”
“I tried to, just like you suggested, but he told me to forget it. That it was all in the past.” She chewed on her lower lip before continuing. “If it was really in the past, things would be better between us.”
“Then tell him you love him,” Sara said, the solution appearing obvious now that she’d proposed it. “Your love is what he thought he lost when your husband threw him out. That’s what he needs to know he still has.”
Mrs. Feldman’s eyes grew wide. “I think you’re right.”
“Then tell him,” Sara urged, eager to help mend the rift between great-aunt and nephew. She wasn’t as keen on examining why it was important that Michael know somebody loved him.
Mrs. Feldman captured her wrist, a wealth of feeling in her expression. “I’m so glad you and Michael found each other. I can tell how much in love you are.”
Sara felt a thickness in her throat, but managed to reply, “You’re wrong. We’re not in love.”
“That can’t be true!” Mrs. Feldman seemed genuinely shocked. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other.”
“It is true,” Sara said, even as it registered that Mrs. Feldman was the second person that day who refused to believe Michael didn’t care about her.
Now that Sara was getting over the shock and the hurt, she wondered why she’d so easily accepted Michael’s claim that their relationship was about sex. If that were true, wouldn’t he have slept with her the first night they met? Had she been caught so unawares that she hadn’t thought his explanation all the way through?
A police cruiser pulled over to the curb in front of Mrs. Feldman’s house, effectively ending her introspection. The two front doors opened simultaneously, and Chief Jackson and Officer Wojokowski got out of the car. They walked to the flower bed, the chief a head taller than his officer, their heavy steps trampling the grass, their faces solemn.
“Afternoon, ladies,” Chief Jackson said in his courtly style. Wojokowski was silent, his eyes scanning the yard. “Is Michael home?”
Something wasn’t right, Sara thought, trying to figure it out while Mrs. Feldman repeated the same story she’d told Sara about Michael’s whereabouts.
Chief Jackson nodded to the PT Cruiser parked in front of his squad car. “That is Michael Donahue’s rental car, right?”
Sara stepped in front of Mrs. Feldman, not liking the direction of the chief’s questions. “Can I ask what this is about?”
He produced a piece of paper she instantly recognized. “I have a warrant to search his car.”
“On what grounds?” Sara challenged even as she took the warrant from him and began scanning the contents.
“On the grounds that the car might contain evidence connected to Quincy Coleman’s disappearance.”
The document was in order. Legally speaking, Sara could do nothing to stop the police from searching Michael’s car. After advising Mrs. Feldman to stay where she was, Sara trailed the officers to the PT Cruiser. Michael had made it easy for them by leaving the car unlocked. Sara watched with growing unease as the two policemen combed the interior before popping open the trunk.
Chief Jackson reached the back of the car first, bending over to get a better look inside the trunk. He straightened almost immediately, his face grim. “Wojo, bring an evidence bag over here.”
“Got one, Chief.” Wojo, who was already headed in the police chief’s dir
ection, didn’t break his stride.
“What? What did you find?” Sara asked as Wojo reached into the trunk with a gloved hand and pulled out what looked to be the kind of small towel that attached to a golf bag. He held it up, revealing that it was streaked with blood.
“That towel doesn’t prove a thing if it’s not Mr. Coleman’s blood,” Sara said, her heart racing even as she issued the defense.
Wojo flipped the towel around so she could get a better look. Two initials were monogrammed onto the cloth: QC.
“On the contrary, Ms. Brenneman,” Chief Jackson said, “this should be enough to get a warrant for Michael Donahue’s arrest.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SARA’S MIND rebelled at the implications of a bloody towel being found in Michael’s rental car.
She simply did not believe that the hero at the river, the man who’d stuck around to help the aunt who betrayed him, had hurt Quincy Coleman.
There had to be another explanation.
“The car wasn’t locked,” she pointed out. “It’s been parked on the street all night. Anybody could have popped the trunk and planted that evidence.”
“In the movies, maybe,” Chief Jackson countered, “but this is real life.”
“The warrant says you were tipped off to search the car, but it doesn’t say by who. Why not?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Sara didn’t believe that. Her guess was that an anonymous tipster had phoned in the information. In that case, a judge shouldn’t have granted the warrant. Even though Sara wasn’t a criminal lawyer, she knew judges could be talked into awarding trusted law-enforcement personnel special favors—especially when they claimed to be closing in on a guilty party.
“Things would go easier for Donahue if he turned himself in,” Chief Jackson said. If he’d ever believed Quincy Coleman had disappeared of his own volition, he clearly no longer did. “If either you or Mrs. Feldman know where he is, you give him that message.”
Chief Jackson tipped his hat, then sauntered to his patrol car to join Wojokowski, as though the matter of Michael’s guilt was already settled. Mrs. Feldman hurried to Sara’s side, asking to be filled in on what had happened.
“What are we going to do?” she asked when Sara was through briefing her, her face once again lined with worry, her relief over being able to keep her house gone.
“Exactly what the chief told us to do,” Sara decided. “We’ll contact Michael and tell him to turn himself in.”
“We can’t do that! Chief Jackson thinks Michael killed Quincy.”
“And we know he didn’t,” Sara said. “Michael’s the only one who can clear this up. I’ll get my cell phone and give him a call.”
She hurried to her car to retrieve her purse, thankful she’d programmed Michael’s number into her phone, but the device wasn’t where she usually kept it.
She tried to remember when she’d last used the phone. It had been this morning; her mother had called and, hearing her voice, had instantly guessed something was wrong. After assuring her the move to Indigo Springs wasn’t a mistake, Sara hung up, marveled that her mom hadn’t figured out that her daughter’s heart was breaking—and left the phone lying on her desk.
Sara didn’t waste time. Within moments she was on the landline in Mrs. Feldman’s kitchen, explaining to Laurie why she needed Michael’s number.
“This is wild,” Laurie said. “It sounds like somebody’s trying to frame Mike.”
“That’s the only thing that makes sense,” Sara agreed.
“Who do you think it is?” Laurie made a sound of disgust. “Don’t answer that. We both know it’s Kenny.”
Sara had grown accustomed to Laurie’s bluntness, but her office manager’s declaration surprised her. A fool could tell Laurie was still in love with her ex-husband. “The possibility crossed my mind,” she said carefully.
“It’s more than a possibility!” Laurie exclaimed, and Sara could almost feel fumes shooting through the phone line. “Kenny’s been rotten to Mike since he came back to town. Heck, he’s always been rotten to Mike. Who else—”
“Laurie, stop,” Sara interrupted before the other woman could get on one of her verbal rolls. “We can talk about this later. Right now I really need that number.”
Sara called Michael seconds after she disconnected with the still angry Laurie. The phone rang twice before the line filled with an inexplicable silence. Sara waited a few seconds before disconnecting, facing her initial fear that Michael was in the woods searching for Coleman, out of cell-phone range.
The logical next step was calling Pollock Construction to find out if either Johnny or his father knew where Michael was. She intended to call information for the number of the business but hit redial at the last second.
“Sara?” Michael picked up on the first ring, his voice surprisingly clear and strong. And worried. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Is it Aunt Felicia?” He sounded concerned, the way only a decent man could sound—a decent man Sara very much feared was being framed for a crime he wasn’t capable of committing.
“Your aunt’s fine, too,” she reassured him.
She’d meant to tell him to meet her at the police station, but once the police started questioning Michael, they’d be less likely to follow up on clues that could lead them to discover what really happened to Quincy Coleman.
“How far are you from Coleman’s house?” she asked.
“Maybe a fifteen-minute walk.”
“I need you to go directly there,” she ordered. “Don’t talk to anybody if you can help it. Just get there.”
“Why?”
She debated only briefly with herself before justifying her response. “I have a new piece of evidence to show you.”
With luck, it might even turn out to be true.
CHASING DOWN that no good ex-husband of hers was becoming a habit Laurie needed to break.
And she would, just as soon as she marched him into the Indigo Springs Police Department and forced him to tell Chief Jackson he’d planted false evidence in Mike Donahue’s trunk.
But first she had to wake him up. Even though she was looking for him, it ticked her off. It was eleven freaking o’clock. He should be up and around, contributing to society.
Logically she knew she shouldn’t be inside her old house, her beloved dog at her heels, only steps away from the bed she used to share with Kenny. The bed in which she’d made love with him only two nights ago. She hadn’t even tried to resist twisting the doorknob when her knock went unanswered and she heard Valentine’s barks. The yearning to say a quick hello to the dog was too great to ignore. Besides, if Kenny didn’t want intruders, he could have engaged the lock.
She marched to the bedroom windows and pulled up the shades, letting sun stream into the room and over the sleeping Kenny. He flung an arm over his eyes.
“Get up, Kenny,” she said harshly.
The arm dropped and he bolted to a sitting position, exposing his bare hair-sprinkled chest. His head jerked to where she stood by the window and he instantly relaxed, his face curving into a smile.
“Well, hi there, Laurie.” The smile grew. “I was hoping to get you back in my bedroom.”
She braced herself against him, which was harder than it might have been if stubble hadn’t covered his lower face and his hair wasn’t messy. The jerk always had looked sexiest in the morning.
“I’m not staying,” she retorted. “And neither are you. Get dressed so you can tell Chief Jackson how you’re trying to frame Michael Donahue.”
“What?” He swung a leg that was as bare as the rest of him out of bed. “I don’t know what—”
“I’m not having this conversation with a naked man.” Laurie turned away before he got out of bed. Kenny had put on a few pounds since they’d been married but he still looked damn fine. “I’ll be in the living room when you’re decent.”
She slammed the b
edroom door shut, then paced to the living room, Valentine at her heels. The room was the same as she remembered, down to the casual overstuffed furniture they’d gotten secondhand from her parents and the Van Gogh and Monet prints she’d hung on the wall. The only difference was a metal desk in the corner with a computer on top.
She inadvertently bumped the desk, turning off the screen saver on the oversized monitor. The computer flashed on.
“Congratulations!” the screen read. “You have passed Unix Level One!”
She moved closer. At the bottom of the screen was the name of a technical university.
The bedroom door opened and Kenny emerged, pulling an Indigo River Rafters T-shirt over his head. He was wearing shorts and his feet were bare.
“Are you taking an online course?” she asked before he could say anything.
His eyes went to the computer, and he blew out a breath. “Yeah, I am. I was up half the night trying to pass that damn Unix test.”
“I don’t understand. That sounds like computer programming. Are you switching careers?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Trying to. If I can get through the curriculum.”
“I thought you liked being a mechanic.”
“I did,” he said. “I do.”
“Then why quit your job?”
“Because of you, okay?” He sat down on the sofa and rested his head in his hands. “I thought you’d be more likely to come back to me if I had an impressive job.”
“What does your job have to do with it?”
He let out a harsh laugh. “Are you kidding? Like you really would have married a mechanic if you hadn’t been pregnant.”
“What’s wrong with being a mechanic? Especially when you’re the best one around.” Laurie stopped, the rest of what he’d said belatedly registering. “And what do you mean I wouldn’t have married you if I wasn’t pregnant? I married you because I loved you.”
His head jerked up, as though he wasn’t sure he believed her. “Then why did you leave me?”
She could say it was because at nineteen he’d been too irresponsible to be a husband, but she was tired of skirting the truth. “Because I was never going to mean as much to you as Chrissy.”
The Hero’s Sin Page 17
